The image we open on is this one:
Sunlight played in harsh gasps on the lively blue water, and curling mirages of heat rose from the docks surrounding Port au Prince, Haiti. A nipping sea breeze danced poetic time with the sails of the ships crowding into the harbor, and a harsh, mixed clamor of English, Creole, French, and Spanish reverberated through the parched midday air.
The harbor was playing host to two or three massive cruise ships, and the throngs of tanned and sunburnt tourists that spilled from them were mixed thickly with the local fishermen. The mid-December day was a breeding ground for tension, dark-skinned locals, photo-crazed sightseers, and sun-kissed European expatriates sweating together along the length of the main pier that pointed like a dark finger out towards the horizon.
Through this throng and clutter strode Xerxes Break.
He walked the pier with a certain confident lilt in his step, one hand in the pocket of his well-tailored khakis and the other crooked nimbly around the top of a long, elegant cane. The unbuttoned cotton shirt he wore tangles loosely behind him in the breeze, its lavender furls playing gently with Break's pale skin and white hair. His thin lips were tilted up in a casual half-smile, while the dark mystery of his eyes was cached away behind large aviator sunglasses. To the hundreds of locals and tourists flooding the Haitian pier, his aloof and coy demeanor was nothing out of the ordinary. He was the picture of a wealthy young expatriate. The one spot of cool in the sweltering day.
But it was a façade. Break's calm expression concealed something much different: danger.
He dodged easily through the crowd, smiling casually at those who gave him anything more than a cursory glance and declining the advances of street merchants with polite waves. Break's eyes slipped undeterred over intricately beaded jewelry, fresh fish, and kitschy souvenirs. Though the port was just the type of distracted canvas where he would normally lose himself for hours, today Break's focus was sharp and unshakable. His arrival in Haiti marked the start of his first mission as 007, and he was not about to fuck it up.
The high-profile mission wasn't the type usually handed to newcomers of low rank. But in this circumstance, the anonymity of Break's new position was essential. In a recent and catastrophic failure of their security systems, M16's main intelligence server – previously known as the most secure server on earth – was hacked and the identities of all but the highest-ranking agents compromised. It was a retaliatory strike, incited by M16's recent focus on and systematic attempt to mitigate and destroy the sale of illegal drugs in South America and the Caribbean. A retaliatory strike carried out by none other than Break's current target, one of the most dangerous and fearsomely intelligent people on the planet.
He was a man known to much of the world as the young heir to the world's largest oil conglomerate, and one of the most successful and ingenious tech developers of the modern age. At age 12, he'd developed the interface for what would become the world's first smartphone, at age 15 his interest in medical technology led to him aiding in the creation of robotically controlled prosthetic limbs that virtually negated their users' disabilities. And now, at age 17, his interests were entirely dedicated to deep space exploration and the search for extraterrestrial life. He was a symbol of genius and cocky confidence, always giving the media a show with his self-proclaimed "allergy to commitment" and the string of gorgeous young models and singers that came along with it. His love of the spotlight, and the fierce independence with which he lived his life, had pushed him into becoming the type of wealthy, impossibly intelligent man for whom the whole world was a playground.
But, like his pursuer, Break's target was not what he seemed. Beneath his daring and expensive wardrobe, his good looks, and his quick wit hid one of the most notoriously cruel and ruthlessly cunning black-market magnates on earth. When he was 13 years old, his takeover of the international drug trade had begun in Amsterdam, and from there spiraled and grown unrealistically quickly. His aptitude for manipulation and willingness to employ violence catapulted him into a position of indisputable power in that seedy underground world. Now he ruled a massive network of underground drug rings throughout Europe, Asia, The Caribbean, and South America with an iron fist and an uncompromising intolerance for failure. And though both international law enforcement and rival drug dealers had attempted it, it seemed he was immune to capture and gifted at anonymity. Countless agents and thugs had been sent after him, and countless bodies had never been recovered. And the sunny, smiling young billionaire's dark empire had only continued to grow. Most agencies and dealers had learned to give he and his businesses a wide berth.
But things in Haiti had gotten out of hand. Tourists had begun going missing far more frequently than usual, and whispers of a new drug developed by laboratories in South America had begun to permeate the seedier parts of the Internet and the streets of almost every major city on earth. And concern was growing that this meant more sinister forces may be at work in that part of the world, forces involved in much darker aspects of the black market, like human trafficking and sex slavery. Break's first mission as 007 was meant to put a stop to this. His orders had been simple enough: Capture and apprehend the boss of Haiti's largest drug ring. At any cost.
Break pulled a small notebook from his back pocket as he walked and began to thumb through it. Pictures of his targed from magazines and newspapers were stuck to some of its pages, accompanied by Break's handwritten notes on his movements and actions for the past six weeks. As he glanced up from his book, something caught Break's eye and he paused in his strolling. A coy smile spread on his face as he glanced between a picture in the notebook and something across the docks. His heart leaped in nervous excitement and he closed the notebook. He squeezed on the switchblade clenched in his hand inside his pocket, trying to reassure himself as he drifted out of the mad parade of tourists crowding the middle of the pier.
He cast around quickly as he changed his course, stopping to consider the wares of a merchant dealing in hand-dyed silks. She began to babble to him in heavily accented English, presenting a length of purple fabric for him to inspect. Break took it mildly, feigning interest while keeping his eyes trained on something – someone – across the docks. He allowed himself a steadying breath and a small nod. Tall, black hair, yellow eyes…he's even smoking a fucking cigarette. It has to be him…he thought excitedly.
The shirtless man was leaning back against the dock's railing, his face relaxed and his eyes scanning the crowd with cool disinterest. He was tall and muscular, and something about his demeanor suggested lethality. The wind tangled through his curly black hair, tossing it behind him as he turned into the wind and looked down at the glistering blue water below. Break shrunk deeper into the merchant's stall as the man's attention snapped back to the pier. His eyes landed on something and he tilted his head to one side. The look in his eyes was one of cold calculation and carried the air of a blatant threat. He took a last long drag from his cigarette, then tossed the butt onto the docks and crushed it beneath his heel. Then he pushed himself off the dock's railing and started through the crowd. Break set down the purple fabric and watched the man with blatant interest. Fear and nervous admiration rose up in Break as the man passed. Has to be him, he thought. A set of detailed tattoos in the visage of a pair of dark and impossibly realistic wings covered the stranger's well-muscled back, their feathers stretching all the way down his upper arms. The way they were positioned, every movement of the man's arms or spine sets them rippling, as though he were in flight.
"Raven," Break whispered.
"You buying?" the merchant asked impatiently. Her heavily accented voice snapped Break's attention back to the stall.
"Non, Madame, mais merci," Break replied in perfect French. He gave the merchant a smooth smile, and some of the chilliness dissolved from her face. "Bon journee," he said politely.
As soon as he turned from the stall, the polite grace with which he'd held himself dissolved. As he set off through the crowd, allowing its tumble and thrall to envelop him, his steps shifted to become longer and more dance-like and he shifted his grip on the head of his cane. He was taking no chances. Not when it came to Raven, his target's one and only bodyguard and incontestably one of the most dangerous men on earth.
Raven's pace through the crowd was quick and confident, and he cut through the throng with the ease of a ghost. Break followed, silent and efficient, opening his notebook once more and tugging a pen from its margins. He scrawled a few sloppy sentences, his eyes continually flicking back to Raven so as not to lose him.
Must have a boat here, Raven came from the pier. Looking for something. Possibility that rival boss operating in Haiti. Maybe explains missing tourists?
The noise and throng of the docks began to fade as Break followed Raven off the coast and into the city proper. The afternoon was stifling, the sprawling clay buildings and dirty streets reflecting the sun and trapping the whole island under a shimmering sear of heat. The atmosphere shifted immediately and perceptibly as they left the ocean behind. The air took on a new, choking heaviness as Raven turned down a side street lined with small, dingy storefronts.
Break ducked beneath the awning of a restaurant as Raven turned over his shoulder to scan the area behind him. The shade provided momentary relief from the sun's beating heat, but not from the powerful burn in Raven's stern gold eyes as they raked over the street. Break swallowed nervously, and tapped the base of his cane compulsively on the concrete at his feet. The storm of Raven's suspicion came and went, and he returned his attention to the gently sloping street ahead of him. Break skipped a few steps over the dirty concrete and back onto the gradually narrowing street behind Raven.
With each step they took away from the docks, the shelter of the crowd and clutter fell away, leaving Break fearsomely alone on the streets with Raven's intimidating figure disconcertingly close. His blood was burning, and his whole body tingled on high alert each time Raven turned around to glance over his shoulder. Though he'd been briefed on Raven's physical appearance, and seen pictures of him from M16's database, the man's large stature seemed impossibly intimidating up close. His back was all corded muscle, and his well-built shoulders had a dangerous sway to them as he walked, suggesting a disconcerting amount of strength and power. Without the crowd to obscure the abnormality, Break could easily see the large pockets of Raven's black cargo shorts drooping low under some sort of weight. I wonder how many throwing knives he's got on him…he wondered uneasily.
Within minutes, Break was entirely lost. Raven's path through the streets seemed erratic and unplanned, and looped along both crowded main streets and narrow, un-trodden alleyways. As the crowd thinned, Raven's glances over his shoulder became more frequent, and Break's following distance grew ever greater. Raven was a professional and experienced killer, and one of very few men on the planet more suspicious than Break himself. Being caught under the demonic blare of those burning eyes more than once would be an indisputable death sentence for Break. Each time Raven glanced over his shoulder to insure he wasn't being followed, Break's heart shuddered and his shoulders tensed. But Break's natural aptitude for espionage and ability to blend in with even the smallest groups of people assured that Raven remained at least shakily unaware of his presence.
In another circumstance, Break was sure, Raven's backwards glances would have been far more frequent. But today, he had a target of his own. A heavy-set and dark skinned man walking down the streets a few hundred yards ahead of him, a jaunty swagger in his step and a large backpack swung over one shoulder. It was apparent in his brazen stride and bold posture that the man was blissfully unaware he was being pursued.
Of the man's identity, Break was uncertain. But what he was sure of was that the formidable pistol sticking out of the back pocket of his sagging jeans would be entirely useless in the face of the danger following him down the streets. Everyone even remotely involved in the international crime or law enforcement worlds knew that once Raven was set on someone, as a rule even their bones were never seen again. Raven was a cold, loyal killer, serving his employer with a devotion bordering on obsession. Rumors of the lengths he'd gone to in order to apprehend would-be captors and assassins were told in horrified whispers, along with stories of his mysterious past and how he'd come to serve his master. Some believed him to be an ex-Russian spy turned hired assassin, while others insisted he had once been a serial killer or a highly ranked KGB agent. The only detail of Raven's past that any agency had ever been able to dig up was his Russian lineage, though no one had ever seen him in that country or heard him speak the language. And the menacing death toll he carried on his shoulders. At INTERPOL's last count, Raven was listed as a suspect in over 200 murders across the world and had been apprehended for none of them. Members of the cartel and organized crime families, government and law enforcement agents, and even members of the world's nobility had all fallen victim to his knives, clubs, and poisons. The list of people who'd left a fight with Raven alive was painfully short, and whoever the man he was tailing down Port-au-Prince's streets was, he would definitely not end up on it.
Raven turned the next corner onto a busy thoroughfare, his distance behind his target growing ever smaller. Break followed, grateful for the press of cars and locals that would help keep Raven from spotting him. He ducked into a doorway as Raven turned over his shoulder again. This time his glance behind him was prolonged, so much so that he stopped moving to scan the street and storefronts around him. Break averted his eyes and huddled closer to the wall behind him, painfully aware of his white hair and fine clothes, which made him stand out even more in the dirty streets. Raven turned away and pulled something from his pocket. It was a short length of deep violet ribbon, which he used to pull his thick hair into a short ponytail at the base of his neck. Raven set off down the street once more, tugging a cigarette from behind his ear and producing a lighter from his pocket to ignite it. Break's heart began to race as he pushed himself off the wall and began to follow Raven once more. As the distance between them closed, his fighter's instincts kicked in and he pulled his hand from his pocket, holding the switchblade close beside him to keep it from view. He wished fervently for one of his three issued pistols, packed securely in a briefcase in his hotel room closer to the shore. Against the world's most deadly close-combat fighter, all of Break's training and his prowess with knives would do him little good.
Raven's target hefted his backpack higher onto his shoulder and made a mad dash across the wide street ahead of a throng of traffic. Raven didn't even pause to examine the oncoming cars before he followed him. A large truck slammed to a halt only feet from him, its horn blaring an ear-splitting tone and its driver shouting curses. Raven paid the man no mind, reaching instead for the snap that secured one of his deep pockets. Break drew in a sharp breath as Raven produced three four-inch long throwing knives and curled them casually in a half-closed fist. Break trailed along behind him, still on the opposite side of the street, his breathing quick and uneven. Raven's target turned down a side street off the main thoroughfare, and Raven turned to follow. Break bolted towards the street without thinking, and jumped back as a massive truck loaded with hay crashed by only inches from him. The truck peeled off, and Break rushed across the street ahead of another throng of traffic. He reached the opposite side in seconds, and bumped straight into a local woman loaded down with an armful of paper grocery bags. She said something to him in angry Creole, and pushed hard on his chest with both hands. Break dodged around her without pausing to offer an apology.
The alleyway where Raven had vanished appeared on Break's right and he ducked down it. Just feet from the bustling street, everything was quiet and still. The air reeked of mud and excrement, and a trail of half-cloudy water leaked from the back door of a butcher's shop nearby. Break slipped to the side of the street and forced himself to draw deep, steadying breaths as he crept silently towards the place ahead where the alley turned a sharp corner. He reached it in seconds, and paused to listen for any hint of movement beyond. His heart thudded in his ears, and his blood boiled with every beat of his pulse. The street was silent, save for the drip of sloppy water from a clothesline strung between two windows above.
A solid thump from around the corner made Break jump. Adrenaline filled him in a stinging rush as he flipped the switchblade over in his hand and jumped around the corner, crouching low in a fighter's stance as he did. He braced himself for whatever hammer of sharp, impossibly quick blows would a mark Raven's first attack, already gritting his teeth in anticipation of pain.
But there was no sign of Raven.
The alleyway came to a sharp and sudden dead end only yards around the corner, the back wall of a shoddy apartment building barring the path back to the street. There was one way in and one way out, and Raven had vanished without a trace. There was no sign of muddy footprints on the walls where he might have climbed, and no broken down doors to mark a forced passage through the surrounding buildings. Break took another step and looked around in cautious admiration. Maybe he flew away, he thought wryly.
Break tucked his switchblade back into his pocket and allowed himself a deep sigh of relief. I'll find him again. In a more crowded place this time. It's not like he's difficult to spot… he reassured himself.
A dark mass further down the alleyway drew Break's attention and he set off towards it. As he drew up beside it, it became immediately clear that it was Raven's target, as inevitably dead as he'd been the moment Raven spotted him on the pier. He was laying in a growing pool of his own blood, which dripped sordidly from gruesomely deep gashes in his throat and on both wrists. His pistol was still stuffed in his back pocket. He hadn't even had time to draw it before Raven struck.
"Poor son of a bitch," Break said quietly as he nudged the body with his foot. The man's head lolled to one side, and his terrified and sightless eyes stared vacantly into the dusty ground. Break knelt beside him and examined his face more closely. Something caught his eye and he reached beneath the man's shirt, careful to avoid the oozing gash on his throat. He tugged on a gold chain around the dead man's neck, and a small pendant slipped free of his stained collar. It was cool in his palm, and glinted fiercely gold. The pendant was carved in the visage of a rabbit, a familiar silhouette stamped in gold with two emeralds glinting in place of eyes above a curving red crescent, a smile inlaid in brilliant rubies. Break stared down at it with a smile.
"I've finally got you…Jackrabbit," he whispered triumphantly.