The Facility

The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Friday, June 10, 6:39 P.M.…

The two dogs marched in perfect unison, their cadence coming together as one step as they advanced down the metal walkway. They brushed silently past the bustling scientists and manufacturers observing the various apparatuses and procedures as the manufacturing process continued. There were all kinds of sounds in the massive chamber: Hisses of steam, creaks and whirs of mechanical arms, the low humming of conveyor belts, and the beeping of computers. This continued on throughout the whole factory, and neither of the two guards paid any mind to it.

They eventually reached the far end of the building, where the single elevator sat. One of the two guards pressed a small, white button beneath a speaker on the wall beside the elevator doors.

After a moment, a voice replied, "Yes?"

The guard pressed the white button once more.

"Sir, we have an update on…his mission." The guard who spoke made sure to put emphasis on "his," so that the boss would clearly understand who he was talking about.

"Enter."

The elevator doors slowly split open, and the two guards entered. The doors closed behind them, but they did not turn around. The elevator started up, rising with a humming sound as it lifted up and out of the noisy factory. The fine steel walls of the shaft fell past them, clearly visible through the elevator's all-glass wall. There was the faintest of lights coming from above them, within the elevator shaft. After a moment, the elevator lifted up out of the shaft, the darkness giving way to the twilight as they rose up into the calm evening air. The transparency allowed them a clear view of the massive facility snaking down away from them, seeming to stem from the base of the very elevator shaft they were on, and moving along in a long line away from the base of the massive Volcano, its buildings and chambers branching out from the main vine of structure.

It continued to rise, the long, firm steel cables hanging parallel to the side of the Volcano, steel and glass against rock as it continued to rise. Above them was a medium-sized chamber; perfectly square and with a small portion of it hanging freely over the edge. In this overhanging part was the socket, just large enough for the elevator to fit in; its cables were snaking up into the small hole. Eventually, the elevator lifted up and into this hole, creeping to a halt as it reached its destination. The double doors on the other side of the elevator opened up, and the guards stepped through them and into the chamber.

The Commander's chamber was fairly elegant: There was an assortment of potted plants, fine paintings, and pieces of furniture all set up throughout the room. In the center of the chamber was a large, rectangular rug of red cotton. At the far end was a wooden oak desk, polished and shining brightly as it reflected the bright overhead light emitting from the elegant chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. On the desk were a few stacks of papers, along with a state-of-the-art computer console, the intercom speaker for the PA system of the entire facility, a small lamp, and a brown clay ashtray. Behind it was a massive chair, fashioned out of the finest black leather.

Sitting in the chair was a badger, just about five feet high. He had a sharp face with the hardest and darkest of eyes, and the slightest of smirks. While still somewhat past middle age, he lacked facial hair. His limbs were thick and firm, not too muscular, not too underweight, and not too overweight. Around his belt was a thin brown leather strap, with a holster at one side. He wore a black, short-sleeved shirt, black pants, and black, steel-toed boots. His hands were folded in his lap as they entered.

"Do come in, gentlemen." He said stiffly and almost tiredly. "What is the update?"

"Your man has successfully eliminated Lousteau. That makes three of his targets dead, and five more to go."

"Excellent. I was somewhat worried about that stupid lizard; he was always traveling and never stayed in one place, unlike all of the others. But, no matter. Is that all you have to say?"

"For now, sir."

"Very good."

Even though that was the end of their report, neither of the soldiers budged. They knew that, in the presence of the Commander, they were not to move an inch unless officially dismissed.

The badger slowly stepped out of the chair, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small box. As he walked around the desk, he whipped one cigarette out of the box before stuffing it back into his pocket. He placed the cigarette into his mouth, with a quick glance back at the two soldiers, still standing rigidly in place, not leaving unless they were given permission to leave.

Now, their loyalty would be put to the test. He hadn't had the chance to have some fun with one of the men in a while.

He slowly pulled out a golden lighter – the original Scythe-and-Hammer symbol of Communist Russia engraved on it in black – and flicked it open, striking it on. A small flame flickered up. He glanced back at the soldiers.

Still unmoving.

He slowly held the flame to the tip of the cigarette. Soon, a small orange glow appeared. Satisfied, he closed the lighter and placed it back in his pocket as well. He took a long, deep, and fairly loud drag on the cigarette before removing it between two fingers and exhaling a puff of smoke.

"Um…sir?"

Bulls-eye.

He allowed one eye to flicker to the side at the two soldiers. The one on the left – a Rottweiler – was the one who had spoken.

"What is it?"

"I…I thought that the rules and protocols clearly stated that there was to be no smoking anywhere in the facility whatsoever."

"And your point is…?"

"Um…well, I…"

The badger slowly approached the guard, towering above him by almost a foot, and took another deep drag as he stared up into the guard's eyes. He remained unmoving, but there was the slightest of vibrations as his body unconsciously trembled.

"You're telling me that smoking is not allowed?"

"That's…what we've been trained with, sir."

"Hmm…I see."

A single drop of sweat appeared on the guard's forehead.

"Now, let me ask you this: Who are you?"

"Private Maclean, recruited three days ago."

That explained everything.

"How did you end up being one of the two to deliver this latest update to me?"

"I was to fill in this co-messenger role for Sergeant Davis, who is currently on leave for unknown reasons."

"Well then, Private Maclean: Do you outrank me?"

"No, sir."

"Do you have any command over me?"

"No, sir."

"Do you have the right to tell me what to do? To give me orders? To boss me around?"

"No, no, and no, sir."

He slowly turned away, turning his back on the guard. He heard the slightest of exhales from behind him. He thought that he was getting out of this.

Hell would freeze over before that.

"Well then, let me tell you a little something: I am well aware of the rules. I am well aware of the ban on smoking. I am well aware…because I am in charge."

He spun around to face him. He caught the brief flicker of movement as the guard's head jerked back up. He had broken bearing and had been looking down at him while his back was turned.

"I am in charge of all that goes on in this facility. I am in charge of the rules…I make the rules. Thus, I am above the rules. I am allowed to do whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want. And you expect me to heed to the rules? And you think that you can correct your commanding officer?"

"No, sir, I just…"

The badger had pivoted around again, his back once again to the nervous guard. By now, several beads of sweat were on his brow, and there was obvious tension in the air. His left hand slowly drifted down to his holster, carefully grabbed the handle, slipped each finger through one of the rings…

"You just what?"

"Well, I just…I thought I…"

And then, before he knew it, there was a blinding pain in the guard's lower stomach.

It was a blinding stab of pain that tore right through him with unbelievable strength. He doubled over, clutching at his stomach. Only when he finally looked down did he see the badger's large, hard fist pressed into his stomach. He collapsed to his knees, and was now face-to-face with the badger. He leaned in close, the stink of the cigarette smoke now forcing itself through his nostrils.

Then, in a hissed voice, the badger muttered, "Whatever it was you thought, it was the last thought you will ever have."

The badger's fist twisted, rotating in place. And then it yanked out fiercely and violently. The last thing he saw before his vision blurred to blackness was the massive, blood-soaked blade in the Commander's hand.

The badger paid no mind as the Rottweiler's body crumpled to the floor, blood leaking from the open wound in his stomach. He casually strode over to his desk, opened another drawer, and removed a pure white handkerchief. He folded it over the blade of his knife, pulling it up from the bottom to the tip of the knife once, wiping off most of the blood, and then bringing it back down, folding it once more, then pulling it up swiftly, thoroughly cleaning the yellowish blade.

The other guard stood silently, rigidly, unmoving, not even breathing.

"You see now, Grant, why my carpet is red?"

"Very ingenious, sir."

"Why, thank you. But, I must admit; your alibi could have used some more detail. I mean, Sergeant Davis 'currently on leave for unknown reasons'?"

"I didn't want to arouse too much suspicion, sir."

"Yes, I can understand that. But you must not be so vague. They might get suspicious anyway."

"Of course, sir."

The badger finished cleaning the blade. He casually refolded the handkerchief and placed it back in the drawer. He re-sheathed the massive knife, glancing down at the body as the blood leaked off of his still form and onto the carpet, the blood blending in perfectly with the red cotton.

"Such a shame. But you know how it is, Grant; rookies are expected to know the basics and common sense of our organization by the first day."

"Absolutely, sir."

"You learned faster, obviously. You have managed to survive the last two updates on my man's status, unlike unfortunate Davis and…oh, what was this one's name again?"

"Maclean, sir."

"Of course, Maclean."

"If I may ask, sir; where exactly did you find that man? I still remember seeing him for the first time, and he still disturbs me, sir."

"Ah, well, about that…I had heard of him all over the place. All kinds of various anonymous informants of mine had told me that this man was absolutely legendary in the world of assassins. Um, excuse me just a second."

From his seat behind the desk, the badger lifted a single hand, first gesturing across the room, beyond the guard, with his index finger. Then he turned the hand around and gestured forward by curling all fingers together. He then gestured down at the dead guard's body, then flicked his thumb to the side.

From the shadows at the far end of the room, a massive coyote appeared, standing about five foot eight, with a sharp build. He wore a light gray shirt, matching pants, a black belt with a golden belt buckle, thick black gloves, and shiny black leather boots. He strode across the room silently and swiftly, his paces being twice as long as an average man's step. He brushed past the guard, kneeled down, and grabbed the body under the arms. He then lifted it up and dragged it over to the corner of the room. He grabbed a small handle protruding from the metal wall and lifted it up, pulling away a metal sheet and revealing a massive chute. In one effortless motion, he lifted the body up and into the chute, dropping it down and closing the metal sheet once it was out of the way.

"Thank you, Hans."

The coyote silently returned to the dark corner, hands folded firmly behind his back.

"Quite an advantage to living right next to a Volcano. Quick and easy to dispose of…waste. And that Hans is quite the loyal servant, let me tell you. Even though he can't hear a single thing I say to him. Watch this."

The badger then said loudly, "That Hans is so stupid and lazy; I'm ready to throw his worthless hide into the Volcano as well!"

The coyote was silent, staring blankly ahead as if sleeping with his eyes open.

"It's fun to mess around with that, you know."

"I'm sure it is, sir."

"Quite. Cigarette?" The badger leaned forward, the small box extended out towards Grant.

"Only if you allow me to, sir."

"Very good, Grant. You succeeded where your unfortunate young friend failed. Just testing you to make sure that you're worthy of being in my presence."

"I understand perfectly, sir."

"Very good." He then leaned back in his seat, replacing the box to his pocket once more. "And you may not have a cigarette. Because the rules clearly state that there is no smoking anywhere in the facility…unless I say otherwise.

"Now, back to your question…you see, this man has an impressive track record. He has never, ever failed a single mission; every time he has been hired to take someone out, that someone is dead within a week. He has an abundant amount of resources, money, equipment, and so on. The other thing that impressed me so much about him was the fact that never once, in his whole life, has he been caught, or even come close to being caught. He always makes sure to leave an extremely cold trail, if any trail at all. In a way, that is his signature: Leaving no signature. In essence, he is the ideal assassin: He never speaks, he never worries or fears, he never questions a job or his client. He always just gets it done. Not elaborately or specifically, unless instructed to do so. He always makes sure that his target is dead, and never leaves them with even the slightest chance of surviving. And he'll work for anything; even if he is not paid, he works for the satisfaction of the kill and knowing that he completed a mission successfully. I wish more of our men here were like him."

"I can imagine, sir."

"Oh, I had almost forgotten that you were there, Grant. I apologize if I am taking up more of your time; don't you have somewhere to be now?"

"Do you want me to come up with a story to explain Maclean's disappearance?"

"That would be perfectly satisfactory. You should go do that right now, actually. And while you're at it, try to improve your story for Davis's disappearance while you're at it. Grant, you are dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

With a bow, Grant stepped back once, pivoted around with a sharp and precise about face, and returned to the elevator, which descended down the shaft slowly, the metal doors at the top closing once it was out of the way.

The badger slowly leaned back, contemplating everything he had just said to Grant about this assassin. It wasn't even a fraction of what could be said about this man.

"I tell you, Hans." He started, knowing that his deaf servant wouldn't hear any of it. "I must admit myself; I was partially frightened by that man when I first met him, as well. It was a meeting I shall never forget…"

Seven days ago: The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Saturday, June 4, 9:04 P.M…

The buzz sounded lightly, piercing the silence in the chamber. The badger lifted his head in the direction of the sound, and saw that it had indeed come from the speaker on the wall, right next to the elevator doors.

He quickly moved out of his seat and strode over across the room to the wall. He pressed the small white button beneath the speaker, and spoke into it.

"Yes?"

"Sir…he's here." Reported the voice of Sergeant Davis.

"Ah! Less than 24 hours, too. I shall bring him up. He comes in alone."

"Yes, sir."

The badger pulled a small key from his pocket and placed it into the lock just next to the white button. He turned it once, activating the elevator system. After a few seconds' wait, he pulled it back out and turned around, heading back towards the desk. He sat down in the chair and waited patiently.

Soon, the elevator arrived. The doors slowly pulled open, and he stepped in. He was unbelievably large, standing just over seven feet. His arms and legs were like tree trunks, their incredible size clearly distinguishable even through the black jeans and black trench coat that he wore. On his feet were black work boots; not like the fancy kind of boots that the badger himself wore, but much rougher and more fit for a mountain hike or war zone than a military ball. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the black leather gloves on each hand gleaming in the pale light. His aviator sunglasses were perfectly spotless, each lens reflecting the light from the chandelier in two small gleams, and allowing absolutely no view of his eyes behind them. He didn't seem to move as he stood there for a moment; his breathing was silent, his gaze was distant, and his body motionless. Underneath one arm was an ancient typewriter, rusted and dirty, probably left over from the early 20th century. Alongside it, beneath his firm grip, was a thin stack of paper.

"Ah, it is good to see you, sir. Please, come forward and have a seat." He gestured to the open black chair in front of the desk, which, now that he had a good glimpse of the man, did not seem large enough. And even if it was large enough, it would probably break under his bulk.

He was motionless for a moment longer, then slowly moved forward. He seemed to glide across the room; his pace was the kind that, while each step was much larger and covered more distance than a regular step, he appeared to be moving slow. Fast, but slow at the same time. His footsteps were silent, even before they reached the cotton carpet. He slowly guided himself into the chair, which creaked loudly under his weight and seemed to bend, but ultimately held fast. He slowly lifted the typewriter and placed it on the desk, putting the paper next to it and placing a single sheet from the top of the pile into the typewriter itself.

"It is an honor to welcome you to my presence, sir. I have heard many incredible stories and reports about you, your track record, your remarkable amount of successes, and your ability to elude any kind of formal communication or identification. It was quite difficult to get a hold of you, let me tell you."

He slowly leaned over and started typing on the typewriter, its keys clicking and clacking loudly. As he did so, the badger lifted a hand up above him and gestured to his silent, deaf servant across the room; first gesturing at Hans himself, then flicking a thumb to the elevator, followed by a "shoo" motion. Hans nodded silently, then glided out of his dark corner and into the elevator. The doors slowly closed.

The badger returned his look to the man, who had already finished typing. He spun the writer around, leaving slight streaks of dust on the fine oak of the desktop, and faced the typed message to the badger.

You do not need to flatter me. It read. As long as you have a job for me, you are already my loyal client and temporary employer.

"Very well. Um, might I ask about this typewriter of yours?"

He promptly spun it back around and typed away furiously, the keys lifting up, stamping, and falling back down in rapid succession as he typed away. When he was finished, he spun it around again.

To remain truly and completely untraceable, I avoid any kind of communication that can give away something crucial. I do not use telephones, especially cellular phones, to avoid having a permanent call number, or my calls being traced through the telephone lines. I avoid computers and the Internet to avoid digital tracking. I do not use faxes. I do not even speak, so that my voice may never be known. If it is heard and recorded, it could lead to my capture. Thus, I use this typewriter. No electronics, no verbal communication. It is as simple as it can get.

"Ah. Very ingenious. You work hard to not be traced. I give the fullest of credit to you. Now, tell me about yourself; your career."

I have been in this business almost my entire life. My father was a termination specialist as well. As was his father.

"Um, 'termination specialist'?"

I prefer to not use terms such as "hit-man" "assassin." They are deriving and demoralizing.

"I see. Go on."

I have worked for a number of clients, from all countries, all races, all fields of the criminal world, and even the occasional "law-abiding" citizen with a personal score to settle. I work for anyone, for any amount, and for any target. I have all the resources and expertise that I need. I do not do it extravagantly, unless instructed to do so. I simply get the job done as quickly and effectively as possible. I make sure that the target is dead, and not just faking it or mortally wounded, with a slight chance of survival. I exterminate them immediately, without pause. If they run, I follow them. I will chase a target all around the world if it means succeeding. I do not stop until the mission is complete.

"Do you ever work for anything in particular? Do you request a certain amount of money?"

Monetary compensation does not concern me. I do not even care if I do not receive any in return for my services; the satisfaction of knowing that I have successfully completed a mission is enough for me. That, and the pure enjoyment of the kill.

"Very good. I like people who do not care much for money. But I still intend to pay you, should you succeed. Because let me tell you; the targets I have in mind are terrible. They are major threats to what we plan to do here. Oh, and that reminds me: Everything that you have seen here, you are not to tell anyone."

Are you threatening me?

"Oh, goodness, no! I would never threaten you. I am just letting you know right now; our work here is top secret. Not even the Russian government knows about this place. And if they did find out, it would spell certain disaster for our operation. Just do not speak of any of this."

Give me my targets, and I will have never seen this place.

"Very good. Now, let me tell you right now; you have eight targets. That isn't too much, is it?"

I once had to track down and eliminate 22 individual targets within 30 days.

"I see. And…?"

I successfully eliminated all of them in 18 days.

"I…see…Well, anyway; here are all of the files on your targets."

The badger reached down behind the desk and lifted up a sleek, silver briefcase with a firm plastic covering. He placed it on the desk and spun it around so that the handle was facing the man. He then slid it across the wood, stopping it just at the typewriter. He silently pulled open both of the locks on each side of the handle, and then lifted it open. He extracted all eight of the sand-colored folders from within and briefly sifted through each one, opening them, glancing through the images and reports, before placing them right back into the briefcase in the exact same order and position as they were before.

"Four of them are ex-criminals, now living their lives as regular, law-abiding citizens. Two of them are still criminals. And the remaining two are law enforcement officers, one of them also a former criminal. Be warned; each and every one of them are considered extremely dangerous. Here is the order in which I would prefer that they be eliminated. The order goes from bottom to the top."

He reached over the desk with a single piece of paper, with seven names scrawled on it.

Sly Cooper

Bentley

Penelope

Murray

?

Lousteau

King

Fox

He studied the names for a brief second, then folded the paper over perfectly and neatly four times, and briefly slipped it into the briefcase as well.

"You are up to the job?"

Is that a rhetorical question?

The badger let out a chuckle. "Very well, then. Now, about your pay…"

Before he could even finish, he already started typing away. By this point, he had used up the sheet and had to quickly remove it, turn it over, and start using the other side as he typed up his next message.

I know your type. I can tell about a person – their past, their nature, their personality – just by observing their movements, their voice, their mannerisms, and their eyes. And you, sir, are the kind who is rather stingy about this kind of subject.

"What? What are you talking about? You had better believe that I'm serious about you taking out these eight nuisances!"

I do not doubt that. I'm talking about the part where you pay me. I can already tell that you are suspicious of me; I understand. But as we approach the subject of money, you grow more nervous and tense.

"Well, you must understand…we are running short on money around here. Most if it is spent on the equipment we need for manufacturing here, or on weapons and supplies for our men."

If I ask for too high an amount, are you going to use that weapon?

"Weapon? What weapon? Oh, do you mean this?"

He lightly patted the holster at his side. He then removed the knife from it and placed it on the desk, sliding it away from himself.

"You see, this is my prized possession, and my greatest weapon. It is a 20-inch long blade, with two different purposes and designs on each side. One side has ragged edges like a common steak knife, meant to be strong and firm. The other edge of it – the smoother edge – is thinner than paper, and meant for quicker, precise cuts. Like a scalpel. The same goes for the tip. And the handle here has four rings on it; one for each finger, like a set of brass knuckles. This provides me with a firm grip, so that the knife may not be knocked out of my hand during combat. In addition, each ring has a small, sharp spike on top, so that even the handle can be dangerous. Again, like a pair of brass knuckles. And the entire weapon – the handle, the rings, and the blade – is specially crafted out of 14 karat gold, to insure durability and strength."

What an educational speech. And, while the weapon itself is quite impressive, I was referring to the handgun you are currently holding underneath the desk, aimed at me.

The badger was stunned by this. For a brief moment, he did not know how to react. Then, with a sigh, he lifted the Les Baer .45 up from its hiding place and placed it on the desk as well, sliding it across the wood, handle towards the guest, to symbolize his meaning.

That's better. Now, if you had lied and insisted that there was nothing under the desk, I would not hesitate to kill you right here and right now. Would that not be ironic? Especially considering that you just sent your servant at the back of the room out as I came in here.

"I apologize for giving you the wrong idea. But you must understand; our business here is delicate. No outsider can be trusted."

I shall keep that in mind. Now, if I do recall correctly, you were just about to get to the subject of the price?

"Ah, yes. Well, to prove to you that I am not stingy about the subject of money, let me ask you this: How much was the highest amount you have ever been paid in your entire…uh, career?"

$6.5 million.

"That's all? I expected a man of your stature and skill to receive morefor your work. But, then again, that just proves how cheap most of your clients must be."

Again, I do not care much for money.

"Well, I don't care; the price has just been given to me. I am prepared to pay you $13 million to do this job. Are you willing?"

I accept.

"Very good, very good." The badger sat up and leaned across the desk, offering his hand. The man sitting across from him simply gave him a blank stare, then typed.

I apologize. I do not participate in these handshakes. Like I said, I avoid leaving any DNA that could serve as a trace of my identity, and fingerprints are an integral part of that.

"Oh. I see." The badger awkwardly retracted his hand and sat back down. "But…you are wearing gloves."

The man did not respond, nor did he start typing up again. He simply gave the badger a blank stare.

"Er, never mind, never mind. So…is there anything else you wish to discuss?"

Only two more things are currently on my mind. First of all, is there any particular set date by which you want these eight exterminated?

"No, my good man; you may take them out at your own pace, as you please. Just as long as you take them out subtly, and with no traces left behind that could possibly connect the murders to me or my organization."

Very well.

"Um, didn't you say that there was another subject?"

Yes.

He reached forward for the briefcase, then turned it sideways and opened it. He brushed aside the stack of folders and tore up the soft padding on the inside. He lifted it up with one hand, and with the other reached inside and grabbed something on the interior of the case. After a moment, he yanked his hand back out, holding a small black box, barely three inches across, with a few circuit boards on it and a single red light, currently illuminated, on the top. He held it out for the badger to see.

He gulped.

The man nonchalantly placed it on the desk and quickly typed again.

Did you think that the padded interior would cover this up? Like you said, you cannot trust outsiders.

He then grabbed the device, raised it high up above the desk, then swiftly brought it down and reduced it to fragments on the desktop, making the badger wince. Pieces of the device flew in all directions across the desk and onto the floor, and a slight dent appeared in the wood.

I do hope, for your sake, that this can be attributed to whatever it is your top secret business here is.

"Y-yes. That's it. Please understand; this is extremely confidential. We cannot allow any of it to be revealed, not even the slightest detail! Please forgive me…I promise to you, swearing on all that it is we do here, that there is nothing else of that sort in the briefcase or on anything we are providing to you."

This is why I prefer to use my own equipment. Any weapons or provisions given to me by clients are most likely outfitted with tracking devices similar to that one. And as for your promise, I am going to assume that the elimination of these eight targets is one of your top priorities.

"Yes, yes it is. Just please don't abandon it now. I have not been able to find another assa- er, 'termination specialist' who is willing to do this job. And I fear that any other man I would approach after you would similarly deny it. The last few men I interviewed would either demand too much money, threaten to reveal our operation, be too unequipped for the job, or be struck with fear at some of the names I listed; especially that cursed devil at the top of the list."

For the sake of adding another successful mission to my past record, I will still accept this mission. To avoid any further altercation with you, Mr. Vlotho, I will now excuse myself.

"Yes. Yes, you may go now. You will report back to me when you have finished?"

You shall receive an update from me after every single target is eliminated. I will report back here in person only when the mission is absolutely complete, and all eight of them are deceased.

"Very well. I thank you again for your services."

The man rose, taking the typewriter, stack of paper, and the briefcase, and silently turned and headed back to the elevator. The doors opened, and Hans stepped aside as the man roughly brushed him aside and stepped in before he allowed the coyote to slip out himself. The doors slowly creaked shut, and the man was finally gone.

The badger lifted the elevator keys out of his pocket and tossed them across the room to Hans, who casually relocked the elevator before tossing the keys back to his superior.

The badger, after pocketing the keys, breathed a great sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair, wiping a great deal of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. He could not believe that this had just happened; he had cracked, and openly pleaded with the man. The man who didn't even speak had single-handedly dominated the conversation. The irony was sickening.

Vlotho sighed again, quickly reaching over and grabbing both the knife and the Les Baer. He placed the former back in its sheath, and the latter into a small drawer in his desk.

This man, silent as the grave, was intimidating, terrifying, and so confident in himself.

For the first time since the denied handshake, Vlotho allowed a grin to appear on his face. This man was definitely the perfect assassin that he was looking for. Cooper and his friends wouldn't stand a chance.

To be continued…