“NOSTRA”

Blaine hated this weather; the low, dense fog made it almost impossible to see his own hand in front of his face – in these conditions, it’d be all too easy for his equal to take him out. As much as he hated to admit it, the thought made him genuinely nervous. The weather was against him here – in almost all of his jobs it had been to his advantage in one way or another, and if it hadn’t been, his superior had provided him with equipment to overcome the obstacle. But he knew that here, there could be no help – he had no hi-tech sniper scopes, no night-vision goggles, no customised sniper rifle. All he had was his wits and his trusty Desert Eagle.

Seeing a set of traffic lights, he immediately threw himself to the left, hugging the wall of an aged brick building and cautiously sidestepping along. He gripped the handgun tightly, one index finger firmly on the trigger guard, the other on the trigger. Peering around the corner, he saw nothing but more looming fog. He knew that this sort of weather was damn near perfect for who was hunting him. He could never be too careful – here, his gun was his only true friend, the one thing he could trust. His grip on the weapon was getting clammier with every passing minute.

Taking a chance, he ran down the street through the dense fog, hoping that who was watching him was nowhere near. His ears pricked up, hearing what he could swear were footsteps – slow and menacing in pace, but definitely footsteps; the wearer’s feet were almost certainly resting comfortably inside the black leather loafers he was most fond of.

Are you wearing that stupid black suit too, you midget? Blaine thought. Blaine knew that his counterpart always wore a neatly pressed black suit and tie, probably the result of watching Reservoir Dogs one too many times. He’d boasted that he knew where Mr Pink had hidden the diamonds, the smug bastard.

Blaine instantly snapped out of it and spun around, looking in all directions, his index finger firmly on the trigger. He could barely see anything, which could prove fatal. He shivered – his equal could be anywhere…anywhere. He had a penchant for deathly silence right before a kill. Blaine held his breath, feeling for the kerb with his foot. Getting a footing, he ran across the desolate road to the other side, his gun by his side. Hopping up to the pavement, he aimed his Eagle steadily at the mist, which was in its own way threatening him. The fog intimidated him by robbing him of his sight – he could only rely on his intuition when the weather was against him.

A sudden screech. Startled, he fired a shot blindly, hitting a bird in the neck. It fell to the ground lifeless. He grunted, chastising himself for wasting a bullet. Ammo was precious, especially in these circumstances; the weapon was undeniably powerful but slowness was its Achilles’ heel. One bullet, he knew well enough already, could mean the difference between life and death.

Nervousness was taking hold of him – it’d never done this before, namely because everybody he’d taken on in the past had been, for all intents and purposes, human. He was being watched, hunted, stalked by a freak; a small, pale freak. He edged his way along the street, being as careful as was humanly possible.

Another sound, this time the loud clang of trash bins hitting the ground. Blaine squinted, seeing a rusty bin lid roll on its side out of an alleyway and spin on its top before stopping. The bastard was playing mind games – damn it, he always played mind games with his targets. He liked to mess with their heads before ripping them clean off their shoulders.

Blaine began heading the other way, his sidestepping slowly but surely getting faster. Just inches away from a bakery window, the smell of hot fresh bread still lingering in the air, his eyes widened as he saw the window shatter into a thousand pieces, penetrated by a long baguette. Blaine saw teeth marks in it, a small chunk missing – Blaine took a second to grin at how his equal always ate anything that even sounded like it came from somewhere foreign. A French baguette…how typical of him…

Blaine, slightly stunned, crept under the shattered window and found the door locked. Slamming his jacket-clad elbow into the pane of glass, he used a gloved hand to unlock the door. Kicking it open, he warily stepped inside, ever vigilant. There was no fog to make him feel unwelcome in here – instead, there was the familiar scent of warm pastry – croissants, breadsticks, decorated gingerbread men…he could take some time off and stuff his face – it smelt so inviting, willing him to crack open the glass insulators and take some for himself.

He forced himself out of his wishful thinking – as enjoyable as it looked, stealing tantalising cooking was not his priority. He’d come back and steal a dozen or so croissants later, right after a bullet had lodged itself firmly in that freak’s skull. Averting his gaze from the pastry, he stepped back outside into the cold, blinding mist. No sooner had he stepped out of the door had it flown clean off its hinges, the glass shattering to pieces and the frame flying across the road and slamming into the adjacent building, crumpling as it hit the pavement.

Blaine took off, legging it across the road and sprinting down the street, taking the corner into the alley as if he were a two-legging racecar. Running down the alleyway, he barely missed the clutter and soon found himself at a bricked dead end. He turned back around, unsure of whether he had been followed. His grip on the Eagle had loosened through his sweating, and his index finger was slipping on the trigger.

His heart was pounding in his head. Cold sweat slid down every inch of his body. His breaths were rapid and without his beloved sunglasses obscuring them, the panic was evident in his eyes. Inching towards the alley’s exit, he didn’t even notice the silhouette slipping down the narrow alley walls behind him and touching down feet away. The figure grinned, his elongated upper incisors gleaming in what faint moonlight there was.

Edgy, Blaine slowly turned around, his Eagle at the ready. They made eye contact; Blaine’s blue eyes staring straight into his adversary’s crimson ones. He barely let out a single word before his existence was cut short…

“Nostra…”