The rain pounded down on the streets and dripped relentlessly off the eaves trough above the small convenience store. The store was located at the corner of Queen St and one of the smaller adjoining streets, and was usually fairly vacant of customers.

On this particular cold and wet evening, one lone customer exited the store, a loud ‘DING!’ signaling her exit. Her long black hair was covered by a hood that protruded out from underneath the long black trench coat she wore, the covering casting a dark shadow across her pale face.

The woman unwrapped the package of cigarettes with long, slender fingers, and pulled one of the sticks out. She then shoved the pack in her right pocket and dug through the other contents in it for a moment before retrieving a silver lighter. Leaning against the brick wall, she flicked on the flame and lit her cigarette, immediately taking a long drag. As she exhaled a look of satisfaction crossed her face and she relaxed her tensed shoulders. The droplets of water falling off the roof of the store were soaking quickly through her hood, and a chill at the sudden cold of the wetness ran through her body.

A car flew past, the tires splashing through puddles, sending a wave of water towards the shadowed figure. She grunted as the water hit her leg, and tried to shake what she could off of her pants.

Across the street was a pub called The Rex – a local jazz pub that had good food for a cheap price. The music, she mused, was not half bad either. Glancing at her watch, she mournfully put out the half smoked cigarette and darted across the road, making her way into the pub.

In a corner near the back at a small four person table, sat an older man, wearing a black hat and black trench coat. Beside the wall a long slender cane with a curved gold handle leaned against the table. The man nodded slightly in recognition as the young woman entered the venue and pulled down her hood, revealing stunning green eyes, a pale face, and bright crimson lips.

The current band that had been on stage was in between sets, the only music filling the room were the current pop songs playing on a local radio station. The Rex was fairly vacant, only a few diligent jazz fans milling around to listen to the band.

“Abigail,” the man greeted as the young woman reached him.

“Mr. Reynolds. Good to see you.” Abigail replied, taking a seat across from him. She picked up a menu and browsed it quickly, before deciding on her usual steak dinner. It was on Mr. Reynolds, so she might as well eat big, she reasoned.

“Have you given any consideration to the next job?” Mr. Reynolds asked as he placed his menu on top of Abigail’s, his eyes trying to read the blank expression on her face.

“I have.”

“Well? Will you take it? I’d hate to have to give this one to someone like that Dreydon fellow. He always does a half-ass job, and I can’t risk this getting blown.” Although he knew she had probably already made up her mind, Mr. Reynolds hoped that this last plea would make her sway her decision, had she come to the conclusion of a no.

“I’ll do it.” Her gaze flicked up so that she was staring directly into Mr. Reynolds’ eyes, but her expression remained unreadable. “But it’s going to cost you more than the original negotiated price. I’ve done my research. There’s quite a big bounty on the head of this former President of the United States. There are people that are willing to pay three times as much as your boss for a hit like this.”

Mr. Reynolds sighed and pulled out his cheque book. “How much more?”

“I want a hundred thousand dollars advance and four-hundred thousand dollars when the job is done.”

“Half a million?!” Mr. Reynolds kept his voice as low as he possibly could at the exclamation. “The original price was two-hundred thousand!”

Abigail shrugged. “Yeah, well half a mill’ is still way less than what the others are willing to pay. If it weren’t for my loyalty to you, I’d be giving you the finger and going to them.”

Mr. Reynolds leaned back in his chair and studied the young woman. “You’re only sticking with me because I own you. If you went to someone else, I’d have you killed.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “You and I both know you could never have me killed. Even if it weren’t for the fact that you adore me, I’m too good for anyone on your payroll to be able to kill.”

A waitress approached the table and asked if they were ready to order, and discussions of the job were momentarily put on hold. When their orders had been placed and the waitress had disappeared back into the kitchen, discussion resumed.

The band had moved back on stage and begun to play their second set, the first song a quieter tune with a slow, calming beat.

Abigail closed her eyes a moment, which caused Mr. Reynolds to pause in his lecture about how she put too much faith in his respect toward her.

The song reminded her of a scene from her past – a stormy night when she was nine, and had still been frightened of the loud rumblings from the sky. Her mother had taken her to the basement, put on an old jazz record, and scooped her up in her arms, rocking her gently back and forth to the music.

“Thunder is nothing to be afraid of sweetheart,” her mother had said. “Just think of it as God playing the drums in a band, making music even more beautiful than what you’re hearing now. In fact, it’s so beautiful that it sounds like nothing more than rumbling to our ears here on earth.”

Not even a year later, on a stormy night such as that, her mother had passed away from a rare form of cancer that took only a few months to set in and suck the life out of her. Abigail had decided that God had been too busy playing in his band to save her mother, and had sworn that she would never again enter a church or give any sort of glory to this creator of the universe.

“Abigail, are you with me?” Mr. Reynolds’ voice drew her back from her thoughts and she nodded.

“Yeah, I’m with you. Too much faith. Give it up Reynolds. You and I both know I don’t believe in faith.” She smirked slightly and let out a bitter laugh. “It certainly hasn’t been faith that has kept me alive all these years. I’d put my trust in luck before I ever handed it over to faith.”

Mr. Reynolds looked thoughtful for a moment. “You have me there I suppose. I’ll have to call the boss and ask him before I can give you an answer on the price.”

“Fair enough.”

The waitress appeared moments later carrying their meals. She eyed the two warily – they weren’t exactly the typical late night customers she had expected, and they had been talking in fairly hushed voices the entire evening. She silently prayed they would eat quickly and leave soon without causing any trouble. The moment the plates were on the table she hurried off, eager to get as far away as possible from these two people who sent chills down her spine.

Abigail took off her coat, revealing a large dark grey hoodie and skin-tight black leather pants – a rather oddly combined outfit, but one she wore often.

“You know Abby,” Mr. Reynolds began, using the name he only called her by once business talk was over, “I’ve never understood why you refuse to wear something more flattering than that old sweater. You could really use your looks to your advantage.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “No thanks. If I wanted to use prostitution skills in this profession, I simply would have become a prostitute. I’m quite comfortable as I am.” Without another word, she carved into her steak and took a bite, closing her eyes. The same satisfied smile which had appeared during her smoke earlier spread across her face once again.

It was nice to have real food instead of that frozen Michelina’s crap she was used to. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford real food – being an assassin paid pretty well. It was just that she had no time, or desire at this point, to invest in anything that suggested a suitable lifestyle. Her job kept her on the move frequently, and called for odd hours. Generally daytime was when she slept. Carrying out an assassination in brood daylight would be something difficult to achieve, and night-time was an asset she couldn’t afford to sacrifice.

“Good steak?”

Abigail nodded. “The best.”

When they finished eating, Abigail immediately put back on her coat and stood. “Pass my regards on to your boss. Call me when you have his answer, and I’ll let you know if you have a deal.”

The waitress sighed in relief as she watched the young woman exit, but hoped the old man would follow soon after. “Is there anything else I can get you this evening?” she asked politely.

“Yes, I’ll have a scotch on the rocks,” he smiled at her with a smile that sent even more chills down her spine. She definitely didn’t like this man. “Lovely band you’ve got here tonight.”

Nodding, she hurried over to the bar to give his order to Neil, the bartender.

“You alright kiddo?” Neil asked in concern. “You look a little pale.”

The waitress smiled. “I’m fine… just been having a few creepy customers in here.”

“Oh, you’ll get used to that a lot at this hour. Give it a few days.” Neil chuckled. “This is Queen Street babe, you’ll find a lot of weirdo’s out around here late at night. Just make sure you have an escort to walk your pretty self home. I wouldn’t trust any of the scoundrels in this area.”

Letting out a nervous laugh, the waitress took the drink and returned to the table, only to discover, much to her horror, the man and his cane were nowhere to be found.

Mr. Reynolds was quite good at ditching the check, a reason why he never ate at the same restaurant twice. He had no actual quips about paying for a bill, if he felt the place deserved it, but they had to be a certain quality of restaurant before he would even consider it. He walked down Queen Street to a parking lot not far from the City TV building, where a lone Mercedes sat near the back corner.

“I suppose I should warn Abby not to go back to that place,” he mused as he pulled out his car keys and unlocked the car.

Some people might have had an overwhelming sense of fear about walking through a downtown parking lot at this hour by themselves, but not Mr. Reynolds. As far as he was concerned, he held all the cards in his hand, and any poor soul who even attempted to disturb him would deserve what was coming to them.

And he was right; At least about the part of holding all the cards.

As he reached his car, much to his obscure delight, the familiar words of “Give me all your money and your keys!” were growled from only a few feet behind him.

“You young people never learn, do you?” Mr. Reynolds said calmly, slowly turning to face his assailant.

The voice had come from a young man, not much older than twenty, dressed in raggy clothes and a thick leather jacket. The smell of alcohol was so heavy on him that even standing several feet away Mr. Reynolds could smell it.

“I’m not joking old man. Hand it over.”

“Very well.” Mr. Reynolds reached into his coat, appearing to be searching for a wallet. But what came out, very much to the young man’s surprise was not a wallet, rather, a small nine millimetre handgun.

“Woah dude! Listen, I’m so—“ the man’s pleas were cut off as two bullets struck him in the chest and the jugular. He dropped to the ground and flailed around a moment before all movement stopped.

No-one heard the shots, except for perhaps the small whooshing sound that was made when bullets passed through the silencer on the gun.

“Such a pity,” Mr. Reynolds said quietly, shaking his head as he climbed into the Mercedes. “So many young people wasting their lives.”

As he drove away, he failed to notice Abigail sitting beside a phone booth watching as the scene took place. Once his car had disappeared from sight, she stood and slowly walked away.

She wondered who the young man was, and what had driven him to a life of crime. Ironic, she supposed, that she of all people should be wondering this and feeling sorry for him. Yet, it wasn’t entirely ironic, since she herself had always hoped for a way out of her life of crime. Back when her life still had meaning, she never would have dreamed that she would make her living as an assassin, moving from one city to another, taking lives without questioning why she should do so.

When her mother had died, she spent the first few years being passed from relative to relative – no-one really wanted to take care of the frail young girl. She felt like one of those presents people receive at Christmas, that they don’t really want, so they re-wrap it and pass it along to someone else next year.

At fifteen, she decided she’d had enough. Her mother’s aunt was sending her from Calgary to Charlottetown to move in with her great-grandfather, another in a long line of relatives that wanted to be rid of her.

When the train reached Toronto, she got off, and never looked back. She never wondered if any of her family missed her – their treatment of her had made her realize they would be more than happy to be rid of her. They never searched for her either. No missing persons’ reports ever showed up, nothing.

She had no money with her, nowhere to go, and no idea what she was going to do. Toronto was strange to her – she had never navigated her way around a subway before, and the city was big and confusing.

She had only been there a few weeks when she met Mr. Reynolds. She had been trying her hand at petty theft, and had quickly learned she had a natural talent for pick-pocketing. On one particular day, she made the mistake of attempting to pick-pocket the wrong man. As she had reached into his long trench coat for his wallet, she had felt the man’s hand clasp around her wrist and before she knew it, she was thrown against a wall in a nearby alleyway with this man staring angrily down at her.

What had caused Mr. Reynolds to release her from the wall and stare down at Abigail in wonder was not her young age, pretty face, or frail form, but rather the intense glare of fiery defiance in her eyes. It was the look of one who held no fear, only determination.

He took Abigail under his wing, giving her the option of furthering her skills as a criminal, or joining his wing of prostitutes that ran the streets of downtown Toronto. Abigail, who swore never to let a man touch her body went immediately for the option of crime. It certainly didn’t fit her childhood dream of becoming a well-off and well-supported young woman living a high status job, but it was a source of income, something to help her survive from day to day.

Before long she was expressing interests in being trained with weaponry and had been fascinated with one of Mr Reynolds’ top assassins, a man in his mid-twenties whom everyone referred to as ‘Solo.’ He was called Solo because he rarely found companionship with anyone and always refused being partnered with another assassin. Still, he seemed to take a liking to Abigail and began training her in the basics of assassination.

She began training in private, using her free time to improve hand-to-hand combat skills and learning how to use a weapon. Her position in Mr. Reynolds’ crime ring was still nothing more than a thief, but by challenging an assassin to a dual and defeating him, she could climb in rank. That was the way everything worked in this particular crime ring. It was slightly old-fashioned, but Abigail liked it – it held a sort of chivalry within it, a criminal code of survival of the fittest. At least, that was how Abigail viewed it.

By 18, she felt she was ready to take on one of the assassins. She placed her challenge with Mr. Reynolds, and late one night was taken to an abandoned factory in an older area of the city to fight. When they arrived, close to 100 others that worked for Mr. Reynolds were already waiting, cheering at the aspect of a death match.

The assassin she had challenged was a 19 year old named Bobby, a fair haired, blue-eyed man who looked more like a role-model student than a killing machine.

He had been quite surprised to see Abigail walk out as his challenger, and had snickered with a cocky grin across his face. Not a single girl had successfully won a challenge to work their way up to an assassin – Bobby said it was because they didn’t have the heart to kill.

Abigail had defeated him in less than ten minutes, but did not kill him, much to the disappointment of some of the other members of the ring. Later she explained to Mr. Reynolds that she would never kill a fellow criminal unless it was absolutely necessary. She’d rather teach them to fear her.

This, among with many other qualities was what landed Abigail the favour of not only Mr. Reynolds, but also of ‘The Boss.’ No-one besides Mr. Reynolds had ever actually met the Boss, but everyone knew he was a powerful man, high up in stature in the real world. His anonymity was for his own protection – the less who knew his face, the less there were that could ever incriminate him.

Now, at 23, Abigail was one of the most successful assassins working for Mr. Reynolds. She had never failed a job, and unlike some of the other assassins, never once questioned why she was killing who she had been asked to kill. The reason never mattered to her – it was a job, plain and simple and must be done. If the reason was any of her business, she was positive Mr. Reynolds would pass that along to her.

Her cell-phone rang, and Abigail darted under the canopy of a store to protect the phone from the rain.

“Hello?”

“It’s on.” Mr. Reynolds’ voice came over the phone. “The Boss wants you to go undercover on this one; less of a chance of you getting caught. You’re to meet with Izzy tomorrow morning at nine. He will give you all the details and equipment you need to get in. I’ll have the cash advance delivered to your apartment before you go.”

The line went dead and Abigail could not suppress the grin that was itching at the corners of her mouth. She already knew that by being given this assignment she was being entrusted to the most valued position. The Boss rarely trusted anyone to go undercover – it was dangerous, and if for whatever reason they were discovered, the whole plan would fall apart. It had to be carefully executed with someone who could pull off the role.

She glanced at her watch. Two-thirty. “Shit.” She muttered. She pulled out another cigarette and lit it, before hurrying back out onto the street in the direction of her apartment. Sleep would be nothing more than an inconvenience tonight.