Hark. Eliot Hark

Chapter 1

It was a perfectly normal job, all in all. An uncorrupted politician had taken a step to many in his city clean up operation, and was actually holding a mob boss in prison. This had not pleased his associates, so they hired Eliot to teach his predecessor a valuable lesson about respecting others black market dealings. Eliot had worked for these men before and knew what to expect: the usual no bodies, no witnesses deal so highly favored by those that wished to keep New York under their iron heel. He would simply go in, no questions asked, shoot the man between the eyes, kill anyone and their mother who saw him, and go home feeling liberated. He didn’t like politicians.

Eliot had done his regular routine before hand: following the man, noting down his favorite places, his favorite foods. Watching for the perfect opportunity, where his guard would be down and no one else would be around. Luckily, the opportunity presented itself sooner rather then later, as a later date might have interfered with Eliot’s next job, already planned and perfected, probably sparking an internal gang war. For the third time that year. It was volatile group of meat heads, after all, and leadership positions were brief at best. Eliot himself had actually been offered a highly respected position himself, as the natural successor saw what had happened to the last two, one after the other, as a very clear warning. But he politely declined, deciding that a life’s worth of crime sounded better then the few power-drunk days he would survive as head honcho.

The perfect opportunity in question was where, once a year, the politician sat down with a bottle of wine and an old photo, and drank until he was talking to the picture as if there was someone actually there. Eliot had seen video footage and it looked quite promising: all security and staff were dismissed for the night, leaving the man alone to mourn, drunk.

When the hour of the dirty deed came, Eliot cleaned and checked his pistol once more time, sharpened his knives, and hid all sorts of weaponry in every nook and cranny of his outerwear. He slipped out of the Taxi cap driver uniform he was masquerading as and slipped out back to the house in question. Peering through the window, he watched in amusement as the politician babbled all sorts of personally demeaning things to the old photograph clutched tightly in his grasp.