My name is Slade Wilson. I'm the mercenary known as 

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A man groans in pain as my foot slams into his gut, shattering four ribs. He won't be breathing normally for quite some time. Immediately, his compatriot runs towards me, foolhardy. I turn, drawing and firing my sidearm, a smooth motion honed by more than a decade of experience. The double-tap appearing in his forehead stops him cold. Turning my attention back to the man on the floor, I lift him up by the shirt, his weight almost effortless to my enhanced strength. 

"Now, Mr. Draykov, you were telling me the location of my target." I say, the filtered voice coming from my mask terrifying the man. He panics, trying to scream, but failing from his ribs. "I don't know! I swear. He keeps to himself. Only comes by once a month for new jobs." His terrified simpering stops as his face turns red. It wouldn't matter if he did have more to say; he's already told me all he knows. I toss him against the far wall, sending him into unconsciousness. 

As I swing my leg over the motorcycle, I activate the handsfree in the mask. It's programmed to dial only one number, and cannot be traced. The line on the other end rings, and when its owner picks up, I speak. "Hey, Rose, it's Dad. Listen, I know you're at the tower, but I'm off work and I'd like you home. I'm cooking." 
Despite the innocuous word usage, I speak to my daughter in code. I'm cooking means it's time to come home; training begins. I wait for her reply. 

My name is Slade Wilson. I'm a father.