[indent][i]click[/i]

"Hello?"

"..."

"[i]Ja.[/i]"

"..."

"[i]Nein.[/i]"

"..."

"[i]Natürlich nicht, Herr Kovan.[/i]"

"..."

"[i]Ja? Sie übertragen mir, wer?[/i]"

"..."

"[i]Ja. Verstanden.[/i]"

"..."

"Hello? Mister Trager? Yes, yes, I understand zhe instructions of our arrangement. Yes, yes, of course. Are zhe flight plans already paid for? In full? Excellent. [i]Danke[/i], Mister Trager. And what are zhe arrangements for me when I land? Mmm. Do not worry about gear, I know someone zhere that has another stock of equipment for me. A place to stay is not needed eizher, I will find my own- [i]verzeihen[/i]? You want me to stay at zhe Continental? Hmm. Of course, Mister Trager. But remember, I may be contracted to you, but I have zhe resources to protect myself if zhings should go sour. If the deal does go south, I will put my own plans into motion and we will most likely never see each other again. Yes. Do not worry. I have never failed. [i]Guten tag[/i]."

Alexander withdrew his hand from his target's throat and reached for his phone, being absolutely careful not to drop it as he transferred the small plastic thing from between his cheek and shoulder to his hand and then his pocket. Once done, his hand went back to the knife embedded in it, withdrew it cleanly, wiped it on the man's shirt and stowed it away as the corpse crumpled to the ground in a heap. Just another night in Berlin. Another day, another contract, another kill. Plain and simple. He'd be paid richly in coins for this hit, not that it mattered. He already had enough to retire. But still he kept going, and he did not know why. Was it the patience and determination for perfection in each kill that drove him? Or was it the sheer positivity of the work? Maybe it was the simple fact that he knew no other craft. His knives and numbers went side by side just like [i]yin[/i] and [i]yang[/i]. Bread and butter. He couldn't live without them. This was his calling, a grim calling card to a place very few men dared tread. With a practiced ease, he knelt and wiped the stiletto clean on his mark's jacket (an expensive thing from H&M), handle and all, and stowed the knife in the sheath he had on the inside of his coat, where the rest of his arsenal lay resting, sleeping off their kills. Each of his knives had a history of marks, each one had an appetite of blood that could only be sated in turn by killing more. He knew this; his knives were just as alive as he was, and he knew each and every one inside and out. From the violent, sadist spring-loaded stilettoes and switchblades, to the artistic and deadly grace of the butterfly knives he held the most dear, to the rugged serrations and hooks of combat knives, each blade was a story that only he knew by heart.

Enough procrastinating. Alex had another job. Tasked by an old acquaintance turned boss, he was to fly to New York City and stay in the famed Continental. There, of course, he'd receive further instructions from his employer on his motivations upon returning to the Big Apple. He was to be expected, of course, and a room had already been prepared beforehand. Payment was up front, of course, and although preparations had been made he was expected to pay his own rooming fees and dinner services during his stay.

Alexander knew Charlie. Knew him well enough.

Whatever the work was, Alexander looked forward to it the same way a man looks forward to his next day of work.

With an expectant sort of cheer.[/indent]