[center][img]https://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjcyLmE1YjM2Yi5WbUZ1YW1FZ1NtRnVhMjkyYWNTSC4wAAA,/black-ops-one.regular.png[/img][/center]
It is early in the morning and only a spattering of patrons were enjoying breakfast at the outdoor portion of The [i]Bean There Café[/i]. Vanja Janković puffed on his cigar savoring the smoke as he examined some photos. Undoubtedly, a bad habit, but at least it brought a little consistency to his otherwise hectic existence. Smoking was one of the World’s great unifiers after all, no matter where in the world he found himself there was some variation practiced. Through his dark sunglasses he looked up at the photos at his dinning partner the fact they both managed to reach middle age relatively unscathed was undoubtedly an outlier in their chosen profession. He returned to pursuing the photos; they primarily showed his dinning partner sometimes alone and sometimes with a homily looking woman posing against various backdrops such as signs advertising national parks. It seemed like in the ten years since he last laid eyes on Harry Alberts the man has managed to keep himself busy. To an outside observer the pair looked like two middle aged friends exchanging stories and reconnecting over some shared past. However, Vanja was sure if that hypothetical observer was able to see the mens’ auras they would see darkness emanating from the pair; it was of some condolence that Harry’s blackness would eclipse even his own. The duo were what one would call mercenaries, assassins, hitmen, hired guns, or if one was being generously politically correct freelancers; supernatural creatures referred to them as Hunters though Vanja was certain other Hunters would probably take great offence to that. Unlike the large majority of other Hunters that Vanja met in the last twenty-four years who fought for moral or religious reasons and were bound by strict regulations, those of his ilk battled primarily for money and were bound only by the guidelines given to them by the one who hired them. He flicked the ashes from his cigar into an ashtray. 

Vanja repressed grimacing as despite his cordial interaction with the man he loathed [url=https://i.pinimg.com/564x/14/87/17/1487173007d856c3cabe1836cf08a387.jpg] Harry Alberts[/url]. Alberts was the worse type of freelancer, the type that fought to satisfy their own sick and twisted perversions. Ten years ago, he vowed never to work with the man again after what happened in Nepal. Putting aside that Alberts almost jeopardized the mission and cost the lives of six of his fellow compatriots, what he did to those innocent missionaries was beyond words. He should have put a bullet in the head of the degenerate for insubordination, but Alberts always had a knack for making himself indispensable.  It would be hard for anyone not familiar with the events that occurred in Kathmandu throughout the winter of 2010 to even comprehend that Alberts could be capable of such butchery.  Harry Alberts looked like a harmless grandpa, with rosy cheeks, a large frame, and a grey beard; he was a extroverted person armed with heartwarming stories and antidotes about raising his children or from his life growing up on a ranch in rural Montana. This however was a clever façade erected to disarm those that had suspicions about him. Vanja knew better, ever since he met Alberts on a mission in Rabat, Morocco in 1998 he developed distaste for the bombastic self-aggrandizer; Kathmandu only proved his base suspicions correct.  Alberts was sending him a message by having him look at the otherwise innocent photos of his grandchildren and snapshots of his adventures on the road with his wife; he was covertly bragging about his misdeeds. Vanja was certain that late at night on the trails of these national parks some poor folks had the misfortune of coming across Harry Alberts while his wife was fast asleep; the forests undoubtedly became their tombs. 

Vanja would have never travelled to Gravette had he known that this reckless psychopath was on the payroll once again; he was not happy that Roger Bonheur renegaded on his promise to never again have Vanja work a mission with Alberts, but it seemed the client must have been desperate for experienced bodies. He mulled over just pulling out his Beretta and shooting Alberts in his fat face; it would serve as both his resignation and spare Alberts’ grandchildren having to grow up knowing Pop-Pop was a mass murderer. However, he stayed his hand for the time being. He was not in this line of work for the money or the thrills, he was here because he had to find her. She was a phantom that haunted the deepest recesses of his mind; just the thought of her torn down the mental ramparts erected by years of cynicism. She was akin to his last shed of humanity; it is what kept him from devolving into a monster like Alberts or a nihilist like Bonheur. He managed to avoid completely becoming wrapped up in thoughts about Rakel for the time being. 

He wordlessly handed the photos back to Alberts not giving the creep the satisfaction of a reaction.  A waitress came by and refilled the men’s coffees. Alberts leered at her for an uncomfortable amount of time as she departed before pouring a few packets of sweetener into his drink. Vanja could not help wondering how many disappearances in Gravette were the result of Alberts. Alberts had been in the city for almost a year at this point; he runs a local thrift shop called [i]The Pack Rat[/i] under the false identity of Jim Hughes. He presented himself to be some relation to the former owners who disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances. He is known around the metropolis as a man who is known for his tall tales and friendly demeanor; he is always up to lending a hand to his fellow citizens and is a member of a few volunteer groups. Alberts certainly considers himself above suspicion.

[color=F0E68C]“Always were quite the shutterbug Jim. Any word on how the high school reunion is progressing? You know how I hate surprises.”[/color]

“Last time I checked the gang’s going to all be here, with a few exceptions.  You are punctual as always, a little early perhaps. I see you haven’t changed in the slightest you are the same old tight ass. Oh, Captain. My Captain” says Alberts whilst shoveling a second helping of grits into his gullet. 

[color=F0E68C]“I could say the same thing about you, it still seems your up to your old tricks as usual. I could have lived without ever seeing your deplorable face again, but I am willing to put the past aside for the sake of this reunion. Consider the hatchet buried. With that being said, is the itinerary set yet.”
[/color]

Alberts chuckles spraying undigested grits from his mouth. “You are putting aside the past? Since when? It is good to see that your sense of humor has improved these last ten years Josip. I would worry that you would burry that hatchet in my back, but I know better than to mistrust your commitment…to this or any reunions. Unfortunately, our resident party planner has not made me aware of the finalized schedule yet.  We are still on to meet at the old hangout in a few days and all should be revealed then.  In the meantime, you should explore our old stomping grounds. Sample the local wildlife. You know I have.” A knowing smirk overtakes his visage.  

Vanja used to feel odd being addressed by one of his various pseudonyms or talking in code, but these things were second nature at this point. It would have been rather distressing and a sign of impending danger to hear his true named uttered in a public setting nowadays. He was going by the aliases of Josip Hale and had the documents to back up his claim in case he was stopped by law enforcement. He samples the cup of black coffee and it leaves a distinct impression of weakness in his mouth. Why did North Americans have such wretched coffee? This morning was already turning out to be unbearable. He leaves a generous tip on the table and makes his abrupt exit; he had enough of Harry Alberts for one day. He makes his way down the sidewalk at a brisk pace ever observant to ensure he is not being followed. He takes another puff on his cigar as he walks.