Declan slipped from the shadows, the comfort of a good hiding place as he wrapped his arm around the target's neck, catching him, his other hand clamped firmly around his mouth. There were easier ways, but this target was fairly high up on the drugs chain. He was to take out Raul Tavez, a man who had been crawling around the city for quite some time.
He had no problem with it at all. Over the years he had dealt death to many. It was a was a job, something that paid the rent he shared with the flatmate. All the while, he was thinking of his shopping as the man struggled against his grip, arms and legs flailing helplessly as his oxygen levels dropped.
Soon, Raul barely moved as Declan dropped him onto the floor, spluttering and heaving oxygen into his chest. His face had turned red, buried in the scarlet carpet on the floor. Declan did not waste anymore time, reaching into his coat pocket, pulling out his pistol and firing once into the back of his head. There was a brief silence as he regarded Raul, now dead and sprawled out on the ground like the cockroach that he was before turning on his heel and heading out of the apartment.
Declan switched the pistol for his phone, informing his flatmate that he was going to stay out this evening. Upon being questioned for where he was heading, there was no answer, just silence. His next port of call was to the CIA, his handler.
"Job's done. Send the cleaners." Declan replied.
"Good job. Keep an eye out for if you ever find Wilkes."
His car, a black Ford Focus, was parked out the back of the block of apartments. Declan ignored the hurried movements of the people that had heard the gunshot, his head low and his hands tucked into his pockets. He started the engine, giving a quick glance to the duffel-bag in the passenger seat from the rear-view mirror.
With that, he headed straight for the shabby motel that he so-often stayed at, parked and then headed inside. Declan approached the receptionist, signing himself up under an alias, using the appropriate ID card where necessary before heading upstairs, duffel-bag in tow as he found his room. Declan was just about to enter before he caught a glimpse of a familiar face. His brow knitted together, lingering for a moment longer, as he slotted the key card into the lock and disappearing inside.
It was not much of a room, he had worse back in his army days. He cast a glance around, throwing the duffel-bag onto the floor and removing his jacket.
He had just been told to look out for the man, and here he was, holed up in a dingy motel heading straight for the vending machine. Declan lay on the bed, hands tucked behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.