plotted starter for @fearfeeling
it’s a job like any other, money for a life. this particular employer has sent him to new york city, just another location with the propensity to cause a huge, chaotic mess. there’s a limited number of ways he can pull this off quietly; long range would be most efficient, but that depends on the subject’s habits. but execution isn’t his main concern at the moment, identifying his subject is the problem. he’s a ghost, even rake hasn’t heard of the accident man, though his work rarely takes him stateside. he’s about to become an expert, though.
it takes him two and a half months of grilling underground informants to close in on the accident man, identity still eluding him. rake can guess he’s ex-military, special forces, and he wonders if they’ve crossed paths. whoever it is, he won’t be the first former soldier he’s come up against, and he won’t be the last. tyler briefly wonders how he located the man’s home before learning his identity, but that just makes it an easier job to complete with no name and no face.
he waits until midnight, better cover and less civilians out and about. the adrenaline thrumming through his veins steadies his nerves, and he takes one last deep breath. his foot connects solidly with the apartment door, the action followed by the quiet roll of a flashbang. its use is precautionary, fully aware the sound of a door kicked in is going to immediately jumpstart his target’s defensive mode, but he’s hoping it’ll still bring him a slight advantage.
it only guarantees he lands the first hit, making out his target’s silhouette moments before his own form comes into the other’s sightline. he was right about being ex-special forces, american military judging by the fighting style. they trade blows like it’s a choreographed dance, with clear indication neither is going to gain the upper hand unless they throw in a monkey wrench. rake switches tactics, catches the other in a grapple that ends with a heavy thud of his target’s back against the ground. rake delivers an elbow to his gut for extra measure, rolling back while unholstering his gun. he has to make it a kill shot, any extra discharge would attract more attention than their altercation already has. but by the time he’s steady enough to execute that perfect shot, he’s staring down the barrel of a nine millimeter, behind which a familiar face comes into focus.
“ fuck. mercer ? ”