A young man was perched on a steel girder, the cool night air washing in from holes in the old metal roofing. He was dressed entirely in black, from his black hood flowing seamlessly into his cloak, to his black gloves and shoes.
He was in the corner of a dimly lit warehouse, crates stacked against the walls, all filled to the breaking point with drugs. There must be a half-billion dollars worth here he figured. But this wasn't why he was here.
This much uncut cocaine could cost hundreds of otherwise innocent people their lives. Sure, some dealers might be killed during robberies, some may die of overdoses. But so many more would lose everything they owned because of it. They may be alive, but it would be a living hell.
A man in an expensive looking business suit slammed open doors at the far end of the warehouse, sending dust floating down from the roof. "Klishkov!" he yelled. A man slipped from behind the crates that had hidden him from the door. However, his several bodyguards and ex-military he'd hired stayed out of site.
"I was beginning to think you wouldn't show Mansfield." Klishkov said, all the charisma of a host greeting his guests.
The black figure in the rafters moved silently, reaching into the many folds of his cloak. On his belt he had three loops, and in each of these loops there was a blue stun grenade. But he didn't need them yet. The guards were watching their boss, but not each other. After all, if there was only one door, surely a threat could only come from that direction.
They never think of the roof the cloaked man thought mockingly. I'll have to teach them to be more cautious.
His hand went to the opposite end of his belt, where instead of three rings there were five slim sheaths. In these sheaths there were five throwing knives. They made no sound, they had no smell, and they penetrated Kevlar vests. He pulled the knife free of it's sheath and let it fly, embedding it in the farthest ex-military personnel, who dropped like a sack to the ground.
The next four fell just as quickly, and with only two bodyguards remaining, he dropped from his perch onto a crate. He moved along the edges, fearing that a step in the wrong spot could make the crate creek.
He moved with all the grace of a panther, soundlessly dropping from the stack of crates to the next shorter stack of crates, and on until he came to the concrete floor. He sized up the nearest guard before dispatching him with a quick jab to the jugular. From there, subtlety didn't really matter.
Reaching to his belt, he pulled a flash grenade from it's holster. He started counting down from five as he unceremoniously tossed the pin aside. Then, with a swift flick of the wrist, sent it rolling toward its target.
... Two... One... Bang!
He picked up the hand gun of the bodyguard at his feet, taking aim at the ex-military personel who was temporarily blind, deaf and unbalanced. Three shots were fired, and all three found their mark. Now that the 'protection' was taken care of, his full attention fell on the two frightened men in the middle of the room.
Mansfield was on the ground, Klishkov hunched over, each with their hands on their ears. Then, just as quickly as the last man had been felled, he fired a shot into each figure, then dropped the still smoking weapon beside the unconscious bodyguard at his feet.
Pulling a camera from one of his many pockets, he centered the frame on Klishkov, the drug dealer. He took a picture from directly over top, a close up of his face, and a shot of the bullet wound. Sliding the camera back into his pocket, he extracted his throwing knives from their various resting places and retrieved the still very hot casing of the grenade.
He strode straight out the door into the deserted streets, leaving the bloody scene behind him. The airplane assembly worker, the physics teacher, and now the drug smuggler he thought, mentally reviewing the list of names in his head. Three down, three to go.