Foster Lewis was buzzing. He hadn't see action for a while and this was also his first time being written in the third person. He was younger than he remembered this time around, must be a retrospective narrative. Literary techniques aside, he had his mission and he was ready. He ran his hand through his dark brown hair (without any hint of greying), got up and left.
Foster pulled up his hood, partly to hide his face, partly to keep the rain out. Cars sped through the puddles along the road, their lights washing across the pavements, augmenting the street lamps. The city sparkled idly with the glare of neon, skyscrapers like glittering towers growing towards the clouds. Foster walked quietly, his boots splashing lightly in the water. He shifted his leather jacket a little, better to conceal the weapon strapped to the belt loops of his jeans. As far as any of the passing traffic was concerned he was just another guy walking in the rain.
The target building came in sight. The wealthy district wasn't crowded at this time of night so there was no-one to obstruct Foster's view as he checked out the imposing tower. The lobby was well lit and well guarded with four heavies in suits dotted around. They looked like a Matrix mock up with their black suits and shades. However, Foster wasn't bothered about them. He had no plans on taking them on or crossing their paths at all. He kept walking as a black saloon pulled up outside the front entrance. A tall man, also in a suit got out followed by two more bodyguards. The car was taken to the underground car park by the valet boy. A voice crackled in his ear.
"Caucasian male, black hair, about six three. Target identified, entering target building now. Sherlock acknowledge."
"Got him, commencing entry phase."
"Okay, I'll wait out. You're on your own from here in."
"Just keep eyes on the building. I'll be done in no time."
Foster had no idea where his team mate was watching from, but he didn't need to know so long as he kept watching. It was Foster's mission now, the rest was all solo.
Foster walked straight on past the building and around the corner then turned into the alley behind it. The sound of the storm was muffled by the high walls and the darkness was claustrophobic. There was a service door in the wall to his left. Normally it would have been locked but good work from an earlier mission had ensured otherwise. Foster put on a pair of gloves. From this point onwards there could be no trace of him. He drew his weapon, a German-made USP pistol. It carried eight shots and was fitted with a laser sight and noise suppressor. Foster switched the laser sight to 'off', it made precise shots easier but a red dot is a dead giveaway that you're about to be shot and he needed the element of surprise. He chambered a round and held the pistol in his right hand. With his left he drew a combat knife, seven inches of razor sharp stainless steel, serrated on one side. Balancing his gun hand on his knife hand, he was ready for medium range and close quarters combat situations. He steadied his breathing and swept through the door.
Silence fell as the door clicked shut behind him, the air cold and still in the service stairwell. Foster looked up and started running. He had to make it to the seventh floor. The target would be heading to the eighth floor executive suite first but there was no service entrance up there. The only way to access the eighth floor was through the VIP elevator which could only be reached from the seventh floor. Foster's window of opportunity was small. The target wouldn't spend a long time in his suite. He would leave for a business meeting before long and it would be impossible to take him down without being noticed there. Time was not on Foster's side. He passed the second floor exit and kept on running.
Foster eased open the door to the seventh floor. He had memorised the layout in his planning phase earlier. The door was around the corner from a corridor which led to the main and VIP elevators. He stepped onto the tan carpet and began to creep along the wood panel and glass lighting corridor. At the end he checked his corner. The target's two bodyguards were waiting by the doors to the VIP lift. Bad news. As a stealth assassination mission, the goal was to kill only the primary target. That meant no-one should see you and only one person should die if it could be helped. A sea of bodies was the sign of an imprecise operator. Foster needed to get the guards out of the way without killing them if he could. Thinking fast, he scrambled around for a plan. He had to create a diversion. Foster's face cracked into a mischievous grin. It was a ridiculous plan. Stupid, infantile. But it was perfect. Quietly, he slunk back to the stairwell.
Foster went down to the sixth floor. It was empty, just as it should have been. He walked straight up to the main elevator and called it. A soft mechanical whirring came with the smooth opening of the doors. He went into the lift and hit the seventh floor button then hammered the door open button to give him a little more time. He pelted it out of the lift and back to the staircase. He was already halfway back up to the seventh floor when the elevator doors closed.
The main elevator pinged as it reached the seventh floor. The two bodyguards looked at each other. Nobody was supposed to be around at this time of night. There was no reason for anyone to be taking the main elevator to this floor. The both drew pistols and edged closer to the open doors. They aimed into the lift eyes scanning for anything that might be out of the ordinary. The oddest thing was, the lift was empty. Lifts don't send themselves to different floors randomly. The first guard stepped inside the lift and started checking the ceiling while the second watched him. They'd seen it in movies, how people climbed on top of elevators to get where they were going. Behind them Foster smiled.
In a silent instant he'd covered the ground to reach the first guard and smacked him, hard, with his elbow on the back of the neck, just below the skull. All the force transferred straight into the brain stem and the first guard crumpled unconscious. The other one, still fumbling around in the elevator just turned as Foster whacked him in the face with his gun. The guard stumbled, disoriented, eyes unfocussed, nose crushed. Foster jabbed him in the throat with the handle of his knife, temporarily slamming closed his airway causing him to gasp and choke then followed it up with one more good bash to the side of the head with his gun. He dropped, head lolling, mouth open, bleeding onto the floor of the lift. Foster dragged the other guard into the lift and pressed the button for the top floor. It was a tall skyscraper. Their unconscious forms vanished behind the doors. Now they were out of the way, it was time to take the target. Foster called the VIP elevator and waited.
The target was getting nervous. He hadn't gotten a response when he'd called his guards to tell them he was coming down. The luxury flat was well furnished with modern style but he couldn't sit down. He fiddled with his gun, his palms sweating as he paced backwards and forwards by the elevator doors as he waited for the lift to come.
When the door pinged open, Foster had his gun up, knife ready, aiming dead ahead expecting his target to be right there in front of him. He was unlucky. In his frenetic pacing the target had walked just to the left of the doors and as he saw Foster he flung himself out of the line of sight.
Foster burst from the elevator, panning left, laser sight now switched on to make sure he wasted no bullets by missing. The target screamed and flung himself at Foster as he left the elevator, knocking his gun from his grasp as he threw his balance. The target raised his own gun, but he was too close. Foster was trained in a most brutal military combat system. Anything within arm's reach was at risk. He used his empty right hand to rip the gun barrel away, breaking the target's fingers in the process and with his left hand he aimed a stab at the side of the target's neck, straight at the jugular. At the last second, the target jerked in pain and Foster's knife ended up sinking into his shoulder. The target span away, the knife still embedded in him. Foster gave chase, now unarmed. The target scrabbled around the kitchen drawers for a weapon and found a broad bladed meat cleaver and began to swing wildly with his one functioning arm. Foster avoided the wild attacks and countered, grabbing the target's wrist and snapping his elbow joint. He then threw a punch into the larynx, smashing the vocal cords and preventing him crying out. The target stumbled backwards, eyes streaming, blood soaking through his expensive shirt. Foster bent to pick up his weapon, aimed and fired. Target eliminated.
Foster pulled his knife out of his enemy's shoulder, searched the body and retrieved the valet ticket. He went downstairs, took the black saloon and drove straight out of the car park.
"Sherlock reporting. Target down. Out"