[2:11pm]

In the basement of the C-Station, Larry stood, surrounded by a half-dozen Libra goons. Each one had their pistol pointed in his direction. The air was stale, only seasoned by particles of months-old dust. The only sounds that permeated the space were that of the distant engines and machinery that kept the train station above operable—it was something that was considered a great achievement by Archard. But even those noises were nothing compared to the volume of the tense silence of the standoff.

Even in the back corner, with all his sides either flanked by shelves or mobsters, not a single bead of sweat dripped down his face. His face remained neutral and his eyes subtly scanned his surrounding, just like he had been doing the entire journey here. Nothing changed for him.

“Nothin’ personal,” the lead goon said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s the boss’s orders. Ya know how it is.”

With an unusually relaxed composure, Larry said, “I figured.”

The goon cocked his head. “What do ya mean?”

“You’re not very good at lying,” Larry stated. “I knew this was a set-up before we even walked down the stairs.”

“Oh really?” the goon replied, showing the prideful anger on his face. “Then why’d come down with us, dumbass? Stop playing so cool. You’re fucked and you know it. There’s no need to for this stupid confidence you’re trying to pull.”

With eyes as cold and firm as the arctic, Larry said, “There's a difference between idiocy and confidence, and it seems like you haven’t learned it.”

The goon, biting his lips and flaring his nostrils, took a step forward. “Tough talk for someone—”

But before he could finish that single-minded insult, Larry rushed forward. Just as he planned. In one, swift motion, Larry parried the goon’s gun to the side, causing the sudden firing of it to go wide. Not only that, but he managed to press that wrist in such a way that it forced the hand to open. Using that same motion, Larry took the gun from him, pointed it beneath his chin, and blew his head off.

There had been maybe a few seconds, at most, that passed in this instance.

Before any of the other mobsters could react, Larry tossed the dead goon’s body aside and leaped behind a giant metal pipe. Shots began to ring out, coming from every angle around him. Some found purchase in the ground near him, causing concrete dust to blow up; some sparked off of the various metal objects around, ricocheting with a scream; but none of them ever hit him. To anyone else, it was a hailstorm of death that threatened to close in at any moment. But to Larry, it was just another Tuesday.

It was almost like a game to him. He hated that he thought of it that way, but it was the truth. There was some sort of twisted enjoyment he got when he got into these situations. It was like a puzzle that didn't have a clear solution. There was a rush to find a way out of even the most impossible of circumstances. And because he saw it as a game, he took it very seriously.

Some people would call this paranoia, and to be fair, they wouldn’t be wrong. Larry constantly examined his surroundings. There was never a time when he wasn’t on the defensive. He always thought that there was something out there, waiting to get him the moment he dropped his guard. And it seemed like today, like most days, proved him right.

He listened to the dozens of rounds being emptied by the goons, bobbing his head as if they had the rhythm of a song. Instead of measures of beats, there were gunshots. He counted each of them, adding them up over time—he was finding his place in the composition. And unfortunately for those inexperienced musicians on the other side of his cover, he knew this piece very well.

The moment that he heard a decrescendo in the bullet hell, just as he predicted, he immediately popped up. If he didn't already know, the wide eyes of the goons before him said everything.

Their clips were out of ammo.

One. Two. Three. Duck, Larry thought to himself in a very matter-of-fact manner. It was like he was going through a routine or playing a game that he was more than familiar with.

He fired three, perfectly precise shots, piercing half of the goons in between the eyes, causing them to drop almost instantly. However, he was a careful man who valued winning over the moment's glory. He didn't overextend, choosing instead to crouch behind his cover again.

Could he have finished off the rest of the mobsters? Perhaps. But that was a risk that wasn’t worth taking. After all, he was going to win anyways. So why throw a guaranteed victory away? It was stupid.

Thirty feet back. Twenty to the left.

He hunched down low, remaining behind that pipe, and moved to another spot he saw while on his way into the basement. It was a portion of the massive square room that was sectioned off by three stone walls. It seemed to be a small closet where bolts, screws, and other miscellaneous junk were kept just in case it needed to be used.

There was only one entrance to it and it was fairly well hidden. You couldn't see the room or the door until you after you walked past a tool shelf, full of random, never-to-be-used devices.

Now, normally he wouldn't corner himself like that, but if the idiot mobsters moved down the path he knew that they were going to, then he was in the prime position. His sides were all covered and the passageway in front of him came from around a corner, blocked from sight because of the tool shelf. The moment the chasing goons turned the corner, it would be too late.

And they did.

One. Two.

Before he could fire his third round, the last mobster managed to react in time, jumping back behind cover.

Finally, something interesting. He shook his head in disgust. I gotta stop thinking like that.

With lithe movements, almost as slippery as a snake, he slid out of the closet. His back was to a shelf next to him, and he glided on it as he walked forward. The only tactical advantage that the closet gave him was that it was unknown; he had the element of surprise. Now that someone knew where he was, staying inside that contained space was a death sentence. Instead, it was time to finally make his move. Now it was better to be the hunter, rather than the concerned prey. Sometimes offense is the best defense.

He followed the trail that he believed that goon ran down—a trail anyone who was panicking would choose. It was a simple choice, really. Based on his logic, the last goon should be hiding behind the engine directly to his left.

A bullet fired from out of sight.

“Shit,” he said, suddenly ducking down, placing his hands on his head. Larry barely managed to move out of the way, but only thanks to the bullet missing him, instead knocking an empty paint can over.

To the right, huh? I’ll give it to him, he's not a rookie.

He paused for a moment, letting the internal map of the basement run through his head. While it wasn’t something he had perfectly memorized, he managed to have a crude understanding of the various twists and turns of the space.

Nodding to himself, and with an oddly placed smile, he dashed down the aisle. Next to him on both sides were congruent shelves of tools, occasionally broken up by a support beam. He remained crouched and low as he darted around, his eyes quickly scanning his immediate environment. Even compared to those who could resonate, his vision and sense for the slightest of movements were unmatched.

Where is he?

He stopped. Something was off. There hadn’t been an out-of-place sound in a while and no clear signs of movement. No sounds, no tracks, and no bullets. How did that man seem to vanish into thin air? There was no chance he had lost his prey that quickly. If he did, then that would spell disaster.

I can’t let Archard know I’m alive. Not this time.

His faster movements turned into a silent creep. The tips of his toes did most of the lifting, carrying his thin frame through and around the scattered mess of a basement. If he wasn't so tall, then he would have the perfect build for assassination and stealth. Unfortunately, nothing in life is perfect.

A few minutes into his focused prowl, he still found nothing. Perhaps the mobster was hiding somewhere, hoping he would be forgotten. It was certainly possible. Most men joined the mob out of obligation or naivety, thinking that they, too, could be praised by the charitable billionaire. Or worse, that they could make a positive change for London. Men like that often hid from reality, broken once the truth was in front of them. The moment that death became real, they ran for their lives, unaware that the Devil already had their souls.

The sound of falling metal erupted behind him. Spinning around, he saw a tower of boxes, filled with metallic junk, tumble to the ground. His pistol was immediately raised and focused in that direction. All he had to do was spot him.

You’ve finally slipped up. You made a grave mist—

Gunshots and searing pain made themselves known to him. His body screamed in pain as three bullets sank into him—one in his left leg, one in his left arm, and one that grazed his left cheek. On the other side of the shelf to his left stood the goon. It seemed Larry was not the hunter nor the predator…he was the prey.

Larry stumbled back toward the pile of boxes, losing his balance and falling to the ground. Nothing punctured him, but he felt many weird shapes bruise his back, breaking his fall with more harm than what the floor would’ve caused.

Despite the worsening circumstance, his composure remained unchanged. He rolled backward, off of the boxes, and got to his feet. He fired three shots toward the general direction of the goon, causing that partially obscured shape to put some distance between them. He knew that none of the shots would land, but he needed the scare off the guy and give himself some precious time to recover.

Now, this was a real fight. While he loved the cat-and-mouse aspect of this encounter, he hated the fact that it had to happen. He was a walking contradiction, to say the least. He knew that he had to kill this man and there was no hesitation from him, but he still hated it. And he hated even more that he would go to any lengths to win.

Larry looked down at his arms and legs, seeing the blood flow down them. They were sizeable wounds. If he kept up the pace, trading shot for shot, he would be out of blood quickly. The longer this game went on, the more likely he was to lose. And he figured the goon knew this, too.

Let’s see how experienced you really are.

He took off in a dead sprint, jumping over the tumbled boxes and through the maze of shelves. Once he reached the end of his current corridor, he tripped.

“FUCK!” he screamed, grabbing a nearby shelf full of large equipment. The weight of the self apparently wasn't enough, seeing as it came crashing down with him. Covered and pinned by various metallic objects, he laid there, unmoving.

After a few seconds, the goon popped up from around the corner staring Larry down. He raised his gun towards the seemingly helpless Larry. The game was over.

BANG!

One shot was all it took. Right between the eyes, the bullet hit its mark. The goon dropped to the ground, dead. Larry’s laying position was not that of a pinned man, but rather of an experienced gunman.

“You took the easy bait,” he said, pulling himself up from the wreckage. He looked at the mobster's fresh corpse. He had to be no older than 19. Larry’s jaw tensed and muscles flexed. “Sorry, kid. You probably thought you had a bright future, but it was taken from you. Not by me, but by Archard.”

Just before he left the body, he heard a noise coming from it. Looking at the ground, he saw a small transceiver. It was quiet, indicating that it might have accidentally been turned on as the body hit the floor. Larry picked it up, turned the sound up, and listened.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Come in, squad L. Come in,” the transceiver said. “What was all the noise? Has the target been eliminated?”

Larry pressed the button on the side of it. “The target has been eliminated,” he said in reply.

“Good work. Come on up so we can report this back to HQ.”

He hid his pistol in the usual spot and clipped the device to his pants, turning the volume down all the way. He couldn’t risk being exposed while hiding. However, he also knew that information was more valuable than any amount of manpower. And so, he elected to keep it on him for potential use later.

Slowly, Larry made his way toward the stairs that led back up to the main station. His careful feet gently touched themselves against each step, putting as little weight as possible down in order to create the smallest amount of noise. Sure, he knew that the people above expected to see someone come from the basement, but he didn't want them to see him. He needed to find a way to get through the exit without being seen.

Just before his body crest above the divide of the shadowed basement and the lightbulb-lit station, he stopped. There was no visibility of the open space unless he risked being discovered. The question was not how to sneak past their vision but to ensure that they weren't looking in the first place.

He raised the transceiver and took a gamble. “Come in, this is squad L,” he said into it. “Before the target was eliminated, they confessed to having potential allies nearby. Check the west end of the station.”

He bit his lip. Please work. Please work. Please work.

After a few moments, a call radioed back. “Understood. Check the basement and work your way up to the ground floor and sweep the east end of the station.”

Bingo. With that done, there was a chance at getting the element of surprise back. He couldn't be entirely unsuspected, but it was worth it. The trade-off for being unseen as he emerged from the basement was that the rest of the mobsters in the station would be on their guard. He could work with that.

He waited a few minutes before peering his head into the light. He saw that the station was still occupied by a smattering of waiting passengers, but none of the suits were nearby. That was good. It looked like he had an opening to move.

And move he did.

He threw his jacket’s hood over his head and darted out of the ascending tunnel. He moved next to a bench that was sitting against a wall, keeping his head down and facing in that direction. Fortunately, it was the early parts of fall, so a jacket wasn’t too uncommon. It was a tad strange for someone to have their hood up, but there were some British who just couldn’t handle the cool weather.

Now that he got away from his predicament, he started to make his way out of the station. However, just as a took a few steps into the east side, he paused. There was something nagging at the back of his head. What was it? He wasn't sure why, but something just didn’t feel right. There was discomfort when it came to the idea of him leaving. Something didn’t add up.

Why now? he thought to himself. I figured the day would come when Archard would feel threatened by me. And I don’t blame him. But why now?

Was it a reason of subtly? No, because this attempt was done near a public place. The last thing Archard would want to do is showcase himself and his organization as a bloodthirsty, cruel beast. Was it a matter of sheer convenience? With the whole ordeal with the train, perhaps he could sell it as an act of betrayal or maybe even pin the killing on Aries. But that didn’t sit right with Larry either. It was too coordinated and too coincidental. So what could it all mean?

“Damn,” he said to himself. “I need more information.”

With that, he turned around, joining a crowd of civilians, and walked toward the station's west side. His pace was the same as the natural flow of the crowd. He bobbed and weaved through the various lines of passengers, waiting a while in each section before moving to the next. He had to be careful. Who knew who was watching him?

He heard conversations of days, work, and all sorts of small things. These were all talks that were typical among the common folk. Means of passing time and forming tiny, temporary bonds with the people around them. There was stress over the smallest of things; boyfriends, new pets, or workplace hardships were among the many.

It was hard for Larry to think that he was once just like them. He had dreams and aspirations of regular work and a normal life. There was a time when his greatest tragedy was getting fired from a job. It was a much simpler era of his life. But it was also a time before meeting her. She was someone he would’ve traded the world for, and honestly, he still might—even if it was retroactive.

If only I could go back… he thought. If only.

Eventually, he heard something that piqued his interest. He had almost lost himself in bittersweet nostalgia. Among all the nothingness that was being talked about around him, there was a conversation that was just on the fringe of audibility.

“No signs of anyone around here,” he heard a voice say. It came from around the ticket booth.

“Are we even sure that he was telling the truth?” another voice answered. “He might’ve been saying that to screw with us.”

Bingo. He had finally found what he was looking for. He slowly moved his way toward the back of the huddled crowd, listening into that conversation with more intent. There were a few more words exchanged, but it was hard to make them out through the ups and downs of the station’s noise. When the chatter around him increased, the conversation was more than gone.

However, just as he made it near the back wall, which wrapped itself around the ticket booth, he caught the tail end of that conversation.

“Well, I’ll just head back to the others,” one of the voices said. “You just stay here for a sec just to be sure. Join up with us later. We’ll be upstairs.”

Even better.

One pair of footsteps began to make themselves known, getting quieter and more distant. Meanwhile, a second pair sounded like they were shuffling about, either in anticipation, annoyance, or both.

Larry paused for a moment, waiting for the walking footsteps to disappear, and once they did, he made his move. With swift, yet deliberate movement, he ducked around the corner to where he heard the source of that conversation. With all of his begrudging experience in stealth, assassination, and spying, he could accurately tell the distance someone was by their voice and their movements. Most of his estimations were only a few inches off, at most.

Like expected, there was a man standing in the middle of the hallway, hands on his hips. There was a not-so-concealed pistol on his waist and a semi-automatic rifle slung around his back. The man’s eyes were wandering around his immediate perimeter, but the moment Larry walked into the hall, they instantly locked onto him.

Before the man could even utter a word, Larry rushed him. With well-practiced precision, he cupped his hand around the man’s mouth and throat and pinned the barrel of his gun to the back of the man’s head. He then dragged the mobster off to the most shaded part of the hallway, where there was no direct line of sight from the main station nor any other parts of the hall. Someone would have to get really close to where they were in order to spot them. And by that point, Larry would've already heard them and left.

The mobster struggled for a bit, but no more than a minute whimper escaped his mouth. His panicking body wiggled for a few seconds, but eventually succumbed to the inevitable situation that it was put in.

Pressing the barrel even more firmly against the mobster’s head, Larry whispered, “Don't make a sound, and don’t move unless I tell you. If you understand slowly nod your head.”

The mobster did as he was told.

“Good,” Larry said. “Now, I’m going to give you a moment to answer my questions, but if you raise your voice or make any sort of sound, you’ll be dead before you can blink. If you understand, nod slowly nod your head.”

Again, the mobster complied.

“Alright.” Larry then moved the hand that was covering the mobster’s mouth to the side of his face. “Tell me, what’s going on here?”

“I…” the mobster hesitated, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Larry pressed the gun even harder against the man’s head. “Don’t play games with me and don’t you stall for time—you won’t win. What are your instructions from Archard? And don’t tell me you had none, because we both know that isn’t true.”

Larry, noticing the shaking hands of the mobster, eased up a little on the gun. It was still firmly pressed against his head, but it wasn't as forceful.

“Well,” the mobster started to say, “we were tasked with taking you out. I-I guess that didn't work out, though.”

“Don’t tell me things I already know,” Larry replied. “I know there’s more going on here. What else is he having you do? All of this seems too coincidental.”

“I-I honestly don’t know what else to tell you. That was the main thing to do here besides cover up the murder.”

Larry paused for a second. His first instinct was to call out the bluff with some “bad cop” routines. However, something about his deep-seated intuition told him that the words, no matter how stuttered they were, were sincere.

“Well if that's the case, then was there something about his orders that seemed a little odd to you? Something that wasn’t necessarily big, but just a little strange?” Larry asked.

There was a few seconds of silence before the mobster replied. “I mean...” he hesitated, either because he was trying to remember or was trying to find a way to lie. “I guess there was one thing.”

“Which was?”

“You see, Archard seemed very adamant that we were not allowed to leave this spot until after the train came. He said that it was to make sure that no civilian could find the body, but that didn't make much sense. I mean, it’s easy enough to hide a body before the train even got close to arriving. But I didn’t really question it.”

“Is that so?” Larry said. “That does seem very strange. Anything else come to mind?”

“Man, I don't know. Honestly, that's all I can think of, and even that seems like a stretch to me.”

Larry pulled the gun away from the mobster’s head. “If that's the case, then I suppose that’s all that can be done.”

“What?” the mobster asked, his voice showing his confusion about the situation.

“Well, you've been a big help,” Larry said, holstering his gun while keeping the other hand on the mobster’s head. “So to thank you, I’m gonna free you now.”

“Really?” the mobster asked with some enthusiasm.

“Yeah.”

With one, swift motion, Larry snapped the mobster’s neck, their body instantly falling limp in his grasp. There was a shred of remorse in his mind afterward, but his hatred of Libra quickly overshadowed it. While he hated how many unknowing people got in the middle of his crossfire, he could never let that stop him from getting his revenge. He would achieve vengeance. Nothing would stop the unforgivable anger that he held for Archard…especially after what he did to him.

He dragged the body with him, moving deeper into the back hallways, constantly shifting his eyes all around him. He was laser-focused on every single detail of his surrounding. His paranoia would not let him miss a single speck of dirt.

It was then that a rather peculiar, yet familiar noise graced his ears. It was his ringtone.

What? Why is it going off? he wondered in a slight panic. It’s supposed to be set on silence except for when…

His eyes widened and he hastily grabbed the cellphone from his pocket, keeping the body prepped up with his other arm. When looking at the number that appeared on the screen, it was exactly who he thought it was. He answered it.

“What is it?” he asked.

A friendly, but solemnly serious voice came from the other end. “Larry, we have a problem.”

“Don't we all?” he jabbed, his voice both sarcastic and stressed. “Hurry it up, though, I don't got all day. What’s the issue, John?”

“While on the London train, I overheard a line of communication come from Archard. It’s urgent.”

“If it’s so urgent, why don't you get to the point?”

“The bomb is not on the train. It’s in the C-Station.”

“What? Why would that be?” Larry pondered, trying to correlate all of the seemingly mismatched information he had just received from Platinum John and from the mobster. Nevertheless trying to figure out how his assassination fit into all of this.

“I don't know,” John replied, “but you need to get out of there fast. The train will be there any second now.”

Larry paused, wracking his brain and flexing his mind to its utmost limits. What did it all mean? What the hell was the connection? There was something that he wasn't getting; something connected all of the pieces but it didn't want to be heard. It was only when he thought of his friends—of Aries—did it finally click into place.

“Wait, I get it now,” Larry said, talking between his clenched teeth. “He’s trying to take me out and then silence the assailants with the bomb. That way my assassination would look like an accidental death, all while pinning the blame on Aries. And no one would ever know, because they, too, would be dead from the explosion. That son of a—”

And just before he finished his thought, the haunting sound of a train horn filled the entirety of the station. It was a sound that usually signaled adventure, renewed life in a broken city, and hope. But now, it only sounded like the screams of the Devil. It was a noise that spoke only of death.

“SHIT!” Larry yelled, dropping his phone and letting the corpse of the mobster slap against the floor.

With all the energy he could muster, he sprinted toward the nearest exit, which was the west end of the tunnel—the end that the train was not coming in from. It was the only thing that went his way that day. His feet felt lighter than air, his arms pumped harder than ever, and his mind thought only of one thing: running.

He could hear the oncoming sounds of the train’s wheels scraping against the worn, metal tracks. The clash of metal on metal sounded more like the screams of the damned than it did of man-made inventions. And those sirens of death were getting ever closer.

The end of the station was no more than a few dozen feet away, opening up into the open expanse of the city. The station was located just outside of one of the city’s largest parks, and it just so happened to be on this side.

Desperately, he reached out for the light that was just ahead of him. Salvation was right there. He could make it. He could do it. He could finally have something go his way for once in his life.

Just as he crested beyond the divide of the shadowed station and the light-blessed outside world, it happened. A massive explosion detonated inside the station, completely blowing it to kingdom come. Larry’s body flew through the air until it landed on the ashy, cindered grass.