• Hundreds of stars filled the clear night sky over the city of Sacramento, California, rivaled only by the glow of the numerous lights that emanated out from the massive skyscrapers. Down on the streets, the occasional vehicle would pass by, as well as a pedestrian making their way back home after a long day out on the town and work. Hardly anyone was out this time of the night, which suited Jack Olsen, a convicted mercenary and serial killer, just fine. He had a shipment to deliver, one of extreme importance to the buyer, and he couldn't afford for anybody or anything to interfere, not while his head was on the line. Olsen stroked his shadow beard absentmindedly as he paced back and forth along the cracked pavement of the abandoned drive-in theater, an impatient scowl fastened on his hardened face. "Will ya stop doing that?" his partner, Mike Barns, asked in a nasally New York vibe, "You're starting to make me nervous."

    "He's late." Olsen said, not bothering to glance at Barnes where he was sitting on a crate a few feet away, "Why does he always have to be late?"

    "Hey, if he's the boss around these parts, he can come whenever he darn well pleases." Barnes told him, crossing his arms across his chest stretching the fibers of his expensive black and white tuxedo.

    Olsen uttered a submissive grunt and his gaze passed over the long, brown suitcase sitting on the ground next to Barnes. The contents of the case, a shipment of weaponized anthrax spores and their dispersal devices were a pain in the neck to get his hands on, and he expected a generous payoff for the amount of trouble that it brought him. A few minutes later, two jet-black Mercedes vehicles pulled off of the main road and began to drive towards Olsen and Barnes, their windows heavily tinted. Once the cars slowly came to a stop, the doors opened and several burly men got out, as well as a well-dressed man with a wicked-looking scar running diagonally down his face. The scarred man approached the two mercenaries with an air of vanity and confidence, casually adjusting the cuff of his jacket. "Good evening, gentlemen." he said with a heavy Mexican accent, "I believe you have something for me."

    Barnes nodded and picked up the case, glancing nervously at the scarred man's heavily armed entourage before handing it into the man's massive hands. The scarred man then flicked the latches on the case and examined the cargo inside with growing satisfaction. "Very good." he purred with an evil grin, "To be honest, I never thought you two would actually be able to pull this off. You shall expect your full payment to be wired to your bank account by tomorrow." he then turned to leave, but a confused look suddenly pasted itself onto his face, "Where are Toros and Pablo?"

    Unbeknownst to both Olsen and the scarred man during the exchange, two of the crime boss's henchmen had mysteriously disappeared into the surrounding shadows without a trace to where they might have gone. The crime boss drew his silenced pistol and aimed the muzzle at Olsen's head, "What is the meaning of this?"

    Olsen raised his hands, "I don't know! I had nothing to do with it, I swear!"

    "...but I did."

    Moments after the criminals heard the new voice, the smooth metal of a blade sang through the cold air and sliced through a henchmen's neck, cleaving his head clean off his shoulders. The man's headless corpse hadn't even hit the pavement when there was a sharp report of an Uzi submachine gun and two more thugs collapsed. Another henchman was dispatched as the steel weapon sprouted through his chest from behind, causing the man to scream in pain before the life was violently snuffed out of him. The scarred man and the two mercenaries panicked and rapidly looked around them in horror in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the unseen assailant who had killed most of their group in the blink of an eye. "You did this to my men!" The crime boss cried, turning his weapon back towards Olsen, "You...shall...pay!"

    The cold metal of a muzzle of a gun was suddenly pressed to the back of the scarred man's head and a voice quietly said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

    The man's pistol immediately fell from his hand as he raised them up. "W-What do you want?" the boss stuttered.

    "The case." the voice answered, "Hand it over nice and slow."

    The boss did what the voice wanted, slowly bending down to grab the leather handle and passing it back to the being behind him. "Now," the voice said as several plastic zip-ties morphed out of the darkness and clattered onto the ground, "tie your friends to that lamppost, and then yourself. Don't try anything, or you're going to be in a world of hurt, believe me."

    Once all three of the criminals were tied securely to the pole, the voice spoke again, "Thankfully, you won't have to deal with each other's company for very long. I've already put a call in to your friends over at the police station, who should be stopping by shortly."

    "Who are you?" Olsen demanded.

    "Who I am doesn't matter." the voice replied after a few heartbeats of silence, "It's what I do that's my identity."

    Before the three criminals could question the man any further, he melted into the darkness just as quickly as he had come. Like their attacker had predicted, Olsen heard the wails of police sirens speeding down the road and into the grounds of the abandoned movie theater. "Hey chief, look what we have here." one of the officers called, "Someone served La Ciudad and those two mercenaries up for us on a silver platter."

    "That is strange." the police chief agreed, "Anyway, let's get these scumbags downtown, and put a call into the coroners office to have them clean up this mess."

    The three of them were then cut loose from their bonds, cuffed, and roughly shoved into the back seats of the police cruisers, sulking about their fall from grace the whole way.
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    Meanwhile, on a rooftop nearly a hundred yards away, Nathan watched as the policemen placed the criminals into the back seats of their cars and drove away towards the station. He sighed as the adrenaline that had pumped through him not two minutes earlier and took a seat on the edge as he wiped the excess blood from the blade of his katana. Yet another evildoer was off the streets, at least for a little while he hoped, until the mob paid the crime boss's bail sending that monster back upon the world. Even if the chances of La Ciudad obtaining a get-out-of-jail-free card were still present, it always felt good to know that he made a difference, be it a small one, in the fight against crime. On instinct, Nathan checked his digital watch embedded into his synthetic stealth armor. Two o'clock, he thought, better get back so I can actually get some sleep before work. He stood up and looked towards the sky as a pair of small jet engines morphed out of his back and propelled him high into the night air, back towards the glimmering lights of the city.