Chapter Text
Dean took a sip from his water bottle. He’d set up an hour ago and now he was just waiting for his target to make an appearance. Lifting the stock of his M40 so the butt rested squarely against his shoulder, he peered through the scope into an apartment in the high rise across from him. Still no sign of Walker. Just the formulaic living room with its off-white paint job, the only sign that someone lived there the drab brown couch and chairs. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought as he checked his watch for the hundredth time.
The waiting had always been the hardest part of the job. Even when it was only a couple of hours. The quiet left too much time for Dean to think. He didn’t want to think. Thinking usually led to feeling, and he didn’t want any of that. The time ticked slowly by.
At least now he could sit comfortably in a chair, rifle propped up by its bipod on the table instead of the endless discomfort of the desert heat in Afghanistan. Good times. He smirked to himself, sitting back and taking another drink. There were lots of pros and cons to being a freelancer, but the comfort level was high on Dean’s list of up-checks. Not to mention the fact that no one ever shot back at him in Boston. Well… almost never. And the money wasn’t bad, either.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and Dean pulled it out and answered it since there didn’t seem to be too much else going on. He could use the distraction.
“Hey, Jo,” he said with a smile.
“ Hey, how’s it going?”
“It’s going. Just waiting for the opportunity to arise.” Dean kept his eyes trained on the window across the street as he spoke.
“ Hey, listen, a job came through the Network. Might be something big. ” She sounded excited, and more than a little apprehensive.
“Good. You gonna take it?” It was clear she was leading up to something and Jo normally wasn’t the type to beat around the bush, so her hesitation seemed out of place.
“ It’s for you, Dean. He asked for you by name.”
Dean sat up straight in his chair. “What? He asked for Dean Winchester? Who the hell was it?”
“ Don’t be an idiot. Not your real name. He asked for The Hunter. A Russian going by the name Novak. ”
He relaxed tremendously. Of course, they hadn’t asked for him by his real name. Why had he even thought that? Hell, Sam was the only person outside of the Network that knew what he did for a living. “Russian, huh? Any idea who he wants to pop?”
“ No. He just wants to set up a meeting.”
“Fine. Thursday at the usual spot.”
“ I’ll send the message.”
“Okay. Talk soon.” Dean ended the call and tucked his phone into his pocket without another thought. Dean was very good at what he did, and jobs were not hard to come by. Still, it wasn’t very often someone requested him by name. The Network was huge, and there was plenty of talent to choose from. He shook it off and went back to watching for his target.
Even without the rifle, Dean could see movement through the high window. He leaned forward to use the scope for a closer look. A tall black man walked through the parlor, dropping a pile of envelopes on the coffee table before he was out of sight again. He settled into his position, counting as he slowed his breathing and waited for Walker to appear in front of the window again.
In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.
The target was back in the living room, and Dean lined up his shot, zeroing in on the center of the man’s chest. In, two, three, four. His finger dropped from its resting position on the side of the guard to the trigger. Hold, two, three, four. He tightened his finger, preparing to squeeze off the well-aimed shot. Out, two… The target turned, and Dean saw a little girl run into his arms. Fuck. They parted and Dean had a clear shot again, but he sighed and released the trigger, sitting back. He might be a cold-blooded assassin, but there was no way he’d do that to a kid. Watching your father die, especially like that, would be traumatic in the extreme.
“Gordon Walker lives to die another day,” Dean muttered to himself. He sighed again as he broke the rifle down and packed the pieces carefully away into the case. The clasps snapped shut, and he carried the whole thing by its handle and headed out the door.
It was unpleasant being called from his home this late at night to deal with business problems, so Castiel was already unhappy when he parked his car behind the Cafe St. Petersburg. He checked the magazine for his GSH18 before sliding back into place and tucking the pistol into his waistband. Running a hand through his already disheveled hair, Castiel sighed and got out of the car. His tan trench coat flapped out behind him as he entered the kitchen through the back door of the restaurant, he ignored the busy work of the dishwashers and cooks as they went about their night. There was shouting back and forth in English and Russian, and people occasionally carrying food out of the kitchen or trays full of empty dishes and cups back in.
Castiel narrowly avoided the cooler door as an employee he didn’t recognize swung it open and exited the walk-in without even looking. The door shut on its own, and he moved past it and through the swinging panels that led to the dining area. Down a small corridor to the right, past the bathrooms and around a corner, he came upon a large man in a relatively plain black suit. It was one of the Obshchak’s security specialists. The man stood next to a locked door, not allowing entrance to anyone that didn’t belong.
“Dobryi vecher, Gospodin Novak,” he said, stepping aside.
“Good evening,” Castiel responded, preferring to speak English even if it was with the accent left from his childhood in Eastern Europe. He pushed through the door, revealing only a dimly lit stairwell leading down to the basement. Festive noise and music floated up from the basement as he took the steps two at a time into the hidden casino. People sat around card tables, gambling their money away, drinks flowed freely, and Castiel’s Angels dotted the room, working the rich men, and women, out of whatever cash they didn’t spend at the tables.
It was good to see that his little club was doing well, but often that was what brought troublemakers to his door. That certainly appeared to be the case that night. Castiel let himself through another door that led into a small room, mostly bare except the monitors mounted on one wall. They displayed the casino from different angles, intending to keep the patrons and workers safe, as well as ensure everyone’s money stayed where it belonged. Two more of Mikhail’s security operatives stood near the far wall of the room, watching over a person that was tied to a metal chair just in front of them.
The man—Castiel couldn’t help but think of him as a boy, though their age difference couldn’t have been much—had already been roughed up, judging by the swelling around his eye and an open cut on his cheek. His blond hair somehow still seemed perfectly placed.
“Gentlemen.” Castiel nodded to the men standing guard. He crouched in front of the disheveled, bloodied prisoner and looked at the fear reflected in his pale blue eyes. “So, I hear you like to touch things that do not belong to you.” The kid shook his head but didn’t speak. “Tell me your name, boy.”
“Brady. It's Tyson Brady,” he replied, voice shaking. He was clearly terrified, and Castiel wished for a moment that this young man had been cheating at cards, or even stealing money. Things might end differently, then.
“Tell me, Brady, did my Angel do that to your face?” He reached up, tracing the slash on his prisoner’s cheek. He nodded. “And why did she cut you?”
“Because I…” Brady seemed to be having some difficulty getting the words out.
“Because you… what, Mr. Brady?” Castiel grabbed him by the chin, forcing the captive to look him in the eye. “I already know the answer, so you might as well admit to it. Confession is good for the soul.”
“I tried to force myself on her.” Brady did not appear to feel relieved by the confession. It made nothing easier for Castiel as he rose, towering over the fool who had thought to take advantage of one of his Angels. He reached into his coat, pulling his pistol from his waistband with one hand.
“Perhaps God will forgive you,” Castiel said as he pointed the gun at Brady’s forehead, “but I will not.” There was a loud crack as he pulled the trigger, but he was unconcerned it would cause any disturbance to the casino on the other side of the door. The room was very well soundproofed and for exactly this reason.
“Clean up this mess.” Castiel sighed, wishing there was some way to avoid this kind of violence.