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The Hitman's Hidden Heart

The hooded silhouette handed Dmitri the file, leaving
immediately, just as gracefully as he had arrived. He could have
been hovering, it was so smooth. Dmitri had no idea whose
name and face would be plastered over the paper that he was
holding though he knew that this man was important. The thick
wad of notes that the ghost had slipped in Dmitri‟s pocket was
testament to the high profile of the person. The target.
Dmitri headed home via the subway. The phosphorescent lights
burned through his squinting eyes. The worst thing was the
smell. Boy was it disgusting. A greasy tramp was splayed across
the padded seats opposite, fast asleep. Dmitri was tempted to
toss him out of the doors at the next stop. He resisted, just. The
tramp smelt of liquor, tobacco and shattered dreams, though
Dmitri told himself that he had no care for such a person. Why
should he? Dmitri tried with all his willpower to resist the urge
to sympathise with this man. The training had attempted to beat
any sentiment into a bloody submission though one can never
completely rebuke their reptilian instincts. He left £1 on the
tramps forehead. He didn‟t want to be too nice. Sympathy is a
weakness that would only inhibit his efficiency in the current
profession that he was undertaking. He departed from the
carriage with a heavy step down, checking himself; left, then
right. I was a habit that he had gotten used to. He strutted
toward the exit gates and slipped his ticket through the machine
sand squeezed through the flaps. Dmitri was a big man: 6ft5
and he weighed around 280 pounds. People would have to very
stupid to even begin to think about crossing him. Though his
spectacularly muscular physique couldn‟t hide one thing. The