Nobody knocked. Nobody knew where he was. He'd been certain, careful in his work. He'd had to be. If anyone found him, they'd either been stalking him by satellite, or they had alternate means. Someone, an old ally, should have been able to pass within a mile, and never know how close they'd been. He was paranoid. Too paranoid. It was probably just a hiker. Someone who'd gotten lost out in the woods. Was there a storm coming? Maybe some idiot kid had gotten separated from their group.
He moved silently, trying not to alert the other person that someone was home. Maybe if they thought he was out, they would go away. Or they might break in. The place was obviously wired for power, although the lines were underground. There were telltale signs. He peeked through a peephole after tip-toeing up to the door, careful and quiet.
And motherfucker.
Oh no. No, no. He stepped back, his foot falling heavily. It didn't matter that he was older, oh fuck no. He knew as soon as he knew he would be recognized even without his tell-tale scars. Even with the contacts. Even with the dyed and shorter hair. It was blonde now. He looked his age, in that respect, but his face was too smooth, too few lines to be the fifty year old man they'd be looking for. Even if he felt his age. He stepped beck from the door, fumbling, hands searching. He needed a gun. Where had he put that gun? He tried to listen for it, but it had been ten years since he'd seen hide or hair of Pherson, and the shock of his archnemesis was enough to make him sick.
He didn't say anything. He didn't acknowledge that he was out there. He kept looking through drawers, listening, before his hands closed around the black metal. He hadn't kept one of his own guns around in years. Too easy to figure out who he was. It was just a Beretta, but they shot bullets well enough.
no subject
He moved silently, trying not to alert the other person that someone was home. Maybe if they thought he was out, they would go away. Or they might break in. The place was obviously wired for power, although the lines were underground. There were telltale signs. He peeked through a peephole after tip-toeing up to the door, careful and quiet.
And motherfucker.
Oh no. No, no. He stepped back, his foot falling heavily. It didn't matter that he was older, oh fuck no. He knew as soon as he knew he would be recognized even without his tell-tale scars. Even with the contacts. Even with the dyed and shorter hair. It was blonde now. He looked his age, in that respect, but his face was too smooth, too few lines to be the fifty year old man they'd be looking for. Even if he felt his age. He stepped beck from the door, fumbling, hands searching. He needed a gun. Where had he put that gun? He tried to listen for it, but it had been ten years since he'd seen hide or hair of Pherson, and the shock of his archnemesis was enough to make him sick.
He didn't say anything. He didn't acknowledge that he was out there. He kept looking through drawers, listening, before his hands closed around the black metal. He hadn't kept one of his own guns around in years. Too easy to figure out who he was. It was just a Beretta, but they shot bullets well enough.