Chapter 131: The Hitman

{I'm not afraid of werewolves or vampires or haunted hotels. I'm afraid of what real human beings do to other real human beings. ~ Unknown }

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On a small hill 1200 meters from the pack's gathering, a man lay down on a plastic sheet, his eye behind the lens of a Barrett M82 sniper rifle. Clint was aiming his gun at the Cross girl, his breathing steady as his mark continued to chat to many others of her kind. He could hear what they were saying from the bugs he scattered around the woods.

Mace, another hunter, was sitting next to him behind a rock, with his back to the target. He bit into some crisps incredibly loudly, crinkling the plastic wrapper as his hand shoved further into it greedily for the next crisp. He was a fucking slob. Clint inched away from him, disgusted by the sounds of his eating and the crumbs dropping on the ground. 

He could do this all by himself; he knew the Silver Crescent Pack estate and territories like the back of his hand. Which was how they were able to sneak across without alerting the pack. They hid their scent by coating themselves in vinegar, something he still found bizarre but worked every time. It was either too potent for their heightened sense of smell, or it completely covered their scent as though they were never there.

But Silas gave him orders to bring Mace along. He was only there to serve as a body. Someone that, if they did get caught, Clint would use as bait while he escaped. 

His job wasn't to take their Luna out. Silas wanted her and sent him to spy on her. To watch her routine, but so far, she had none. Which was irritating; everyone had habits. Work 9 to 5, gym 6 to 7, grab food or eat dinner with the family, Wednesday's go to ma's, Friday's hang out at a bar, that sort of shit. He knew her routine would be different; she was a fucking mutt. But he had to be patient. He had only been there a few days.

Mace was making it harder than it needed to be, though. He was incredibly irritating; even his breathing made him want to stab him. He glanced his eyes at the man, an evil glint behind them as he visualised him doing just that. When Mace looked back at him, his eyes slid back to focusing on his target. 

He clicked his tongue, still feeling his gaze on his features. Mace was taking the fun out of his investigation. Clint knew he was fucked up in the head; he enjoyed watching his prey, and unlike her parents, he had to hold back and not kill the Cross girl this time. The only way he refrained from his need to kill was that he reminded himself they had no chance at demolishing the creatures if she died.

Creatures. Clint scoffed and raised a brow when he saw one of the pack members shift into a gigantic wolf and ran off. Even now, he still felt odd seeing that picture. He remembered the first time Silas approached him. Clint knew nothing about this world, he hadn't long got back from the war overseas, and he felt at a loss of what to do.

He was a sick bastard, and he needed to either get help (not a fucking chance) or fall into his deep dark desires, desires he knew would be his downfall. One where he knew the endgame would be his imprisonment for murdering innocents. When Clint was away, he quenched his thirst for blood but as soon as he was back to civilisation, he wanted to go back. 

But his psyche assessment condemned him too unstable. After ten fucking years of being the government's hitman and they just threw him out, gave him some money, told him to live comfortably, and keep his trap shut. It wouldn't have been long until a hit would be sent out on him; he knew too much. 

But one night, Silas found him in quite a compromising position. Clint had given in to his urges after a few months of keeping them at bay by working out and doing all violent sports such as boxing. The boss came into his room at perfect timing. It was almost as if he knew when to make an entrance. Clint had someone strapped to a chair, his throat slit open, and his intestines falling out of his gut. 

CRUNCH!

Clint released his breath and looked at Mace irritably. 

"What?" He said with his mouth full of crisps.

"You are meant to keep a lookout while I observe," Clint said through gritted teeth.

"I am. I just got hungry. These stakeouts are a bitch," Mace grubby hands went back into the crisp packet. Clint didn't know how he was in shape still. He was a small man full of muscles and seemed to always eat shit. 

"That… is not food."

"If it's not food, then how come I'm eating it.." Mace replied with a grin.

Clint glanced back through the lens as he crinkled his nose in distaste, "It is not nutritional.. you are just putting junk in your body," He replied stiffly.

"You need to loosen up, Clint. Here.. Have a crisp."

"No." 

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"Seriously, go onnn…."

Clint snapped, and the next thing he knew, he had his knife pressed against Mace's throat while his eyes remained on his target. "Next time, you piss me off. I WILL slit your throat.."

Mace gulped as the dagger lifted away from his Adam's apple and slid back into Clint's sheath on the side of his black combat trousers. 

Ah, silence. 

The blood that rushed to his head subsided along with his pounding headache. But now Clint had an itch, one that he couldn't scratch, lest he fucks up the mission, which he never does. His finger on the trigger finger wavered as he watched the white-haired beauty telling off the shapeshifter. His orders were to incapacitate the girl, not kill. Maybe he could kill Mace, but Silas would be angry and cause him a headache. 

His cell vibrated in his pocket, so he clicked on it and listened through his earpiece. He knew who it would be, there were only a few select numbers on this phone, and nobody got in touch with him- he was the one to contact them. 

"Clint"

"How is my lovely Aila doing?" Silas asked with a smirk in his singsong voice.

"She just gave a speech to the pack. It seemed she had a few enemies in the pack who wanted her dead. They are also having a funeral in a few days for the dogs that died," Clint replied without any emotion in his voice. 

"Ah, yes. Lydia. She did come in handy, so hell-bent on becoming Luna that she betrayed her pack. Shame she died; it would have been beneficial on this mission-"

Silas pulled away from the phone; there was some shuffling and a few groaning noises. Nothing new to hear. Clint moved his gun slightly so he could follow where Aila was walking to. Back to the mansion, it seemed. Hmmm. He was set up quite nicely where he was and didn't want to risk getting too close. 

Their pack was huge, and although he knew their patrol routes now, he still didn't want to get close. He had a bug in the house and an informant; it would have to do for now.

Silas came back on the phone, slightly breathless; Clint knew what he was doing. His son was having the living shit kicked out of him. Normally he and Connor would volunteer for such a job; it was, after all, his forte, torturing people. He knew how to torture someone without killing them, and he enjoyed the skill and precision of using a blade against someone's skin.

But, he had a job to do here, and it seemed Silas wanted to knock Chase about for a while. He snapped back to the present, where Aila walked further away from them. For a mutt, she had such smooth skin, the skin he wouldn't mind leaving a mark on. 

"Give them those days for the funeral," Silas grunted. Bringing Clint's attention back to the man in charge.

"Boss, are you going soft on me?" He jested.

Silas chuckled darkly. No one was allowed to talk to him in such a way. But Clint had served him for years now; he was his right-hand man, invariably chosen for all the gruesome jobs he loved. So he could get away with a joke here and there. Not that Clint cared if Silas' flipped the switch and lost his shit at him. He enjoyed any form of beating; pain and suffering were his bliss. 

"Not at all.. I want NOTHING to go wrong. I will check in on you before arriving. I want to surprise our girl and give her her presents." Silas' smirk could be heard through the phone. Clint and Silas were very much looking forward to seeing Aila. He wasn't there in the short time the Hunters Association had her, but if he was, there would have been no chance of her escaping. 

Clint chuckled, "Very well." He hung up and pulled back from his position on the ground, dusting off the imaginary dirt he believed he had on him. He hated dirt and germs. In fact, he was also a clean freak, but like Mace, he had to put up with it. But it didn't mean he wouldn't scrub at his hands with soap and alcohol gel.

"What er- what did the boss say?" Mace asked him hesitantly. The fear in his voice made him smile.

"Give it a few days, then we make our move."

"Will it work?" 

"Oh, it will, Mace. There's a lot of blood on her hands now. This will push her over the edge."

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