Wrong Target

Alex slipped into the narrow alley, his breath clouding in the cold air. A few meters in, he spotted the bench. A man sat hunched over, his face obscured by the shadow of a hood. His hands gripped a battered briefcase like it held his life.

"Sorry I'm late," Alex said, settling cautiously beside him.

The man didn’t respond.

"Look at me when I’m talking to you," Alex pressed, his voice tentative.

"Don’t," the man snapped, his voice low and sharp. "We speak like this."

Alex stiffened, unease settling over him. The man’s tone didn’t match someone offering work—it reeked of command, of control. But Alex said nothing, swallowing the instinct to walk away.

"Never keep me waiting again, Alpha," the man said. His voice carried a quiet menace that froze Alex in place. "One chance. If you fail, you’ll pay for it. Understand?"

A cold knot tightened in Alex’s chest. Alpha? He wasn’t who this man thought he was. But saying so now would only unravel something worse.

The man unclasped the briefcase and withdrew a slim envelope, handing it over with deliberate precision. "Inside, you’ll find two things. Half your payment—the rest comes after the job’s done. And a photograph of your next target."

"Target?" Alex echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Harrison Lake. Multimillionaire. We know he was in Moscow this morning at 10:00 A.M." The man’s words carried the weight of certainty, of someone accustomed to giving orders.

Alex’s hand trembled as he held the envelope. "You want me to kill him?"

The man’s head turned sharply, and in one fluid motion, a cold muzzle pressed against Alex’s abdomen. The world seemed to narrow to the barrel of the gun and the man’s piercing gaze.

"Who are you?" the man hissed.

"I—I'm just a guy who was in the wrong place," Alex stammered. His mind raced, searching for a way out.

The man didn’t lower the gun.

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"Your confidence is amusing. Let’s see how far it goes. Move."

Alex obeyed, his legs heavy as he walked toward the van parked under the dim light of a streetlamp. The man followed close, the concealed gun pressing against his back.

The van door slid open, revealing a haze of cigarette smoke and half a dozen rough-looking men. They stared at Alex with the dull disinterest of predators who’d seen it all before.

"Get in," the man ordered.

Alex hesitated, his feet rooted to the ground.

A voice sliced through the tension. "What’s going on here?"

Alex turned toward the source. A police officer stood a few paces away, his gaze bouncing from Alex to the man, then to the group in the van.

"Officer," the man said smoothly, his free hand raising in mock surrender. "Just a bunch of friends heading to a party."

The officer’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Alex—sweat beading his forehead, his wide, darting eyes betraying silent panic.

"Hands where I can see them," the officer ordered, his voice firm.

The man’s expression hardened. His hand moved too fast—a gunshot cracked through the night, missing the officer by inches. Alex reacted on instinct, his foot connecting with the man’s knee. The man staggered, his gun clattering to the ground.

The van screeched off into the darkness, its taillights disappearing as the officer drew his revolver.

"Stay down!" the officer barked, firing a single shot into the man’s leg as he tried to crawl away. The man cried out, collapsing in a heap.

The alley fell silent save for the distant hum of the city. Alex stood frozen, his heart hammering. The officer glanced at him, his face a mix of suspicion and concern.

"Are you hurt?" the officer asked.

Alex shook his head, his voice caught somewhere in his throat.

"Good," the officer said. "Because you have a lot of explaining to do."