This is a lil prologue. I'll probably post the next chapter in a few days, if people are interested? Plz feed the author, she hungers for reviews.

.

.

Wolf doesn't like assassins.

It comes in the job description, really. His role is to take out life's bad guys, and it's a tough one. He has to make heat of the moment decisions, ones that can get innocent people killed, if he picks the wrong option. So, naturally, he likes it when things are clear cut. Assassins are anything but.

That's part of the reason why he's scowling as he lies flat on the roof of the city building, waiting for the figure to appear in his crosshairs. That, plus the fact that it's hot enough to fry an egg on the sloping metal roof. Bloody assassins. Who else would choose the one week that England happened to be in a heatwave to kill a government official?

"Wolf, come in," says a tinny voice in his ear.

"I'm in position. Can't see a bloody thing."

"You should be able soon," the MI6 liaison informs him. "They've driven him out of the square, so any minute now – hold on—"

Wolf doesn't need to hear any more. A dot has materialised between the thin black lines, moving swiftly across a low rooftop.

"Eyeball on the target."

It's at this point that the expected nerves bubble up in his stomach, but Wolf shoves them down, like he's been doing all his life. This is a contract killer. If anyone deserves a bullet, it's this guy.

"Take the hit," the voice in his ear orders.

Wolf's finger hovers over the trigger. "What if he falls? Don't Six want him alive?"

"Ideally. But they'd rather take him out completely than let him get away."

So this isn't a run-of-the-mill hitman they're dealing with. Wolf wonders idly if it's someone he's come across before. Renowned assassins tend to have short cycles of fame.

He shifts behind the sniper, repositioning. The figure is frustratingly out of reach, shielded by the debris on the roofs in between. He can't risk sending anything tumbling down onto people below, although the area's supposed to be cleared. Come on, Wolf thinks. Move a little left, you bastard...

He scales the roof, glances around, and crouches at the edge. He's not going to—?

He is. He's going to jump, right into Wolf's cross-hairs.

It's over remarkably quickly. The figure leaps, flailing, from one roof to the next. It's actually a pretty good jump. Calculated. He probably would have made it.

But Wolf squeezes the trigger at just the right moment.

The black dot plummets like a swatted fly. After a long, tense moment, there's a grim crackling in Wolf's ear.

"Got him."

.

.

"You did well, Wolf. Especially given the target's reputation."

He's standing in the Sergeant's office at Brecon Beacons. After the jeep pulled into the camp, he barely had time to change shirts before being summoned, leaving the other vehicle that returned from London in the courtyard, flanked by its own small army.

"Thank you, sir," he replies dutifully.

"I'm being serious." The Sergeant has a gleam in his eye. "It was nicely done. Very clean. A few more assignments like that and Special Ops will have their eye on you."

"I, uh, appreciate that, sir. But I wouldn't be interested."

The Sergeant's face clears. "No? Didn't think so. Good. In that case, I'm reassigning you."

"… Sir?"

"The job isn't done yet, Wolf. MI6 want the prisoner interrogated here."

The Sergeant slides a piece of paper across the desk, adorned with hastily-scribbled notes.

Full security

Extract max. info

Name of contractor, middleman, how R came into contact

Any means necessary

Wolf's throat tightens a little at the last line, but he says nothing. This isn't his first rodeo. This line of work, he's discovered over the last few years, is less about training yourself out of normal human reactions to things like torture than building the strength to push through them and get the job done.

"You should know, Wolf, that they've personally requested you for the assignment."

Wolf's head snaps up. The Sergeant reaches for something else within his desk.

"This is the assassin we're dealing with," he says, and slides a second piece of paper over to Wolf.

For a moment, Wolf doesn't recognise him. The photograph is blurry, taken at a distance and not from a particularly great angle. But as his eyes trace the disarmingly young features, they fall into place in his mind, reopening memories he hasn't visited in years. Wolf reels back, staring at the Sergeant in disbelief.

"This is the assassin that we're dealing with," the Sergeant repeats, with meaning. "MI6 need to know who organised today's hit."

"But sir…"

"I know, Wolf. Believe me. Everything that's crossing your mind right went through mine, I guarantee it. But that man?" He jabs his finger at the photograph. (Wolf wonders privately if he's even old enough to be considered as a "man".) "Is not Cub. He's wanted in eight different countries. He's responsible for twice that number of deaths. His file is a bloodbath, and that's just what Six is willing to tell us."

Wolf stays silent, trying to absorb the information. It's a gruesome picture, no doubt about it. But it's worryingly difficult to match with his mental image of Cub. The last time he saw him, he was posing as a schoolboy in the French Alps.

The face on the photograph is someone else, someone wiped of emotion.

There has to more to it than the kid going rogue.

"I know that you have every right to be conflicted over this situation. So I'm going to give you a choice, not an order. I report back to Six in half an hour. There'll be no sanction if I tell them that you can't take the assignment because of emotional complications."

A part of Wolf growls at the implication that he'd ever let emotions get in the way of a mission. But another part of him is longingly entertaining the idea of getting into a car, leaving Wales and forgetting fucking Cub ever existed.

He's an assassin, a voice at the back of his mind whispers. You shot him on the roof, knowing that. Nothing's changed.

"If I don't take the mission…"

"It'll be reassigned."

"By you, sir?"

The Sergeant doesn't miss a beat. "By MI6."

Well, there go his last remaining hopes of disentangling himself from this shit-show. Wolf places the photograph back on the desk, only letting his eyes linger on Cub's profile for a fraction of a second. No matter what the kid might have done, he can't leave him to the wolves. No pun intended.

"You don't have to worry about emotional complications. I'll take the assignment. I'll interrogate him."