A thin plume of cigarette smoke rose into the night, illuminated by the streetlamp and dissipated by the rain that bore down upon the docks of Dublin. A rangy figure stood beneath the light, Gore-Tex coat pulled up around his neck, one leather-gloved hand thrust deep into one of the many polar-fleece pockets. The other hand was raised above his mouth in an attempt to keep the embers in his cigarette alive. His face was contorted into a nasty frown, and his foot tapped impatiently on the concrete pathway.

It was a scene that could have come from any 1950's whodunit movie, even though it lacked the slick jazz music and atmospheric greyscale colour scheme. Of course, this was no movie, and this unsavoury character was – quite unfortunately – not an actor.

Sascha Hill had a criminal record that, if printed out, was probably taller than him. And he was six foot three at his full height; in his full thirty-four years, he had collected an extensive range of charges – from Indecent Exposure at a Public Venue, to Grand Theft Auto, to Murder itself. Considering his family history, it would not really come as a surprise; Caitlin Woodgrove, ex-second-rate assassin, was Sascha Hill's favourite cousin.

Then again, Sascha did only have one cousin.

The truth was that Sascha was a far more accomplished criminal than Caitlin, who resented him because of it. Sascha played big time, and had no tolerance for low quality; he was a part-time gun-runner, part-time smuggler, part-time hit man and full-time bad guy. He owned three warehouses on Dock Fourteen, the only dock where there was a distinct lack of seagulls. There were, however, a lot of empty rounds.

If you wanted a head start in the UK Underground, you made like Hell to Sascha – Mister Hill – and became 'friends' with him. He was the rolodex of crime contacts, and besides, he offered a great interest rate for loans above three thousand pounds.

And whilst he turned down so many late-night meetings with people he trusted more, he was out at Warehouse Three, Dock Fourteen, waiting in the rain for Caitlin. After all, she was family, and blood was certainly thicker than water when it came to his cousin – it didn't really pay to be on the bad side of an insane person.

The ember was close to burning his lips when he heard approaching steps. They were cautious and deliberate, splashing in shallow puddles as their owner worked a way through the less slippery parts. Sascha drew his O'Dwyer VLE out of his shoulder holster and switched the safety off. He pressed his thumb on the adjustment switch and turned down the rounds-per-minute speed to something designed to incapacitate, not kill.

The footsteps drew closer and before long a bedraggled figure came into view, her face a portrait of misery and abhorrence. Sascha half-smirked at her discomfort.

"I hate you," Caitlin snapped at him as she drew into the light, wringing the water out of her jumper sleeves. "You told me fucking Dock Four, I wait there for ten minutes, and then some lout comes out and tells me that Mister Hill is at Dock Fourteen now."

Sascha feigned an air of innocence and surprise. "I don't understand," he stammered, exaggerating his naive tone of voice. "I distinctly told you Dock Fourteen. It must have been the reception."

Caitlin scowled for a second, and kicked him hard in the shin. Sascha stepped backwards, and looked at her with an expression of spiteful disbelief.

"I don't believe it. You're still the twelve year old who tried to bash the shit out of me," he spoke with a tone of superiority that had developed over the years of dealing with underlings.

"You stuffed my head down the toilet, you bastard!" snarled Caitlin, hands firmly placed on her hips, "You thought you were so good, being a full four years, seven months and eight-,"

"-Nine," interrupted Sascha.

"- Nine days, older than me!" Caitlin half spat. Her cousin flicked the butt of his cigarette on the ground at her feet, and smiled slightly.

"Please, before you come inside, stop being a spoilt little girl. I have an O'Dwyer in my hand, a Beretta at my hip and a Colt at my ankle. Don't mess with me." He stared into her eyes for several seconds, before turning smartly on his heel. With a flourish, he withdrew a ring of keys. The locks on the warehouse door were over ten years old, instead of the smart electronic locks on many of the other warehouse doors. It took him several minutes to unlock them all, and as he slid the last bolt out of the way, Caitlin sighed exasperatedly.

"You're an idiot, you know. You're stuck in the nineties still. The only piece of technology you own is –,"

"I own several pieces of technology. I just don't believe in using electronic locks on my warehouses. It doesn't take a genius – or a millionaire – to get hold of an EMP generator, and bang! The locks are gone. I don't like my chances with the police. They find what's in Warehouse Two apart from dried pilchards; I'd be behind bars like that. It's people like you that make gun smuggling so hard. Don't look at me like that," he glanced sideways at Caitlin, who was fighting the urge to hit him, hard, "They've upped the security like anything. All these psychos out to get the general public."