The man was much younger than he thought he would be. At most, he would put the man in his late twenties, or very early thirties if he had to push it. His skin was very fair—almost white—and smooth like a baby’s. The face was almost innocent with the cupid’s bow of a mouth, except for the eyes. Ice blue in colour and held a depth of character and resolve at odds with his seemingly youthful countenance.
Brock didn’t like this. Something was off. He didn’t think it was the intel; but likely the source it originated from. Everything obtained and provided to him in the folder was sourced from a third-party. It seemed there were no first-hand accounts about the man. He had decided that he should have a look for himself. It was the only way to be sure.
He wondered what is it about the man that made him draw attention in this manner. Nothing about his life was that remarkable, unless you count being able to down liquor and not ended up drunk as remarkable. He doesn’t work, or at least leave his posh apartment to go to work. He doesn’t seem to have a set routine: in the last two weeks of observing him the man seemed to come and go according to some whimsy, whether out buying groceries at a late-night bodega or a shopping excursion early Monday morning at the trendier spots in the city.
The only two constants of his behaviour would be the nightly excursions to the clubs, and string of men and women he brought home—sometimes single, but there had been three nights where he returned with several partners. One of those nights had been two men, another was a man and three women and the third night had been five men. He had turned off the mic once the noise of their activity confirmed what he had already suspected. Certain things he didn’t really need to hear for intel-gathering.
Even the places the man went for his nightly outings changes from type, settings and crowd. The man had hit the trendy upscale clubs, hole-in-the-wall dives, gay bars, sex clubs, bathhouses. There doesn’t seem to be any defining pattern to the places he went or the type of people he would make contact with.
A movement from the window drew his attention. The man was at the window, nude underneath the carelessly tied bathrobe he had on. Even from where he was situated in the darkened apartment opposite the man he could see the flawless alabaster-like skin. He wondered for a moment what it would feel like to have that flawless smoothness under his hands.
Brock discarded the notion after a few moments, ignoring the stirring in his loins. It’s pointless to dwell on it for too long.
After all, he was supposed to kill the man.