A Spy?

Icy tendrils of fear threaded down his spine, bursting into his stomach as molten butterflies. Excitement heightened his senses, feeling as though he could account for every atom within his vicinity. These were dangerous marks, not to be crossed. Still, James Tack was a man of passion, passion and compulsion to ensure that no loose ends were left unsevered.
Tonight’s meeting was at the Savoy, London. Tack’s vantage point was inconspicuous, watching as they arrived singly and in twos. To the untrained eye they appeared to be normal business men and women. In this city they could seamlessly blend into the fabric of humanity. No one gave them a second glance. In London everyone walked fast and no one made eye contact.
Meticulously he had laid out the tools of his trade, knowing that each job might be his last. One final check and he was ready to go. Tonight’s target had arrived, leg trailing. All that was required was to catch him alone, in some quiet place, where he could easily slip away. Somewhere that his companion wouldn’t immediately realise something had gone awry. It seemed that fortunate had favoured Tack this time, as his mark cut away from the foyer, electing to see to business.
Sweat dewing his temples he followed, pace sedate as he measured each footfall to muffle his presence on the carpeted hallway. The rest of the world seemed to slow to a crawl, but his heart beat a swift staccato in his chest. There was an optimum distance between the man entering the bathroom and being noticed following him. Too near and he’d be discovered, too far and he’d have more chance to resist. As the door closed in the man’s wake he hastened, deft fingers catching it ajar and easing it open as he silently slid inside.
Striking, Tack slammed the cubicle door open, knocking his target forwards towards the back wall. Stunned, his opponent was slow to respond, turning just quickly enough to see the glimmer of metal before the needle sunk in. The satisfying slump that followed left the target incapacitated on the bathroom floor. Prying the material from the man, it was then just a simple matter then of hefting him onto the toilet seat and closing the door to disguise his presence.

It was hours later that Giovanni Campelione found his countryman, slumped over the toilet. Rage infused him, smashing a meaty fist against the bathroom wall, threatening to crack the tiling. Was this the third this month? The fourth? At his feet was the telltale calling card of his foe, and a neat bundle of clothing. Campelione didn’t need to even read the card; he already knew what it said. “Stay sharp, dress sharper.” Removing the needle from his underling’s neck it was no surprise when the man started to stir.
If only they could find this man, this vigilante, they could undoubtedly make good use of him. Use that didn’t include repairing hemlines or making sure they all had sharply fitting suits.
Until that day though, he had to admit defeat. The Tactical Tailor had triumphed once again.

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