Garth read the contract twice. The target was Leon, a man he had served beside for four years. Someone wanted him hurt badly enough to stay away from a shipment. The fee would cover the overdue service on Garth’s military shoulders and leave money for the month.
He could refuse. His employer would send another Sec-Op and remember that Garth had refused. Contracts grew scarce for men who hesitated. Without maintenance, the shoulders that made him worth hiring would begin to seize.
He found Leon outside a food stall. Leon saw him and smiled.
For one step Garth remembered a winter operation, Leon carrying ammunition when Garth’s back had locked, both of them laughing afterwards because neither could stand upright. Then he noticed the stall owner watching. There were witnesses. His employer would know how the job had been done.
Garth made the choice before Leon finished saying his name.
He drove him against the shutter and kept the blows measured. Enough to meet the contract. Nothing that would prevent Leon from understanding who had delivered them. Leon fought back once, recognised Garth’s strength and stopped wasting his own.
“You could have warned me, you fucking Hammer Head” he said. Garth had always hated that nickname, made him seem like some meat head, he kicked Leon one more time in the guts as hard as he could. He slumped silent against the shutters.
Garth checked he was still breathing. The contract was serious damage, not death.
Leon came round momentarily and spat blood at his boots. Garth left him there for the reapers.
At the clinic, Jack fitted the new service parts and made Garth lift both arms against resistance. They moved cleanly. Garth paid, collected his next assignment and went back to the street.
He passed the food stall on his way. Its shutter was open again. Leon was gone, but a dark mark remained where his shoulder had struck the metal. Garth looked at it for a moment. Then he turned up his collar and continued towards the next address.