5

Chapter 4

Reputation is everything. Think very carefully before you run your mouth.

Harry paused a block away from Michaels' office, and texted the sound recording of the conversation to Bradshaw, along with instructions to prepare the files just in case. Michaels wasn't stupid, and Harry doubted that his threat would be tested, but in the event that Michaels or anyone else thought he was bluffing, he wanted to be prepared. As Dave always said, never bluff; bluffing is for yappy little pissant wannabes.

Wandering into a nearby café for a sandwich and drink - and answering the inevitable and irritating questions about where his parents were - he sent a second text to another contact. He wanted something special for this job, and Mr South always had the best toys. Chewing slowly, he absently fiddled with his phone, waiting for a response. When it came, Harry wasted no time going to the gentleman's current place of business, excitement churning in his gut.

Strolling confidently past the hulking "assistants" and "private security consultants", he entered the reception room. Understated, elegant, and carefully inoffensive, the space was deceptively pleasant; appearing at first glance to be a comfortable waiting room for business personnel. It was easy to overlook the excessive number of security cameras, the state of the art digital locks on the doors, and the stash of hidden weapons behind the wet bar. There was undoubtedly much more security than was visible, but since Harry was always on his best behaviour he'd thankfully never had reason to encounter it.

"Mr South." Harry nodded respectfully.

"Greetings," the smooth baritone swept over Harry, calm and genteel; perfectly matching the man producing it. He gestured for his assistants to go, leaving him alone with the small boy.

Harry had first met Mr South while he was running with Mike. His quiet manner and obvious skill and intelligence had impressed the older man, and it had been an uncharacteristically short period before he allowed Harry to deal with him without Mike or Dave present. It could even be said that the man had a soft spot for the little boy; though nobody was foolish enough to actually say it. Mr South's employees were known for their discretion, and not just because they preferred to keep their tongues attached.

After Harry had returned to the Dursleys, he had met with Mr South on a semi regular basis, running odd jobs to earn some extra cash, or posing as his grandson when the gentleman had determined a cover was necessary for whatever reason. After one memorable and particularly messy incident where Harry had shot a client who thought to dispose of the smooth arms dealer – saving the man's life – Harry had become something of a favourite. The man had never expressed it, but he viewed the lad as a friend, or perhaps a distant nephew.

To date, he was the only person who knew that the scruffy little boy with no name was actually Vahan and not the employee he pretended to be, as well as the origin of the name. To say he was impressed by the skill and accuracy Harry had displayed that night – he'd seen the aftermath first hand – would be a massive understatement. In fact, he had every intention of recruiting the boy when he was older. He would make an excellent successor.

The older gentleman extended a perfectly manicured hand to Harry, his immaculate black pinstripe suit, charcoal shirt and silver tie shifting flawlessly on his elegant form. He offered a rare smile. An observer might not have noticed the faint movement at all, but to those who knew the man, it was the equivalent of a beaming toothy grin. He had aged extremely well, gracefully frozen at an indeterminate age between forty five and sixty, and the people who'd had long term dealings with him would tell you that he never seemed to age beyond that point. It had been jokingly suggested that the man must be some kind of immortal wizard, especially considering how many assassination attempts the man had survived, oftentimes without even a scratch.

"Vahan."

Harry smiled back and shook his hand professionally. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr South."

"I am always happy to see my most unique client. What can I help you with today?"

"I'm branching out into protection. My client needs a statement made, and I was wondering if you had anything new which might help me with that?"

"As a matter of fact, I was going to call you in to have a look at some new toys. I think I have just the thing you need. Follow me." Turning gracefully on his heel, he made his way to a discretely concealed door at the back of the room.

Harry followed the older gentleman out of the welcoming lounge, down the hallway, and into the large storage room. The walls to each side were filled with boxes of various goods and accessories, each neatly packed and carefully arranged. The back wall was covered in mounted displays, and a waist height glass display cabinet in front of it showed off the newest offerings. A large metal table filled the centre of the room, and on this rested a beautiful piece of shiny that made Harry's verdant eyes gleam with as much lust as a nine year old can muster.

"Oh," he breathed softly, excitement betrayed by the faint trembling in his thin body. "Is that a crossbow?"

Mr South chuckled. "I thought you might like it. This is the PSE TAC 10i Crossbow." He watched as Harry reverently picked it up and examined it. "Hard anodized aluminium for durability. Fully adjustable stock, 3lb trigger, fully integrated quick cock allowing reload in as little as 15 seconds."

Harry had it braced against his shoulder and was sighting down it. "Draw weight?"

"145lb, but with the quick cock integration it's reduced to as little as 4lb. It also has a scope attachment."

"It's light."

"7.8lb, but will shoot a bolt at 350 feet per second."

"Got plenty of bolts in stock, I assume?"

Mr South smirked, another faint twitch of his lips. "I thought it might be to your liking, so I laid in a few."

"I'll take two, and a hundred bolts. I'm sure I'll be requiring more at a later date."

Nodding, Mr South proceeded to show Harry a few more weapons, selling him another four handguns, six knives of various designs, ammunition for his pre-existing collection, and a box of hand grenades by the time they finished.

"Our usual method of delivery I assume?"

At Harry's agreement and payment, the two men parted ways.

It was ten pm, and Harry had set up outside the target house. He'd scoped it out thoroughly, memorising the floor plan and the locations of his targets, and scouted for any surveillance or mobile guards.

Always do your recon. Going in blind will get you killed, and then where would you be?

Sighting carefully through his scope, he lined up his shot through the open window.

Targets One and Two were sprawled on the couch, watching television. Harry mentally tsked at how oblivious they were to potential threats, and how badly they'd arranged the room to minimise them.

Loosing his bolt, he smiled when it passed through the window screen with a whisper and impaled Target One through the throat, pinning him to the back of the (perfectly hideous) floral sofa. Target Two jumped to his feet, looking around wildly for the threat while ignoring his friend as he gurgled, choking on his own blood.

Harry fought down a giggle at Target Two's bewildered expression. The night was pleasantly cool, and the sound of crickets and distant traffic made an enjoyable backdrop for his work. He wondered if he should get a pizza on his way back to the Lab afterwards.

Quickly reloading, he loosed the second bolt, catching Target Two through the eye and flinging the now dead body back into his paralysed friends lap. Jumping up, Harry crouched and sprinted silently to a new position on the other side of the house, reloading as he moved.

There were four targets, and Harry knew the next would be sleeping in the bedroom. He'd seen the paunchy man lie down earlier, and had heard the snores within minutes. Lining up his shot, Harry snorted silently, amused when the bolt went from the soft underchin and up into the man's skull, poking out the top slightly like some kind of oversized pointy metal pimple. Instantly fatal, Harry noted with a smirk. God he loved this crossbow! Maybe he could get some bolts with an exploding tip? The splatter would be awesome!

'Three down, one to go.' He fought the urge to hum in contentment.

One more shift of position, and Harry's good mood dissipated. The last target should have been in the office, but wasn't anywhere in sight. He grumbled mentally, it had been going so smoothly, too.

A quick scout around the house showed that the final target wasn't visible through any of the windows. That meant that he was in the room with the Bradshaw's. Harry bit back a curse, unloading the crossbow and stashing it and the remaining bolts under a bush. He'd hoped to avoid a face to face confrontation, but he'd come prepared, knowing it was a possibility.

Screwing the silencer onto the barrel of his handgun, Harry silently picked the lock and cautiously made his way up the hall, clearing each of the rooms as he passed. Finally making it to the room in which the hostages were kept, Harry stopped and took a deep breath.

This was it. He'd wanted to field test his skills, and now he would get the chance. Admittedly, he hadn't intended to pit his not-quite-nine-year-old self against a fully grown thug (he could practically hear Dave clucking in irritation), but hey, at least he'd get to see if he was actually any good. Silver linings and all that, right?

He winced in anticipation. This was going to hurt.

Quickly patting himself down, he checked his weapons were in place. Hunting knife on each forearm hidden inside his baggy clothes, check. Small stiletto blade in his boot, check. Garrotte wire coiled in his pocket (he really did need a better way of concealing and carrying that), check. Silenced pistol, check.

He looked at the doorframe, noting the screw marks. They'd reversed the door, making it open into the room rather than against the wall. He would have to open the door fully and enter the room before he could even see in. He was grudgingly impressed; apparently they weren't as stupid as they first appeared. Taking a deep breath, he threw open the door and dashed forward, crouching slightly.

A fraction too slow, he grunted as the door was kicked into him, knocking him bodily into the wall and jamming him between the two solid objects, the handle hitting him behind his ear. His ribs creaked in protest, forcing the air from his lungs and knocking the pistol from his grasp. He barely noticed it skidding under the bed in front of the door, too focused on trying to draw breath and blink away the black spots dancing in front of his eyes. Bloody buggering fuck that hurt!

Before he had time to recover his balance, he was grabbed by the hair and thrown into the room, landing on the floor with a thud. Looking up, he saw Target Four standing over him calmly, pointing a large handgun at his head.

Target Four was an exceptionally average man. Average height, unremarkable sandy brown hair, medium brown eyes, no distinguishing scars or marks, and bland features melding together to make a man who was completely forgettable. If Harry hadn't noticed the fighters knuckles and experienced movements, he would have completely discounted the man, dismissing him from mind immediately. Dangerous indeed.

"And who might you be, hm?" The man's voice was as unremarkable as the rest of him. He was so bland it was creepy.

"T-tiny, sir!" Harry whimpered, trying to seem as innocent and unthreatening as possible.

The thug hummed thoughtfully, staring down at the cowering child. "Nice work outside with the crossbow, by the way."

Harry had a moment of surprise before he managed to blank his expression. Fuck, how had he missed the security cameras? He could have sworn there weren't any! No wonder Target Four was ready and waiting for him.

"Oh, don't feel bad. The cameras are well hidden. I watched you check, you were unusually thorough. Whoever taught you did a good job." Four sounded smug, and faintly patronising. Harry wanted to bite him.

Deciding he may as well stop the pathetic act, Harry slowly pushed himself to his feet and stood calmly. Tilting his head slightly, he eyed the older man before glancing around the room.

In line with the door was a rickety single bed with a metal frame, and a heavy recliner in the far corner. Beyond that, the room was depressingly bare. The Bradshaw's were cowering on the bed, Mrs Bradshaw tightly clutching her barely five year old son in her lap. Returning his gaze to Four, Harry quirked an eyebrow.

"Now what?"

Four chuckled. "Now you tell me who you really are, and who you work for."

Heaving a sigh and playing up his petulance, Harry crossed his arms. Slipping his fingers unseen through the slits in the seams, he wrapped his hands around the handles of his hunting knives. "Vahan," he stated flatly.

Four frowned, but before he could process Harry's meaning, Harry had pulled his blades free and lunged, scoring a few shallow but painful cuts on the older man's hands and arms before being forced back by a hard kick to the stomach. His attack had the intended effect though, the thug dropped his gun, and Harry stepped quick to kick it under the bed with his own.

Four snarled, shrugging off the wounds and stepped forward, crowding Harry back towards the corner. He kicked at him again causing Harry to twist out of the way to avoid a broken knee. Using his momentum to carry him forward, Four hooked his foot around the small boy's ankles and shoved, sending him sprawling.

Harry cursed mentally and covered his head as kicks and punches rained down on him with devastating force. He rolled, trying to get clear, and managed to partially dodge a kick that would have caved his ribs. The added force from the glancing blow helped roll him clear, and he popped to his feet, slashing at Four's legs. The wounds were shallow but bled profusely, staining the man's pants and floor a deep scarlet.

You just need one good cut.

Harry heard Dave whispering in his head, calming him from his near panic, walking him through the anatomy.

The thug threw a right hook towards Harry's head. Had it connected Harry would have been out for the count with a severe concussion, but he simply swayed backwards and raised his blade, slashing the wrist as it swept past. Four stared in surprise as his hand became useless, tendons severed. His distraction cost him, as Harry pressed his advantage and stepped to the side, using the movement from the punch to guide the arm further past the centreline of Four's body. Twisting to drive a bony shoulder into the older man's ribs, Harry stabbed the leg next to him, knife unerringly seeking the femoral artery.

Vasospasm can reduce or even stop the bleeding. The Ghurkers would twist the knife so that it destroyed the arterial wall and made sure they bled out. Useful trick, worth remembering.

Twisting the knife as he jerked it free, Harry ducked under the elbow being thrown at his head and jammed his second knife into his targets gut, just below the sternum.

Hepatic artery. Not always easy to hit, but even if you miss it, you'll still do some damage.

Green eyes glittering with excitement, Harry looked into his victim's eyes and reversed the direction of the knife, dragging it down with his body weight as he sank to one knee, razor sharp steel slicing open the abdominal wall with ease.

The shocked look on Four's face might have made Harry giggle, had he not been more focused on getting the hell out of arms reach, just in case Four turned out to be one of those crazy commando types that wouldn't go down without taking you with them.

Four looked from his hand, to his stomach, then met Harry's wary green gaze. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth as if to ask a question. As his vision darkened, he clutched at the wound, trying in vain to keep his organs inside before collapsing on the floor.

Glancing at his watch, the blood drenched child raised an impressed eyebrow. "Five minutes. I did better than I'd expected." Harry wiped his blades clean on an unsplattered part of Four's shirt, then tucked the knives away and fished his pistol out from under the bed, leaving Four's behind for whoever had the fun job of cleanup.

"Stay here. I'll be back shortly," he ordered the terrified woman, staring at her until she nodded frantically.

Walking into the lounge room, he heard a faint wheezing and choking noise. He zeroed in on Target One.

"Oh," he exclaimed softly. "You're still alive!" He blinked angelically. "Let me help you with that."

Bradshaw clutched his wife and son to him, sobbing in relief. Vahan had delivered on his promise, and despite their obvious terror, they were otherwise unharmed.

Peering over his wife's shoulder, he smiled gratefully at the tiny boy who had delivered them.

"Thank you."

Harry nodded stiffly, watching the reunion with an unreadable expression.

"I'll be by your office next week."

Bradshaw nodded and gently led his family into the warm home behind them.

Harry limped into the Lab, carefully putting away the duffle bag with his crossbow and spare bolts. Opening it, he pulled out the plastic bag with his bloody clothes and shuffled into the laundry, tossing them into the machine and setting it to a deep wash. After a moment's thought, he stripped off his current clothing and threw that in too. He should probably burn them, but he didn't have an incinerator set up. He made a mental note to have one installed.

Making his way gingerly into the bathroom, he turned on the shower and examined himself in the mirror while waiting for it to heat up.

He was a mess, but not as bad as he'd thought. He had livid black and purple bruises up both sides of his ribs, and a rounder one partially hidden by his hair where the door handle had hit him. Assorted other scrapes and bruises littered his body, evidence of the beating he'd taken before he'd managed to end the fight.

He pursed his lips, annoyed. Even taking into account the age, size, and experience difference, he was unimpressed with his performance. The margin of his victory was too small to be acceptable.

Stepping under the shower, he carefully washed, gently soaping and rinsing off. He grunted in pain when he raised his arms to wash his hair, tender ribs protesting, but he persisted, washing the messy raven locks twice just to prove a point.

Drying off, he hunted around for some spare clothes. Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he managed to dig out some rags he'd meant to throw out. Dressing reluctantly in threadbare and hole ridden boxers and a similarly ratty shirt, he tossed his freshly washed clothes into the dryer before slipping into the cot bed, pulling the light blanket over him. It was insufficient for the weather, but it was all he had. When he'd furnished the house, he hadn't anticipated spending much time in it, so had kept to the basics, not wanting to waste money on things that would be lost when the lab was eventually discovered.

Shivering, he huddled in a tired and miserable ball and drifted into a restless sleep.