Damn it was hot. It was a sticky Sunday summer morning in Hackney. The birds had long since given up flying in the polluted soup that surrounded them and had taken to wheezing lazily in the trees. Sweat clung to the skin and the latest iteration of hipsters clung, exhausted and sticky, to their frappe lattes. Various cafes had flouted council jobsworths and put out cheap plastic chairs and cheap plastic tables onto the already crowded pavement for who ever found peace sitting in the street with buses and trucks thundering by.
The man who called himself Hugo Reyes sat alone on such a cheap plastic chair at a cheap plastic table with a cheap but well-made frappe latte but peace was the furthest thing from his mind. Leaner meaner and harder than anyone else for a square mile he barely attracted a glance slumped in ill fitting hipster garb, pork pie hat tipped to the left. El Hombre alias Hugo had taken great pains to look like a bored Spanish twenty something in East London. It goes without saying he was anything but.
He used the reflection of an empty shop across the road to watch the killer standing behind him. He watched the tall thin man with the fat heavy bag as he cupped one hand over his left ear and held his smartphone up to his right. Head down concentrating trying to hear something infuriating, perhaps even disturbing. Hackney was more cosmopolitan than the United Nations even on a slow day so neither of them stood out. The man who called himself Hugo Reyes wished he hadn’t left the house without the folding ceramic karambit knife he usually kept next to his balls but It was too hot today. He sweated so hard just getting dressed it kept sliding out of his shorts. He stifled a chuckle. Damn it was hot.