White Fox. In but mere moments, the assassin would be in his office and, suddenly Mr. Peyton felt deep in his gut the sudden dawning realization that he was afraid.
The rumours were always terrible; he knew full-well that commissions like these were underground, unrecorded, unregulated, and all other sorts of U words that he was not particularly fond of at all. But, the anticipation had made this real. The stint would happen, and White Fox would pull it and he would be the one writing the check.
The click came (open), then the dragging of door across carpet, and then click again (close).
Bracing himself, Mr. Peyton turned... And, stopped.
This face was not at all what he had expected. There was a quality of smoothness to it, a rare sort of simultaneous plainness and regality and youth. This boy was not as young as any of his Mr. Peyton’s own sons, but he was young enough to cause a brow to raise. Office joke. Hilarious. Ha ha. This couldn’t possibly be White Fox—that fact was clear.
Mr. Peyton made a move to voice his concern, to escort the boy out of his office but before he could, he noticed this time the look in that face-- that unwaveringly cool gaze, those shineless eyes.
Mr. Peyton understood, and the bile-taste of fear came back once more.
No, this was not a joke. White Fox was young, but that really didn't matter to begin with.
