Weasel looked at Noah with the weary expression of someone who'd watched too many people make increasingly questionable life choices.
"Your documentation is ready," he said, sliding a manila folder across the bar. "New identity, complete with driver's license, social security number, medical records, the works. Just don't attract IRS attention—they're the only government agency that actually scares people in this business."
Noah opened the folder and examined his new identity with genuine appreciation. Noah Malachi, age 18, born in Portland, Oregon. Clean credit history, no criminal record, legitimate enough to pass casual inspection.
"This is solid work," Noah said, pocketing the documents. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet—wait until you see the bill," Weasel replied. "Speaking of which, how's your friend Wade doing? Haven't seen him around lately."
"Last I heard, he was following leads on Francis's operation," Noah said. "Lots of blood-soaked clothing and creative violence, according to your sources."
Weasel nodded knowingly. "Makes sense. Two months of systematic torture tends to leave people with unresolved anger issues. Can't say I blame him for wanting payback."
Noah understood the sentiment better than most. Even with his supernatural healing abilities and growing confidence, he still woke up some nights remembering Francis's voice, the sterile smell of the operating room, the helpless rage of being completely powerless.
Wade was handling his trauma through violence. Noah was handling his through... well, also violence, but with better methodology.
"Anyway," Noah said, eager to change the subject, "I need more contracts. Preferably ones involving organized crime figures who need permanent career counseling."
Weasel's expression shifted to apologetic. "That's going to be a problem."
"Why?"
"Supply and demand," Weasel explained. "You've been completing contracts faster than we can acquire them. Most clients don't have ongoing grudges against multiple gang members—they just want one specific problem solved."
Noah felt his enthusiasm deflate like a punctured balloon. He'd been counting on a steady stream of targets to complete his Ultimate Marksman achievement, but apparently even the criminal underworld had limitations on available work.
"How many do you need?" Weasel asked.
"Eight more qualified targets," Noah admitted.
"Eight? Jesus, Noah, what exactly are you trying to unlock? The ability to shoot around corners?"
If only you knew, Noah thought. "Something like that. Look, just give me whatever gang-related contracts you have available. I'll make it work."
Weasel sorted through his black cards and selected several. "These are higher difficulty than your usual work. Multiple targets, better security, actual professionals instead of street-level thugs."
Noah examined the cards, looking for something that would provide both challenge and opportunity. One caught his attention immediately—a drug trafficking operation using a frozen meat warehouse as their distribution center.
"This one," Noah said, pulling out the card. "Twenty-million-dollar transaction, multiple criminal organizations involved. Sounds perfect."
"You sure? This isn't a single target you can corner in an elevator. This is a full-scale criminal enterprise with serious firepower."
"Which means serious criminals," Noah replied. "The kind who definitely meet achievement criteria."
"Achievement criteria?"
"Personal standards for target selection," Noah clarified quickly. "I'm very particular about the quality of people I eliminate."
Weasel gave him a look that suggested he was beginning to question Noah's sanity. "Right. Well, if you're determined to take on a drug cartel, you'll need better equipment than a stolen pistol."
"What did you have in mind?"
"C4 explosives, for starters. Nothing says 'professional problem-solver' like the ability to redesign architecture."
Later that night, Noah crouched on a rooftop overlooking a nondescript warehouse in Brooklyn's industrial district. Through his enhanced vision, he could see armed men moving around a heavy truck, unloading automatic weapons with the casual efficiency of people who'd done this many times before.
Russian mob, Noah identified, recognizing the body language and equipment from his previous encounters. Probably the same organization I've been systematically dismantling one briefcase transaction at a time.
The men entered a warehouse that, according to Weasel's intelligence, served as a distribution center for frozen meat with some very unusual stuffing. A twenty-million-dollar drug transaction was scheduled for tonight, involving multiple criminal organizations and enough felony violations to satisfy even Noah's supernatural achievement system.
Perfect, Noah thought, checking his newly acquired explosives. Time to provide some market disruption.
He made his way down from the rooftop and approached the warehouse, moving with the confidence of someone who'd discovered that bullets were more of an inconvenience than a genuine threat. The guard left with the truck looked bored, smoking a cigarette and probably wishing he was anywhere else.
Noah approached him directly.
"Excuse me," Noah said politely. "I'm here for the drug transaction."
The guard looked up, confused. "Who the hell are you?"
"Quality control," Noah replied, then knocked him unconscious with a precise blow to the temple.
Step one complete, Noah thought, dragging the unconscious guard out of sight. Now for the interesting part.
He approached the warehouse entrance and knocked on the metal door, mimicking the pattern he'd observed from the Russians.
"Who is it?" came a muffled voice from inside.
"Food safety inspection," Noah called back. "We've had reports of unusual preservatives being used in your meat products."
There was a pause, then the sound of confused voices conferring in multiple languages.
Noah smiled and began attaching C4 charges to the door frame.
Time to make some new friends.
_________________________________________________________________________
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