Anders

Anders rocked back and forth on the worn out, uncomfortable, metal chair in front of the cafe. The hand-cannon tucked into his pants under his shirt kept digging into his gut, and he determined that some of the creds from this job would go towards one o' them fancy slide-space holsters another trigger-man told him about back in the slammer.

Something in the lighting changed and suddenly he was more aware of the slight breeze that made it past the high collar of his coat to the back of his neck. He could feel the anxious rush of adrenaline entering his system, felt his muscles coiling and his skin tightening, and knew that his prey was near.

He could smell her from where he sat. Her high-end perfume mixed with the salt of nervous sweat. As sure as he knew the hunt was on, so did she. She hurried through the swishing automatic doors of a multi-level boutique and disappeared. Anders cursed to himself: too many possible exits. He got up and pursued as casually as he could force himself to be. The doors swished shut behind him as his hand slipped into his coat to grip the holster of his gun.