Location: One Hour Outside Hell's Horizon

The weather was horrific. Torrents of vicious rain spilled out of the sky, like the proverbial cow pissing on the equally proverbial flat rock. Thunder shot back and forth, chasing its own lightning tails on the topside of a thick smear of dark gray clouds that steamed and slowly swirled above the dock. There was no moonlight and there were no stars to cast any light into the darkness that covered the coastline, and the cloud cover was sufficiently thick to prohibit the shocks of electricity in the sky from providing anything more than a glimpse at fleeting shadows that seemed to change with every strike.

"Perfect," Cavan thought to himself as he steered the cheap and expendible pickup truck into an imaginary parking space near the building. The imposing figure dismounted from the driver's seat as he opened the door, and with a flick of his fingers under the driver's seat, a subtly faint yellow glow painted the floorboard. He ignored the unusual light and shut the truck's door discreetly before walking to the bed of the vehicle and throwing back the tarp that covered it.

The three large, black duffel bags rested snug and dry in the bed, and Cavan's bear paw of a hand scooped up the handles and hefted them onto his shoulder without so much as a grunt of effort from the Irishman. As Cavan moved in the shadows and approached the perimeter of the floodlight's glow over the door at the side of the building, he withdrew a pistol fitted with a disposable suppressor and put two into the bulb for good measure. The soft sound of escaping gases from the muzzle were drowned out by the rain's unforgiving splash against the pavement, and Cavan barely heard the sound of shattering glass from ten feet away.

As he expected, Cavan found the door unlocked. He was certain the client wouldn't appreciate the damage to the floodlight, but there were larger priorities at hand and Cavan was sure there weren't any cameras within viewing range to spy on his vandalism. He replaced the pistol in its holster and walked the narrow corridor, where he approached a doorway guarded by a seemingly unarmed figure in a white, faceless mask. From the build, Cavan guessed it was a slender man, probably skilled in martial arts--Cavan put his money on jujitsu. He also noticed the way the figure favored its left leg toward the wall, indicating it might have a sidearm--probably on its ankle.

"Cavan Ollpheist?" The character questioned, its voice modulated through a cheap but sufficient speaker on the mask. It sounded like a cheap sound effect in one of those "pay ransom or we'll kill the hostage" phone scenarios that Hollywood liked. Cavan simply nodded in response, and the character replied in an equally stoic manner. He--rather, it--withdrew a folded piece of paper from the inside of its business suit jacket. It had Cavan's name, last name first, typed on the outside in Courier New, 12-point font.

"Enter and be seated with the others. The client has provided refreshments and you will be debriefed," The Mask paused to look at a diamond-studded rolex on its wrist, "in six minutes. If you require a restroom, there is one at the northeast corner of the room."

Cavan nodded, taking the piece of paper from the black-gloved hand that The Mask extended, and opened the door. As it clicked quietly back into the lock behind him, Cavan took stock of the figures in the room. He greeted those who looked at him with a nod, and set his bags by an empty seat before sitting in the chair.

"Anyone care to tell the doorman it's not Halloween?" Cavan asked no one in particular.

Masses shifted his weight back in his chair slowly, deliberately. Yawning, he brought his left arm up slightly, then pulled back the sleeve to check his watch. 21:42.
In the darkened room sat 4 people, including himself. The 'masked man' had suggested there was still more to come. It looked that way. Everything was perfect, notepads and 3 lead pencils, all laid out the exact distance apart, angles all the same. Even down to the length of the pencils point. Not that he had measured. Guessing played a huge part in his, and everyone elses life.

He bent down and rumagged through his first duffle bag. He reached down through the depths of the hurried packing. His mind flashed back to how quickly he had packed. The last minute 'goodbye sex' he and his wife always enjoyed had taken longer than usual, but neither of them had complained about that.
After he had finished, and laid on the messy bed whilst she showered, he noticed the time. This enduced a slight bit of panic, forcing him to pack quickly, without properly saying goodbye to his family.
The flight to the nearest airport had taken 30 minutes, for which he was extremely grateful, long flights 'killed' him.

He had drove to the facility he now sat in in a large black jeep. He had taken 2 duffle bags, 1 for all of his 'personal' equipment, the other for his weapons and ammo. Carrying your equipment was better. No one could tamper with your weapon, which to him were among the most important things in his world.
He had calmly walked down the corridor to the room allocated, before being greeted by the man in the mask. His voice had a slightly metallic twinge to it, making him sound like some sort of mechanical being. It gave him the creeps.

Now he was in the room, with 3 strangers, and from the sound of the mans voice outside, a 4th was about to arrive. His hand grasped the box of cigars. He gave a slight smile and pulled them free of the bag. He cut the end off of one, sat down, then lit the beautiful Havana. He puffed a huge cloud of smoke as the burly man walked through the thin door. He looked around the room, before dumping his own duffle bags down on the floor. He pulled out a seat 2 down from him.
The man was huge, at least 200lbs. Even though Masse himself was about 210, you could see that this man must be something of a beast. Masse extended his right hand holding the fat cigar in his left.
"Masse, pleased to meet you"

Cavan took stock of his newfound environment as he sat in a seat around the table. A stocky man sat just a few feet away, puffing on what Cavan recognized as a true Cubano cigar. Though Cavan occasionally enjoyed the taste of some of the world's finer tobaccos, it was sufficient for him to enjoy the sweet smell and momentarily revel in some of the memories he had in Havana. The burly man jutted out his hand.

"Masse, pleased to meet you," he said in a welcoming tone that Cavan recognized among members of his line of work. An ever-so-slight smile perked Cavan's lips, and he returned his hand to shake that of his comrade.

"Ollpheist," Cavan said in return. His grip was intentionally firm, a tactic Cavan employed to size up the people he met. You could tell a lot by a handshake, whether someone was the kind of person to fight or flee, and--the way Cavan saw it--you might even see into their intentions in that momentary greeting. Then again, a handshake was just a handshake.