Colonel Glenn Henshaw only ever went to Europe on business. Once it'd been so full of splendor, but he'd not been alive to see it. Now it had the same problems as anywhere else, and more were streaming in every day. He felt it the moment he stepped off the plane, stripping off his electric FaceCamo net the moment he was away from the airport's security cams. Crumpling the mesh into a ball and stuffing it into his tan leather coat pocket, he hailed a taxi, and directed the driver to take him to the address he'd found online.
Glenn sucked air in through his teeth as the metal piping inside the forearm was exposed, tiny tubes moving back and forth. Nerve-simulators in the palm and fingertips began to numb as he moved them about, checking inside the arm that'd been taking from him by his own people.
Not mine anymore, he thought. Not mine anymore.
The panel closed with a click. He rolled his sleeve back up, and tipped the driver modestly.
Stepping out of the cab, he slid a pair of gold-frame Ray Bans up onto his nose. He wore a tan leather jacket with a little scarf up over his distinguishing tattoo. On his feet were brown boots suited to hard work. His previous disguise as a federal agent enabled him to keep his Desert Eagle on him, and if questioned, he could show full authorization to have it holstered. Always good to have a gun; he knew that, yes. Never know when someone would want a piece. Had to look professional. He'd even shaved that morning.
Walking into the Eisenalder building, he calmly asked, in English, to see the boss.