You made your way through the crowd in the club, writhing against the loud music and the smell of sweat. Krueger was waiting in the VIP room. This club is just a meeting place, and you're just a tool to do his dirty work. Krueger gave you the orders, kept you from direct contact. He twirled the gun in his hands, a glass of whiskey in front of him. “You're late,” he tossed, sliding the folder over. It contained a picture of the man and all his details. “Gotta get rid of him. Can't say no.”