He always looked about him after neutralising a target to make sure there were no surprises; a bounty hunter could make enemies easily.
The parking lot was empty save for a few cars, silent bar the chirrup of one or two birds. A plastic carrier bag skittered across the sun-baked tarmac, bounded into the air, performed a somersault in the warm breeze before sliding up to an elderly Ford and snuggling up under the wheel arch.
Rasputin allowed his thoughts dissolve into quietude, took a deep breath, exhaled and relaxed his muscles…
…which tensed instantly to rock-hardness as somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He dashed forwards into a lunge, turning as his feet slid across the ground, drew his blade in one fluid motion before settling into a stance.
A group of stern-faced women stood before him, dressed in late 19th century attire, the edges of their petticoats undulating beneath their pinafores.
“Rasputin, the bounty hunter?” asked a tall woman in a plain black dress.
“We are the Commission. You will come with us. Now.”
Smirking, Rasputin disappeared….
…reappeared in a 19th century court room, saw the women already sat before him on rows of benches.
“You cannot escape justice Rasputin, any more than you can escape yourself.”