It's an unusual tactic. They both know he's been made, they both know he's aware of his mark but he's followed anyway — not with gun, knife, or even phone. There's nothing in his hands but a jacket, no sign of fear anywhere in his posture or on his face. There's no announcement, no order, no put your hands up or any of the other things he's been greeted with in previous encounters of the same sort.

There's just whistling. An old song he's never heard before, but for some reason after each note he knows the next. From his place above Steve's head, the soldier's mind searches absently through archives and files it keeps from missions past. They're spotty, bits and pieces have been wiped from him over the years and they come back in drifting waves as his mind heals itself between time in the chair.

The song is not from a mission.

You're getting off target, Soldat.

He drops down from the air conditioning unit eight or ten feet above, boots thudding softly on the pavement behind Steve and a knife unfurling from a holster at his belt, spun through his fingers like a familiar tool. Be quick, be quiet, and this may not be a failure after all. Cause a scene, flood the place with guards and he'll lose his window.

If he misses his target he will be corrected.

He will do everything in his power to avoid a correction.

He doesn't speak, just levels a dark and emotionless look at the man before him. Maskless, but with as stony and lacking in recognition his skin may as well be a mask in and of itself. He doesn't recognize you, not yet.