He kept looking over his shoulder as if he was expecting company. Every footstep seemed to echo and reverberate through that narrow and long side alley. His left hand tight around his knuckle duster tucked into his pocket and his right on another, he kept walking with a crisp pace minding every door, window and corner as he passed.
His hat was worn low enough to still see yet not show his face. He was adamant on keeping a low profile. He had strict orders not to be seen by slum residents or else he'd be tossed into the cut in pieces. Strictly the boss's orders. He was unclear on why this was such an important part of the plan, but a good soldier just follows orders.
Staying out of the light from the lamp posts he kept his pace and did his best to not be noticed. He figured if himself and a few lads could stay hidden and take trenches back in France this this'd be a tea party. He hadn't been more jumpy in his life. There was no back up nor recon done. He was going in blind and alone.
The gangs he had to contend with owned the slums. They carved up folks just for speaking to caps like himself. Police never came this way due to the disorganised streets and alleys, so he couldn't even use them as a distraction.
After passing the alleys and street lamps he got to the door just on the other border of the slum kids. Unclenching a duster he knocked five times as instructed, slid a letter under the door and hid around the corner. A little woman with done up hair, nice make-up and a beige blue dress opened the door. She was beautiful, couldn't touch her let alone talk to her. She was as dangerous as she was beautiful. She then closed the. He knew his job was done now.