Second hand smoke

Tristen pulled out his hip flask and took a swig. Shaking the almost empty canteen, he downed the rest, his Adam's apple rising. The audible gulp rang out in the silence as the liquid gave rise to the familiar warmth.
He checked the time yet again on his smart phone, the glow lighting his face.
From a carefully chosen position at the end of the darkest part of the alley, a black clad figure stood waiting, watching the spectral head. She was dying for a fag, but that would have to wait. It is time, the walrus said. Pulling her hood lower over her face, determined soundless steps drew her nearer to the meeting point.
'Have you got it?' A whisper so mere that the disembodied voice floated in from the depths of darkness.
'Jeez, you scared the shit out of me.' His voice rang out in the obscurity, filling the air.
'Shh. Here's how we'll proceed...' A buzzing sound and the Star Wars imperial death march drowned out the voice.
Tristen fumbled in his pocket extracting the vibrating object of affront.
'It's the Boss. I've gotta take this.'
'.... yeah... yeah... ok. Got it. I'll tell her.'
He shoved the phone back in his pocket. He hadn't seen or heard the figure move away. Shit, where was the bitch? Tristen peered into the darkness trying to make sense of the lurid shadows, his ears pricked for any sound. Nothing. Must have scarpered.
He felt something like a sharp burning in his lower back. Instinctively his hand went to the place of pain, a knife. Scrabbling for the handle, he fell to his knees. The black clad figure yanked him backwards by the collar of his jacket, followed by a kick in the groin, and started furtively grabbing at his pockets. A flick and a flash of light, he breathed in a waft of fag smoke. Even from his disadvantageous position, he craved a drag. The Death March and the pinprick of cigarette light faded into the night as he accepted his fate.

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