The cold smacked him in the face and took his breath.  The polar vortex_ the weather folks called it.  When he was a kid, they called it the Siberian Express. Times change.   The ambient temperature was below zero and with windchill his bones shuddered, and his toes went numb. 

The assassin buttoned the top of his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck.  There was no hope for it.  He would have to wear gloves.  Otherwise, his fingers would get clumsy, and the cuts would not be as precise as was his wont.  His mark, the doorman, would be outside even in this weather.  It was the doorman’s job; it was the assassin’s job to kill him and leave him lying in front of the apartment as a warning to the others.

He pulled out the knife and looked into the blade, but the silvery mirror finish clouded over from his breath.  It was too cold for condensation; the knife was encased in a thin layer of ice.  He didn’t suppose that would make any difference, but still it bothered him.  He liked a clean blade; one he could see his face in.  He wiped the blade on his coat, but the metal immediately clouded over again.  No hope for it.