( II )

Far from the madding crowd, as one would say, lay the peaceful neighbourhood of Montfaucon, on the outskirts of that European capital known as "the city of light", Paris. It was a small neighbourhood which, although under the influence of the twenty-first century, had managed to preserve its old structures, fashioned according to medieval architecture. Narrow stone-paved alleys connected the secluded oasis of tranquillity with the rest of the world, and on either side stood two or three story buildings with walls of brownish red brick and windows with white, wooden shutters. The only centre of attraction of this forgotten place were the ruins of a once imposing tower and three still intact and beautifully carved stone columns that guarded the entrance, which was now blocked by a heavy metal door. In fact, this was only an unimportant extension of the real point of attraction, a half-intact medieval castle that stood up on the hill, to where the enormously long staircase adjacent to the ruined tower led. Being situated close to a main road and surrounded by a bustling neighbourhood, the castle drew a significant number of tourists all year long, whereas its tower stood alone at the bottom of the small valley, rarely receiving the visit of some lost tourist.

The will of man can be, nevertheless, very strong at times, and so, a young, hard-working and very determined resident of Montfaucon had set his mind on making the old tower and his dear neighbourhood as much of a tourists attraction as the castle itself. Having but little support and few finances, he had only managed to open a small café, right in front of the tower. Bearing the trite name of "Café", the humble bistro was nevertheless appealing, with its yellowish brick walls, contrasting the reddish buildings in the vicinity. A bohemian aspect came from the ivy stretching, here and there, up the wall, clinging to the drainpipe at the base of the roof. There was also a terrace in front, which, surprisingly, was at times, especially in the two free days following the working week, almost full. The Sunday evening of early autumn when Ra's al Ghul's assassination was once again to be planned, was no exception.

On that fateful evening, an envoy of the man who had been brave enough to set his goals as high as eliminating probably one of the most wanted figures in the criminal underworld, stood at a more remote table, in a far corner of the terrace, near a stone wall covered with ivy and other ornamental plants, stretching up directly from the ground, or from ceramic flower pots. He was a man in his mid forties, with short brown hair cut in an elegant manner and no beard or moustache. The dark suit, tie and white shirt that he wore, as well as the briefcase he carried, which he placed at the foot of his chair, made him look somewhat like a lawyer. Stirring slowly the coffee he had been compelled to order when the waiter came to his table, so as not to raise any suspicions, he carefully glanced around, examining each and every one of the customers, wondering whether that was a proper place to discuss such crucial matters.

The closest table to his right was occupied by a young couple, holding hands over the table and giggling while whispering into each other's ears. She was a teenage girl with blonde curls falling to her shoulders from underneath her dark blue beret. Her clothes were typical for her age, tight blouse, short skirt and a skimpy jacket, ostensibly, to keep her warm in the evening that was drawing close. Her companion was a tall, thin boy, looking rather feeble-minded despite his somewhat good looks. He had messy hair that looked more dirty than fashionable under the thick layer of hair gel and his shirt and pants appeared to be slightly threadbare.

At another table, right in front of him, stood a woman with long, dark hair that fell over her chest, on the right side. Her eye were hidden under a pair of black, opaque, exquisite glasses, even though the sun had long ceased to shine brightly and was slowly slipping across the sky, towards the western horizon. Over her black blouse and trousers she wore, more for the sake of fashion, an unbuttoned, white coat with the collar and cuffs adorned with artificial fur of the same colour. Around her neck she wore a purple scarf, and she stood at the table, with her back turned to him, smoking a cigarette and reading what seemed like a romance novel, as he had observed upon his arrival, when he had passed by her to take his seat at the farthest table. At a first sight she looked the typical French woman, though her features did not appear to be quite local.

On the opposite side of the terrace, but still rather close, due to the original narrow space, a table was occupied by an unhealthy looking elderly gentleman, dressed in a brown pinstripe suit and wearing a worn out overcoat of a darker shade of brown. He wore a bow tie, a checked, green scarf and a hat. His face was heavy wrinkled and his bear unshaved. Even with his big glasses, he was making great effort to read a certain article in a newspaper, and at the same time trying to appease his coughing, which manifested in sudden, uncontrollable outbursts. He looked harmless and very preoccupied by what he was doing, the type of person who would rather retread within himself than manifest outwardly.

The remaining table was taken by a young man with dark blonde hair tied in a ponytail. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a plain shirt. Besides the glasses that he wore, he also had an earring in his left ear. He appeared conceited and bothersome, but what bothered the most the man sitting at the remote table was that the young fellow seemed to be starring insistently in his direction. Then he noticed that it was the woman in the white coat the young man was starring at, but even so, he could not be entirely certain. It is better to be safe than sorry, as the saying goes, and bearing this idea in mind, the man carefully reached to see if the pistol, disguised by his coat, was in its right place, attached to his belt.

Glancing time and time again, both at the customers and at the surroundings, the man was unable to find anything dubious, other than his own paranoid suppositions. It was soon afterwards that the man he had been waiting for had finally made his entrance. He was a fairly tall man, with a light complexion and Asian features. His clean-shaven cheek, smart suit and generally well-groomed appearance gave no clue whatsoever of his real occupation. The man made his way discreetly towards the table and sat down in front of the man he had come to meet.

"I was told he would come personally," the Asian man spoke plainly, but with obvious displeasure in his tone.

"I am afraid some other urgent matters have aroused in the meantime," the other man responded elegantly and with equal displeasure.

"Then you already know my answer. Tell him to contact me personally when he is willing to meet with me." The Asian man was on the verge of raising from the table, when the other man gave him an instant response, preventing him from leaving.

"We trusted you, Mr. Wong. I believe it would be proper for you to return the favour."

Mr. Wong looked the man in the eyes for a moment or two, then answered.

"You betrayed you former employer. Who is to say you won't do it again?"

"That is not something of your concern. You are just a murderer."

"And you are just a lackey. I do not take orders from lackeys."

The two men continued their quarrel, addressing each other disguised insults and subtle threats, all of this done with much care and self-control, that anyone who watched them from a distance would have believed that they were actually having a pleasant conversation.

"Mr. Wong, you have already received half of your payment, as you requested, though you have done nothing so far. It would be a terrible …… shame if you were to turn in the assignment at this point. Your talents would be greatly missed," the man smirked.

"A lame threat," Mr. Wong replied unmoved, and half-amused.

"But one that you should be wise to acknowledge."

"I am not afraid of you."

"Oh, I know very well you are not, and I am not asking you to be. Just bare in mind to whom you must give account of your work."

"So you finally admit to being nothing more than a lackey."

This time the man looked Mr. Wong in the eyes without uttering a word, after which he bent down and retrieved his briefcase, from which he took out a large, white envelope that he handed out to Mr. Wong over the table.

"Let's make things short, Mr. Wong. You will find in here all you need to know."

Mr. Wong took the envelope without commenting any further, while the other man took his briefcase and stood up.

"So you finally admit to being nothing more than a murderer," he grinned with utmost satisfaction as he had managed to prove himself superior to his rival.

Surprisingly, this amused Wong, who barely lifted his head to look at the man when he spoke.

"Take care Mr. Damus. It is getting dark and walking alone at night can be dangerous, even for a man like you."

The grin on Damus' face disappeared and, as if suspecting something, he turned to look at the street behind him. There he saw a tall, muscular man, standing on a bench, pretending to read a newspaper. At the precise moment when Damus looked in that direction, the man lowered the newspaper and stared right back at him, sending a cold shiver down his spine. He recognised the man as being one of Wong's accomplices. Bursting with anger, but also trembling with fear, Damus shot a piercing glance at Wong and without saying another word he quickly left the café, hoping the man on the bench would not follow. Indeed, receiving no signals from Wong, the man did not move from his place.

A couple of minutes later, Wong also left the café, walking down the street towards a darker side alley. Once he had entered the alley, his accomplice sitting on the bench stood up and followed him.

"Are we set?" the large man asked on a hoarse voice when he came face to face with Wong, who was waiting for him in the alley.

"Yes. We have all the information we need. Even more, actually."

Wong handed the envelope to his companion, who opened it and took out a rather blurry photograph of a man who appeared to be talking to another man who was standing at a desk in an office. The photograph had been taken from outside the building, through the window.

"This is Ra's al Ghul?" Wong's companion questioned, pointing to the man who was standing in front of the window. Wong nodded. "He doesn't look very menacing."

"Don't make the mistake of underestimating him. He is much more than he appears to be."

"You'd better have a good plan then," he said handing him back the envelope. Wong sneered and sealed up the envelope.

"Where is Lee? He was supposed to meet us here," he suddenly asked.

"Haven't seen him," the large man responded just as surprised.

"Never mind. He knows where to find us. We must not waste any more time."

With that, the man turned and advanced into the dark alley, followed by his companion. Moments later, they arrived at a stone wall with an iron gate, which Wong easily unlocked and went on his way, stopping only when he realised he could no longer hear his companion's footsteps behind him. He turned and was puzzled to see he was nowhere in sight. Wong made his way back to the gate and checked to see whether, for some reason, he had remained on the other side. Yet, the alley was deserted.

All of a sudden he was overcome by a terrible fear. He was known to be a skilled assassin but he had always preferred to operate from a distance. Now his greatest fears had returned to haunt him. His thoughts unwillingly drifted to Ra's al Ghul's warriors, renowned for their extraordinary techniques of appearing from nowhere and disappearing just as fast, spying on you from the shadows without you ever noticing their presence and then approaching as silent as a breath of air, slaying you before you can realise it.

Staring into the darkness of the alley, he suddenly thought he could see a figure approaching him. Drawing out his pistol and aiming in that direction, he took a few steps forward, only to see that no one was there. Then right afterwards he was startled by the noise produced, apparently, by two objects that had fallen, or had been thrown from above, behind his back. He looked with both interest and fright to see what they were and gasped in shock when his eyes rested upon the severed heads of his companions, lying at his feet. Trying hard to maintain his calm and hold a good grip on his pistol, he thought of returning to the main alley.

He turned around swiftly and took a step forward, his first and final step, for there was something that immobilised him, a sharp pain and a feeling of suffocation. In his last moments of consciousness, he was able to take notice of the sharp blade that had been thrust so rapidly and fiercely into his neck that it came out the other side. Before he would forever sink into darkness, he had the fortune of seeing the face of the one who had been capable of disposing so quickly of a hitman of such skill and fame. He was completely shocked to see that the assailant was someone whom he had noticed staying at one of the tables at the terrace, someone whom he would have never thought could pose a threat to him. The last thing he saw before forever departing the realm of mortals was the assailant snatching the envelope he was still pressing against his body, with his right hand.

NOTE:

First of all I want to thank all those who reviewed my first chapter, namely Andraya, Winged Seraph and Lamby. Thank you so much!

I hope you liked this one as well.

Now I want to ask anyone who reads this to review and tell me what you think of it.

Also, I would like to hear your opinions. Who do you think killed Wong and for what purpose?