Target: Guru

New York City, New York; Saturday, June 11, 10:41 A.M.…

The air was filled with endless upon endless noise. Honking, screeching, voices, cell phones ringing, planes passing by overhead, footsteps, bicycle and pedicab bells, all forming together in a cacophony of noise that all came to him as one long blur. He was tuning out all of the sounds, clearing them from his mind and staying focused on his mission. He brushed nonchalantly through the masses. He was surrounded on all sides by all kinds of people; business men and women, tourists, homeless people, civilians late to work, mothers with little children in strollers, people in wheelchairs, and, of course, Yankee's baseball caps everywhere. He was just another member of the crowd. Another body in the flow. Another random passerby.

The long distance didn't matter to him. He much preferred walking to taking one of those city taxicabs. For one, the driver would either be a rookie who didn't know Staten Island from the Hudson River, or would probably be a nonstop chatterbox, eager for some conversation. Plus, with the traffic, driving would be slower than walking. And those cabs were not the most comfortable of transportation vehicles in New York City. Or in New York State. Plus, the walking served as exercise, rather than sitting in a cramped backseat for several hours.

All of the buildings and landmarks of Manhattan rose up in the distance, towering over the skyline; the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, Trump Tower…as he made his way towards Central Park. Of course, it wouldn't be any easier upon reaching the Park. It was a jungle within a jungle. And apparently, the top living location for homeless and favorite hangout spot for crooks and petty pickpocketers looking for some quick money.

If he encountered any, the one thing he would be most concerned about was getting some minor bloodstains on his coat.

And then, at the end of Midtown Manhattan, he finally reached it: The sudden transfer from brown and gray to lush green was a perfect juxtaposition of the best and worst of the largest city in the Western Hemisphere. The trees rose high on many sides, the grass rolled on, and civilians were taking casual strolls across the sidewalks. He continued pressing forward, heading straight into the massive Park in search of his target.

He had concluded, from his studies of the past records and little-known information on Target Number Four, that this Target was not to be taken lightly. Unlike the last three, whom he had killed swiftly and easily, this one had practically no background. His name was not even known. The world didn't even know who he was, until he suddenly appeared in the corners or backgrounds of blurry photographs of the Cooper Gang in mid-1997. A small, purple Koala who had no knowledge of the English language, and had been faintly rumored as living somewhere in the middle of Central Park. Indeed an odd location for someone who had never before visited America. But he had been rumored to have mystical powers. The ability to change his very shape and physical body to fit the form of any object he wanted. He could morph into a bush, or a rock, or a piece of garbage. Anything that would blend him in with the environment in Central Park.

As he marched deeper and deeper into the confines of the Park, the amount of passerby dwindled down. Less and less joggers and newspaper-readers appeared. It seemed to be getting quieter, the distant sounds of New York City mid-morning traffic fading away…

Suddenly, a tiger leapt out from the trees in front of him, wearing dirty boots, ragged, muddy, and torn jeans, and an equally-ruined camouflage jacket. In his left hand was a steak knife, rusted and dirty, with several teeth missing.

"You! Give me all you money!"

He betrayed not even the slightest bit of movement or shock, save for the raise of a single eyebrow.

Needless to say, it lasted barely ten seconds. The tiger was disarmed, his arm broken and twisted around behind him, fist still tightly clenching the handle of the filthy blade, and then twisted back around in front of him again, breaking it even more. His own knife was plunged right through his right eye and directly into his skull, the handle still in his hand.

He nonchalantly picked up the body, careful to avoid touching the bloody face, and proceeded to hide him in the shrubbery, burying him loosely under fallen leaves and twigs, putting him right back into the shadows from which he had leapt from moments earlier.

With a quick brush-off and clapping his gloved hands against each other, he resumed with his walk.

Once or twice, he came to some isolated patches of green that seemed thick and deep; a perfect hiding spot for this unusual Target. He would search through them casually, leaving no stone unturned and kicking up every leaf and twig he stepped on. Nothing.

Soon, he reluctantly decided to turn to the aid of some of the locals.

When he came to a couple of men who were lying on the ground, he at first didn't know whether or not they were asleep, drunk, or dead. But one slowly stirred and raised his head, looking up at him.

"Oh, howdy thar, stranger." He uttered in a raspy, broken voice, with faint remnants of a typical New Yorker accent. "Where you headed? A stroll through the park? How 'bout some spare change?"

He blankly reached into his coat and withdrew the folder. He opened it and removed the picture from where it was held in place by a paper clip. It was a fairly low-quality image of the Koala, trotting along and looking to the side, facing away from the camera. In his hand was the ever curious staff he always wielded, and attached to it was that pink orb he was reported to swing around in the air moments before he would make a "transformation."

He wordlessly flipped it around and showed it to the bum. He leaned in closely, squinting tightly.

"Oh, yeah. You lookin' for him? Ol' Lou here and I have seen that 'un." He reached over and nudged the other man, who was lying on his stomach, face buried in his hands. "Lou. Lou! Wake up."

"Huh? Whazzat?"

"Lookie here." He gestured at the image. "This gentleman here's looking for that little purple fella."

The other man, with an equally filthy appearance and hardly any teeth left (those that remained were a disgusting shade of yellow), lifted his head up and stared at the picture.

"Oh, yeah! I seen him! That there's a witchcraft practicer or whatever!"

He lightly cocked his head, silently telling him to elaborate.

"With that fancy bowling ball or whatever he's got there, he can turn into anything he wants! He cin be a garbage cin, he cin be a beer bottle, he cin be Marilyn Monroe!"

"Since when did you see him turn ina Marilyn Monroe, Lou?" The other asked in an annoyed tone.

"Just the other day!"

"Yeah, right. You wuz just drunk again."

"I wuz not!"

"Whatever." The first man turned back to the towering man above him. "Well, if you're looking for that 'un, he be just down the trail here. At the old bench that's, uh, bin painted white, if you know what I mean, you turn right. Then, when you come to the trash can that really needs to be emptied, turn left into the woods. You'll come to a small clearing, with a big ol' tree stump in the middle."

"That stump is where he mediates, or whatever it's called." Lou added.

"It's mediocres, Lou. Anyone with a brains knows that!"

"You saying I don't got a brain?"

"I've been saying that for 15 years!"

As the two continued a slurred argument, he slipped away and silently moved further into the Park, keeping an eye out for the two landmarks that they mentioned. Of course, the two men were drunken morons…but this was the only lead he had. And he assumed that, if these men were some of the long-time residents of the Park, then they might have seen him from time to time. It was better than searching aimlessly. Doing it that way would take days. And he intended to be back at the airport and away from this modern-day metropolitan jungle by the end of the day.

Soon, he came to the bench. Just as the man had said, the dirty, peeling brown wood it was made of was barely visible underneath a sheet of dirty white. With the slightest expression of disgust, he turned right and headed down the path. He continued along, not seeing or hearing a single soul. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves in the light breeze and the chirping of birds overhead. He saw one trash can on his left that was indeed overflowing with deposited waste. There was even a slight collective ring on the ground around it. He stopped and slowly approached it. He looked off into the woods behind it. It seemed that there was a slight path in the foliage, leading past many dead trees and into a brown area.

He slowly stepped off the firm concrete and stepped into the leaves with a plush, soft crunching sound. He started walking through, brushing aside branches that stuck out. As he continued along, he reached into his coat pocket and reassuringly gripped his weapon: A Colt pistol with a two-inch barrel. It was smaller than his own hand; the perfect "up-the-sleeve" type of weapon. He brought it out of his pocket and whipped out the cylindrical chamber, checking to make sure that all six bullets were inside. He flicked the pistol lightly, and the chamber locked back into place. He then retracted his left hand further into his black sleeve.

He continued along the desolate path. It all seemed so dead in these deep confines of the park. Not even a bird could be heard. The wind seemed to die in this area.

If his informant was accurate, then the wind wouldn't be the only thing dying around here soon.

Suddenly, he broke through the dead foliage. He came to a small clearing. While it was surrounded on all sides by dead vegetation, the clearing itself was a lush green, with some flowers dotting the grass. It was one long, even shade of light green, growing brighter and richer in the center, where an old tree stump sat. Just as he expected, there he was. Target Number Four. And surrounding the tree stump, sitting before him, were three dogs. All of them sat in the cross-legged positions, hands at their sides as they peacefully meditated.

He casually gripped the Colt up his sleeve, and slowly advanced.

Even though the Koala's eyes were closed, he sensed the intruder's presence immediately, as did his three pupils.

The one in the middle, wearing a white T-shirt, swiveled around to face the newcomer, instantly breaking his bearing.

"Uh-oh. Hey, Oscar?" He nudged the dog next to him.

"What is it, Owen?"

"Look."

The one called Oscar slowly turned to see what Owen had interrupted him for. He saw the towering man, and his eyes went wide as well.

The third one, on the far end, turned around to follow their gazes.

"Oh, no. Who's that?"

"How should I know, Oswald?" Oscar replied. "He's probably just another autograph hound."

"Please, no autographs! No pictures, no interviews, no nothing! This is a time when we are not disturbed!"

"For the last time, this is not a publicity stunt." Oscar calmly replied. "We are here to be enlightened."

He slowly came to a halt just behind the dog in the middle, the one called Owen. He let his eyes scan over the three jittery dogs for a moment before his eyes lifted up to the creature sitting on the tree stump.

He still sat in the meditative position, not betraying the slightest bit of emotion. His eyes remained closed. His thumbs and index fingers still against each other with the other three fingers spread out. His legs were still crossed. The Staff, with the Moon Stone attached to it, was lying against the stump at his side.

He slowly raised his left arm, the Colt steady in his hands as his finger (which was almost too large for the small trigger guard) squeezed around the trigger.

The Guru had already sensed the unannounced presence into their isolated oasis. However, he had not detected anything out of the ordinary or dangerous, up until that last moment – far too late – when he heard the sound of the hammer clicking back. He didn't even have time to open his eyes, much less reach his Staff.

Three quick shots were squeezed off, and the Guru's body tumbled backwards off the stump, collapsing in a heap to the grass.

The three dogs instantly panicked. The one named Oscar, on the far left, instantly leapt up and bolted across the grass. With one quick, effortless move, he swung his arm around and aimed steadily before firing another shot. It hit its mark perfectly, entering directly into the left side of his skull just above his ear and dropping him instantly.

"Augh! NO!"

The scream drew his attention to the third one, Oswald, behind him. He pivoted around sharply and took a split second to orient himself with where the dog was and where he was going. Within a moment, he had raised his arm steadily and fired the fifth shot. It, too, hit seamlessly and shot through his right temple, directly penetrating the skull and killing him instantly.

He slowly started to lower his arm, then remembered the third: Owen. He slowly turned his head to the side and looked down. The final dog was crawling away on his back, eyes still locked on the towering man. For a brief moment, he saw a look of concentration on the dog's face as he tried to remain silent, before he noticed that he had been caught.

"AH! No! Please, please! Please…"

He slowly aimed his arm one final time, and pulled the trigger.

That was the sixth and final bullet. Just like that, it was over. All four of them were dead. The slightest of smoke trailing from the barrel of the small pistol drifted away into the wind. The last echo of the shots died away. It was dead silent once again. As dead as the four men he had just killed. Of course, the three dogs were not on his list of targets. But, by their presence there, they had unintentionally placed their names onto the list. They were witnesses. All witnesses had to be destroyed, for they were just as dangerous.

He slowly looked around. This clearing was so isolated, he was sure that the gunshots had not sounded too far. No one would find these bodies for a long time. Definitely long enough for him to head to Los Angeles for his fifth victim.

With that, he spun around in the grass and began striding back towards the wall of dead vegetation, retracing his steps back through the Park, through Midtown Manhattan, and back to the John F. Kennedy International Airport.

To be continued…