The Ultimate Assassin

3

Watching the scene unfold from afar, Xavier gave a faint nod of approval. He wasn't naïve enough to think a media blackout meant the captain would keep his mouth shut when the Ministry of State Security came knocking. Still, it didn't overly concern him. The hijackers had smashed the cabin cameras to pieces, meaning there was no visual record of his face. Trying to track him down based purely on eyewitness descriptions from terrified passengers would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

Stepping out of the terminal, flashing lights immediately caught his eye. An ambulance and a police car were parked near the curb. Paramedics were carefully lifting a frail old man onto a stretcher, the poor bloke groaning in obvious agony. He was badly hurt. Xavier paused, a strange flicker of familiarity washing over him as he looked at the old man's silhouette.

Nearby, a police officer was questioning a pudgy man in a tailored suit. It was none other than the arrogant ‘elite’ from first class. The man was gesturing dismissively, looking as haughty as ever before the officer firmly escorted him into the back of the squad car.

The murmurs of the gathered crowd quickly drifted into Xavier’s ears.

"Poor old sod. Tried to do a good deed and return that fat bastard's dropped wallet, and what does he get? Accused of nicking it and beaten half to death. Doesn't pay to be a good Samaritan these days, does it?"

"Too right. Life is cheap. He's just a scavenger. Even if he'd been beaten to death, who'd kick up a fuss? Did you see the state of that fat bloke's clothes? Dressed in designer gear, he is. A street scavenger doesn't stand a chance against that kind of money. He'll just have to take it on the chin."

Xavier frowned, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he watched the suited man disappear into the police car. If the coppers hadn't been there, he would have gladly walked over and battered the bloke himself. But getting involved now would only draw unwanted attention. More importantly, he was desperate to get home. Eight years was a long time. He had no idea if anything had changed, or if his old man even lived there anymore. Flagging down a taxi, he gave the driver his old address.

The entire journey was a knot of anxiety. He felt like a runaway child who had done wrong desperate to return, yet terrified of walking through the front door.

When the cab finally pulled to a halt, Xavier peered out the window. Time seemed to have stood still here. It was the same run-down shantytown, with towering plane trees lining the cracked, potholed streets. Birdsong echoed brightly in the quiet air, a stark contrast to the heavy traffic of the city centre.

He followed the worn paths of his memory until he found the house. It had always been shabby, but now it looked as though a stiff breeze might knock it down. The front door was ajar. Flanking it were faded red New Year couplets, the calligraphy on them delicate and slightly unpolished, clearly written by a young girl rather than a seasoned scholar.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Xavier finally mustered the courage to approach. He knocked, but there was no answer. Pushing the door wider, he stepped inside.

Nothing had changed. The layout was exactly as he had left it eight years ago. The modest living room held nothing but a square wooden table and a few long benches. On the old cabinet sat a framed group photograph: a kindly, poorly-dressed old man surrounded by a gaggle of beaming teenagers, a warm, affectionate smile crinkling his eyes.

Tears blurred Xavier's vision, slipping silently down his cheeks. They say men don't cry easily, but that's only because the heartbreak hasn't hit close enough to home.

The sound of sizzling oil drifted from the kitchen. Brushing the tears from his eyes, Xavier walked over. A girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, was busily cooking at the stove. Xavier paused for a moment before rapping his knuckles against the doorframe.

"Dad!" The girl spun around, her face lighting up with excitement, only to freeze when she saw a complete stranger. She swallowed the rest of her greeting, eyeing him cautiously. "Can I help you?"

Xavier looked at her. She was dressed simply, but the plain clothes couldn't hide her natural, fresh-faced beauty. "Is Dad home?" he asked, his voice softening.

"Brother... Brother?" The girl stared at him for a long moment before the pieces clicked. She had seen his face in the photos Dad kept. The childish softness was gone, replaced by the rugged, hardened jaw of a grown man, but she recognised him instantly. How could she not? He was the one Dad talked about most.

Xavier was momentarily stunned that this girl actually knew who he was. Then it hit himDad must have talked about him constantly, keeping his memory alive through the old photographs. A fresh wave of emotion crashed over him, threatening to bring the tears back. For eight long years, his father had never stopped worrying about him.

But he was the Captain of the Iron Squad. Forcing his emotions back under control, he offered the girl a gentle smile. "You know me, then? What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Sara!" she answered brightly, studying the man her adoptive father spoke of so often. He looked surprisingly refined. If it weren't for the faint scar on his face, he could easily pass for a well-read scholar. He certainly didn't look like the mischievous, prank-loving brat Dad always described.

"Where is Dad? Not back yet?" Xavier asked.

"He should be back soon. Have a seat and rest for a bit, Brother," Sara said, pouring him a cup of hot tea.

Xavier thanked her and took it naturally. It had been eight years, but this was still his home; there was no need to stand on ceremony. Since they were waiting, he decided to catch up. "How has Dad's health been these past few years?"

Sara nodded. "He's still going strong. But he's getting on in years, isn't he? Running out to work in all sorts of weather... it takes a toll."

"Have none of those other brats been back to see him?" Xavier frowned, a flash of anger crossing his face. None of them were Dad's flesh and blood, but he had raised them all single-handedly. He was a father to them. People Xavier’s age would all have proper jobs by now. To just leave the old man alone in this run-down place... did they have no conscience at all?

"No, it's not like that!" Sara quickly defended them. "Eldest Brother and Third Brother have both been back. They wanted to take Dad to live with them, but he absolutely refused. Said there's no place like his own little doghouse."

Xavier nodded silently. He knew she was telling the truth. He knew the old man’s temper better than anyone he was as stubborn as a mule. Once he dug his heels in, ten bulls couldn't drag him away. Deep down, Xavier hadn't really believed his brothers would turn out to be ungrateful bastards, anyway.