A tower of immense proportion stood above the busy streets of Hong Kong, the neon lights reflecting on its massive glass walls. High above, on the top floor, two men paced back and forth in a large office. On the desk were three generous stacks of cash, a suitcase and a gun. These two men were high ranking members of a very powerful Chinese mafia. Their competitors wanted them dead and they came to the right people to ask for help. The two well dressed men conversed in Chinese, not knowing that right across the way, a silent observer sat in the shadows. He was perched against a windowsill, only the faint red glow from a device on his eye illuminated the right side of his face. A muffled, static voice echoed in his ear. "Do you have visual?" the man on the radio asked. "Affirmative." the red-eyed man replied. "And the distance? The wind velocity?" "All accounted for and adjusted." said the red-eyed man. "Excellent. No explosions. Be subtle." "Yeah, I know." replied the red-eyed man, "The mafia guys picked me because I'm subtle. I'll be at the pickup point in an hour." There was a brief silence before the man on the radio responded, "Alright. Good luck, Longshot."
The man known as Longshot looked out the window at the one lit room in the building across from him where the Chinamen conversed. He reached over his shoulder and drew an arrow from his quiver. It gleamed in the moonlight as he put it to the string and drew back. He stared down the shaft of the arrow, letting the tension of the string strain his fingers. "Zai jian, fellas." he whispered and let slip the arrow. With impressive speed, it silently sifted through the glass window and straight through the first man's throat. A spurt of blood shot from his mouth as his eyes went wide and he fell to the floor, dead. Before the other man could even scream, an arrow hit between his eyes.
Longshot casually jumped out the window and fell freely. The cool rush of breeze was exhilarating. He quickly spun around and fired a cable out of a device on his wrist, catching onto a ledge and landed safely on the lower level of the building, running off into the night.
The helicopter sat on a helipad at the airport when Longshot arrived. Two men dressed in black stepped forward and through a bag over his head. After several hours in the helicopter, they got out and led him inside a building, removing the bag. There he was in the Horizon compound. This was the home of the greatest fraternity of assassins who ever lived, yet the assassins themselves were not aloud to know where it was. Longshot strolled through the lavish mansion-like dwelling. The walls were fine polished hardwood, as were the floors and intriguing pieces of art were displayed all around. He passed a very large, muscular man who leaned casually against the wall. "Hey, Ox." he said. The beast of a man looked down at him, "Hey, Pax." he replied. Longshot continued down the hallway which suddenly juxtaposed from lavish, welcoming interior to cold, hard concrete with fluorescent lights. This was where the assassins slept. Everything before was for recreation, food and Brixby's sleeping quarters. Brixby was the man behind Horizon, the puppet master. Longshot strolled down the long, narrow hallway until he came to his room, an eight by six concrete box with a desk and a bed.
Undoing the two black straps around his chest, Longshot hung up his quiver and bow. He removed his jacket and gloves and, finally, his mask, revealing a young face with scraggly dirty blonde hair. He sat down on his bed and tossed his mask aside. Turning off the lights, he rolled over and closed his eyes.
The hours droned on and yet, he couldn't sleep. Too many thoughts clouded his mind. He had never had trouble sleeping after a job. After lying awake for so long, he flicked on the lights, got up and sat at his desk where he kept his laptop. He lifted it open and typed a few words in Google. He clicked a link and there, on the screen, was a newspaper clipping from 1992. Jonathon Riggs' Son MISSING! The article went on to talk about a wealthy industrialist and philanthropist in Boston had lost his newborn son, Paxton in the night. A nationwide manhunt was put into effect for the kidnapper, but he was never found. Paxton turned off his computer, turned off the lights and crawled back into bed.