There in the midst of Beijing, he stood motionless, waiting. In the shadows behind the dragon king restaurant stood the infamous assassin Kung Lao. He was a member of the Shinobo clan, who were a large group of ruthless fighters, and had no qualms about killing people. It was a bitter night, but Kung was a dedicated individual, and resumed his pursuit for the owner of the restaurant, Ricky Tan. He would receive a handsome payment if he succeeded. However in this assassination attempt, money was no object as Kung had loathed Ricky ever since they were young apprentices at the Kojo martial arts school.
Dressed in black, Kung scaled the wall at the rear end of the restaurant. He tiptoed along the narrow wall at the side of the building. Moving like a feline predator, silent, deadly. A tantalising scent was present, where Chinese cuisine was being prepared in the kitchen. The window was open, so Kung crept in. He crouched down and scampered behind a unit crammed full of kitchen utensils arranged in an unorganised manner. Only the chef was present. It was reasonably quiet in the kitchen, only the simmering of water and the chefs peaceful whistling disturbed the silence.
There was an unreal sense of tranquillity, a perhaps fitting locale for a killing. Then the kitchen door swung open, and an important looking man strolled confidently in. “I thought the kitchen was closed,” he said in a stern tone of voice. The chef replied almost instantly; “it’s a special order for Mr. Tan. ” The important looking man whispered in the chef’s ear and left. The door closed sharply behind him. Kung saw his opportunity and grabbed the chef round the neck and applied reasonable force, restricting his breathing.
Kung pressed the cold, hard, metal of his gun firmly against his temple. “Co-operate and you will not be harmed,” demanded Kung, professionally. “Where do I find Ricky Tan? ” he asked, “I-I- don’t know,” the chef replied, in between coughs. Kung eased his grip, took a step back and struck the chef to the back of the head with his elbow, causing him to collapse to the floor in a heap. Kung took a deep breath and made his way discretely out of the kitchen. The restaurant was nearing closing time and the last few customers were leaving.
Two stocky, armed men where standing at the entrance, seemingly alert. Kung, with his back against the wall, and pistol in hand, stealthily slid his way along the wall at the back of the dining room. To his right was a dimly lit hallway, down which Kung resumed his pursuit for Ricky Tan. As he reached the end of the hallway Kung overheard shouting in one of the rooms. The voice sounded strangely familiar. Surely this was the culmination of hatred, the climax, in which Ricky Tan was to be assassinated.
He approached the doorway in a somewhat prudent manner. He took a swift look left, then right. No one was present. He placed his shaking hand on the door handle, and slowly twisted it. As the door slowly eased open, Kung withdrew a dagger from a pocket on his left thigh. Kung never uses guns to kill, silence is the real tool for an assassin, the ability to move, breathe and ultimately kill without being noticed. Once the door was partially open, Kung peeked in. Ricky Tan was sitting comfortably at his desk.
He was a tough looking man, with dark eyes; dark slicked back hair, and a deep scar above his right eye. However he sat innocently in his chair, totally oblivious to the fact that these were the last few seconds of his life. The room was decorated in expensive furnishings, gold, ivory and silk. Kung crept in, closing the door behind him. He took two strides towards Ricky Tan and raised the dagger, which shimmered in the light. This was it. With meaningful force Kung slammed the blade deep into Tan’s back.
There was a brief shriek, then a choke, then silence. Blood pattered onto the floor. Kung retrieved his dagger and placed it back into his pocket. He left the building through Ricky Tan’s private entrance and made his way proudly back home. Back at his flat, Kung washed his victims scarlet blood off the blade, and placed it under his bed, along with his other tools of death. He opened his curtains to see the soft orange sunrise over the great capital of Beijing. Kung Lao had retained his name as one of the most ruthless and proficient assassins in China.