The sharp rasp of a zipper cut through the heavy air. From his filthy, duct-taped duffel bag, the beggar didn’t pull out rusted junk or dirty rags. He pulled out a pristine, high-tech tactical medical kit.
“Hold her neck,” the old man barked.
The man in the suit obeyed, hands trembling, watching in bewildered horror as this vagrant snapped on a pair of sterile surgical gloves. With terrifying, practiced precision, the beggar extracted a thick syringe filled with a luminescent blue compound.
“Wait! What the hell is that?” the younger man choked out, lunging forward to stop him.
The old man didn’t flinch. His left hand shot out like a viper, two grimy fingers striking a precise nerve cluster on the suit-wearer’s collarbone. The young man’s entire right side went instantly dead. He collapsed sideways onto the cold grey tiles, gasping in paralyzed panic.
“I told you. I’m a surgeon,” the beggar murmured, his eyes turning ice-cold. “I know human anatomy. Which means I know a lethal neurotoxin puncture when I see one on a girl’s neck. And I know exactly how to paralyze an assassin.”
He plunged the needle directly into the girl’s chest.
One agonizing second passed. Then, the girl’s spine arched. She inhaled with a violent, ragged gasp, her eyes snapping open. She didn’t look at the beggar in fear—she looked at him with profound relief.
“Status,” the beggar demanded, his raspy voice instantly shifting to crisp authority.
“Compromised,” she coughed, glaring at the paralyzed man in the suit. “He intercepted me.”
The beggar tapped a hidden earpiece beneath his messy grey hair. “Target secured. Pull that parked ambulance up to the plaza. And bring heavy restraints.”
He looked down at the terrified hitman, flashing a razor-sharp smile. “Next time you try to murder an operative, make sure her handler isn’t panhandling on the corner.”