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[color=crimson][sub]"[b]On His Demon Head's Secret Service[/b]" // Part 02[/sub][/color][/center]
[color=crimson][b]Bludhaven[/b]
Avalon Hills[/color]

Val Kaliban had spent a lifetime around information.

A former high school star athlete, he'd been recruited from out of a Stanford MBA program to work in the CIA's clandestine foreign intelligence branch. At a certain point, the network of foreign contacts he'd made had become more lucrative for him and he pledged allegiance to the money rather than to the United States. He'd even lived as an ex-pat in Afghanistan for a time, selling information to the Taliban, the Northern Alliance, and the United States' special forces.

In exchange for information about the location of Abu Sayyid ibn Faraj al Yemeni, he'd negotiated a secret deal with the U.S. government that had allowed him to return to his home country with a passport and a clean slate -- allowing him to live out the remainder of his years in suburbia. But if anyone thought that the [b]Spook[/b] was retired, they were kidding themselves. He'd positioned himself economically. The Eurozone was crashing, the Russians were coming, and ISIL was a real and present danger to a man like Kaliban. He'd wagered his knowledge strategically, putting him in a position to sell his services to the approaching crime syndicates that were moving in from the north and south to lay claim to Gotham.

A man with Val Kaliban's skills was not easily dismissed by the [b]League[/b]. Such tact and manipulation of data was a rare trait. Even still, there were some things that the League could simply not permit and Kaliban had crossed one of those lines when he'd sold information to the League. And then turned around and sold information ABOUT the League.

That was a new Jaguar F-Type convertible in the garage. The S type trim available starting at $80,000, which suggested what the payout for the information had been. The ranch style home was nestled against a man-made lake on the side of an eighteen hole golf course that was all packaged neatly inside a private, gated community. Close enough to Gotham to be drivable, far enough away so to get none of the metropolitan traffic.

Now ask yourself, what is a million dollar home and an $80K car doing in Bludhaven?

A whaling town incorporated in the late nineteenth century, Bludhaven was a small town economy that had failed to launch. Attempts by mayors and city planners to reinvent, revitalize, or revisit the city's image had all ended disastrously, and with any number of scandals. The murder rate of a town with a fraction of the population was nonetheless on par with Chicago. So what motivated that level of crime in such small town America?

The answer was the docks. Longshoremen in the United States were synonymous with the mob, and so there was a long history of crime families using Bludhaven as their own summer vacation home. Maroni. Falcone. Key. Each had their own booth, with their name on it, at Anthony's on Main. As for the gated community, some of those were safe houses, some were grow houses, some were rentals. Few people actually lived here. And those that did usually did so at the invitation or pleasure of the mob.

In the age of Google, most of what Val Kaliban did now he could do over e-mail or text. He came and went from the house sporadically. He didn't seem to keep any kind of schedule. He'd been trained to avoid any sort of routine. Even when he went to the grocery store, he varied his route and went to different stores in order to be unpredictable. He looked over his shoulder, checked for vehicles tailing him, and seemed to operate under the suspicion of surveillance.

However, he'd agreed to a meeting. At his place. It was the price of doing business with Sal Maroni, who happened to own the bank that owned the loan that owned the house Kaliban was living in. Gee, there was a coincidence, wasn't there?

[color=goldenrod][i]♪...Yeah, is it too late now to say [b]sorry[/b]... cause I'm missing more than just your body...♪[/i][/color]

The preteen's head swayed from side to side, his lips moving as he mouthed the words to the pop song by Bieber that was pumped through the black SkullCandy ear buds. In his lap, the child was stripping, inspecting, and assembling the German made pistol he'd been given. Connecting the slide to the frame, the boy inverted the Walther PPS before popping the magazine into place. Righting the gun, the rocked the slide back to chamber a round and disengaged the safety before tucking it away at the small of his back.

[color=goldenrod][i]...Yeah I know that I let you down... Is it too late to say I'm sorry now...[/i][/color]

Pulling on a pair of black gloves, the boy next reached for the black scabbard that had been resting on the seat beside him. Sheath in one hand, handle in the other, he pulled the wakazashi from the scabbard just far enough to inspect the blade for damages. It was eighteenth century Japanese. Securing the blade back, the boy slung the scabbard behind his as he secured the weapon on his back. 

The Enterprise Rent-a-Car Volvo was rolling up on the house. Reaching for the door handle, the boy paused to consider just how this was going to go down. This wasn't [i]training[/i]. This wasn't 1,800 yards away, seen through the scope of a rifle. This was [b]real[/b]. Shit was about to get [i]real[/i].

The Volvo rolled to a stop. Obediently, the child popped the door open as he started to step out of the car. He looked back only because he realized that his driver -- the woman in the [i]niqab[/i] -- had snagged his sleeve to get his attention.

Was she going to tell him to be careful?

"If you fail," the woman said, speaking slowly and clearly. "My instructions are to kill you."

The boy looked crestfallen for a moment, but it had only been a moment. Of course she was. Mother had probably even reinforced that idea in his chaperon and bodyguard. To live as an al Ghul one had to prove that they were worthy of that life. This was a test, not a job. And therein lay the key distinction between someone like Val Kaliban and Damian. [color=crimson]"-tt-"[/color] the boy chirped derisively, adopting a sneer as he twisted his face away. [color=crimson]"I'll kill you for suggesting I could fail,"[/color] the boy tossed back haughtily, before swinging the car door shut.

He'd twisted his face away so she wouldn't see the single tear rolling down the right side of his face. Pop music pounding in his ears, he turned his eyes up to the stars overlooking the house. 

Someone was going to die tonight. Would it be him?