[center][h1][b][color=ed1c24]THE CRIMSON AVENGER[/color][/b][/h1][/center] The Ambassador Hotel Gotham City, NJ 8:21 PM Local Time [color=fff200]“Lee, I get that you're trying, but I have to admit I don't really see the strategy here,”[/color] Amos Vangilder grumbled. The older man reached up and smoothed the already glassy surface of his silk tie for the hundredth or so time- a tic Lee had come to recognize as a sign of impatience. [color=ed1c24]“Amos, fidus Achates, you may understand the numbers but Dad taught me a lot about the social side of business,”[/color] Lee lied glibly. The elder Travis had hardly acknowledged his son when still alive, much less passed on any nuggets of wisdom. But Amos didn't know that. Nor did he know that tonight he would be a useful distraction, a Trojan horse. [color=ed1c24]“Slim Chance may have left Hollywood for literal greener pastures, but no doubt he has many contacts that could prove useful to us. Not to mention the name recognition factor.”[/color] [color=fff200]“He's a successful businessman now, Lee, what makes you think he'll be interested in writing a column or being a commentator?”[/color] [color=ed1c24]“Don't B-list actors love becoming pundits?”[/color] Lee chuckled. [color=ed1c24]“It's simple, we wine and dine the man, appeal to his ego. Just a little bit of flattery and suddenly Mr. Chance has visions of imperium sine fine dancing before his eyes.”[/color] Amos nodded, accepting the lie without question. He was a capable, stolid businessman. But he lacked the imagination to see Lee as anything more than a well-intentioned but spoiled playboy, the boss' kid playing at work. Lee was counting on that. [color=fff200]“Well, I'm glad he agreed to meet us for dinner,”[/color] Amos said. He looked around the hotel lobby with fondness. [color=fff200]“The food here is pretty good, you know. I remember once I went to a conference here back in '03. Ferris Boyle and Simon Stagg were the keynote speakers-”[/color] [color=ed1c24] “Well, Amos, you're a big part of this plan,”[/color] Lee interrupted before the CEO went into another long story. [color=ed1c24]“Think of it as a Fabian strategy. When Slim comes down from his hotel room to meet us, only you're there. You apologize for me, make some excuse, take him to dinner and talk about demographics and market research and everything for 30 or 40 minutes. Then I show up, fashionably late of course, and turn on the charm before he has a chance to recover. You're the substance, I'm the style. Munit haec et altera vincit, eh?”[/color] Lee said with a hearty clap to the shoulder. The simple appeal to Amos' vanity did the trick. He beamed, pleased to be in on the plan. [color=fff200]“I like the way you think, Lee,”[/color] he said cheerily. [color=fff200]“Why don't you just duck into the bar, let me handle the first end. I'm sure there's a pretty blonde in there who could help you pass the time,”[/color] he said with an overly jocular, condescending, I-was-young-once wink. Lee took the opportunity to grab his briefcase and slip away. He stepped into the bar, but peered out from behind the glass doors to see Slim Chance step out of the elevator and greet Amos Vangilder with a firm cowboy handshake. After some pleasantries, rendered silent by distance and the thick glass, the two men ambled towards the doors of the Ambassador's Michelin-starred restaurant. Amos would easily buy him an hour, maybe longer given the way the old man liked to ramble on. Plenty of time for the Crimson Avenger to have a look around Chance's hotel room. Unnoticed, Lee slipped into an elevator. Over the phone, Chance had been kind enough to provide his room number to Vangilder's secretary in order to facilitate the meeting. At this time of the evening, the hotel was dead quiet. The staff had finished their rounds and the guests had stepped out to enjoy the fabled Gotham nightlife. Once on the 22nd floor, it was nothing for Lee Travis to step inside an unlocked, unused conference room. The Crimson Avenger emerged a moment later, red hat pulled down low and mask obscuring his features. The electronic lock to Chance's suite was easily defeated- a few trips to less savory corners of the internet had enabled an anonymous purchase of the proper lockpicking gadget. With one last glance over his shoulder, the Crimson Avenger let himself into the suite. He closed the door behind him, not bothering to turn on any lights- better to touch as little as possible, less chance of his presence being discovered. Pulling a small flashlight, he began to methodically sweep the room. Old-fashioned suits and Western wear in the closet- including a leather belt with two pearl-handled revolvers dangling from the doorknob. Not something one wore to dinner. A stack of 8x10 glossy photos, just waiting to be autographed. And here was something a little more interesting on the writing desk- a sheaf of legal paper wearing notary stamps. The Crimson Avenger held the small flashlight in his mouth as he leafed through the paperwork with both hands. It looked like a bill of sale, property deeds, appraisals, land surveys. All for a patch of rather worthless farmland a good thirty miles outside the city limits. He leafed through, committing as much as he could to memory. The purchaser seemed to be a company, Napoli SRL, on whose behlaf Slim had signed. Only a Gotham PO box listed as an address. Possibly a shell corporation. Lee knew Napoli was the Italian name for Naples, and SRL the Italian equivalent of LLC. It all made sense. That useless land must have been where they intended to dump the Ace chemical waste. Slim Chance was not only providing cheap labor but also acting as an American face for the Camorra, a bridge between Ace Chemicals and Italian organized crime. A sharp click behind him snapped him out of his reverie, and the Crimson Avenger whirled, the light from the flashlight clamped in his teeth glinting off the switchblade coming at him out the darkness. He instinctively leaned back, feeling the breeze of the knife singing through the air a mere inch from his face. The man holding it was dressed expensively, a style and cut of suit that struck him as European. A glance downwards showed the man had removed his shoes in order to sneak up on him in his socks. The camorrista quickly stepped back out of striking distance, knife held low in front of him and arm out wide to intercept any attempt to run past him. The Crimson Avenger knew this was no purse snatcher, this was a man who had made a living out of violence. He was alert, fit, and experienced. This was not going to be an easy fight. Before the Italian could press the attack, the Crimson Avenger jerked his head sideways and opened his mouth, sending the lit flashlight sailing across the empty air in the darkened sitting room. The comorrista's split-second reflexive glance at the moving light source was the only opening the Crimson Avenger needed to barrel into the man like a linebacker for the Gotham Rogues. The flashlight hit the wall and shattered, plunging the hotel sitting room into pitch blackness. The knife flew out of the man's hand, immediately lost in the darkness. They crashed heavily to the floor, grappling savagely and blindly with one another. Without the benefit of light, they fought like cats in a sack, grabbing at one another's throats and rolling over one another on the floor. They punched blindly at one another, the Crimson Avenger's clublike blows met with the same. They bit, they elbowed, they scratched, they headbutted, they kneed. It was impossible to fight scientifically. A calm detached part of the Crimson Avenger's brain registered that he would have to learn better ways of fighting without sight, especially if he planned to be a nocturnal adventurer. Somewhere in their clumsy, vicious wrestling, the camorrista's groping hands grazed against one of the Colt .45s in their shoulder holsters under the Crimson Avenger's red coat. Suddenly, the Italian had a viable strategy. Pressing a calloused palm against the Crimson Avenger's masked face, with his free hand he searched under the coat, his fingers brushing against the butt of the pistol. A sudden calm and focus overtook the Crimson Avenger. The mortal danger seemed to clear his mind, slow his pounding heart. He visualized his opponent's position atop him, took stock of the other man's weight. It was all so simple. A foot into the Italian's stomach. Wrists enclosed his arms. A sharp rock back on his shoulders couple with a lift of the leg and release. A perfect tomoe nage, just as Wing had taught him. The unplanned part came with the crashing sound of breaking plate glass, the sudden rush of cool air into the room, the panicked scream from the camorrista as he began the agonizing descent from the 22nd floor. The Crimson Avenger stood, rushed to the broken window, but there was nothing he could do. [color=ed1c24]“Oh God, oh shit, shit, shit,”[/color] he cursed, rushing out the door in a near panic. He had just killed a man. Sure, it was an accident, sure the man was a professional criminal trying to kill him. But that wasn't what he had become the Crimson Avenger for. The headlines would read “Italian National Murdered By Mystery Man”. His head swam. He lurched into the conference room, sweat pouring from his face as he stripped off the costume and stuffed it into his briefcase. Lee Travis was fighting the urge to throw up.