It was a dark and stormy evening in the French capital and some of the less adventurous tourists were running for cover and hailing cabs. None of them suspected they were being watched. One does not ponder such things in heavy rain, especially not in the romance capital of the world. Prowlers do not hunt the streets of Paris, the tourists think, Paris is a dream of a city that cannot in any stretch of the human mind be associated with crime. Little did they know, however, that were being watched. Or perhaps, scanned, is a more relevant word. Yes, the chaotic crowd was being scanned. The prowler was looking for something. A face seems the most likely object of his search. Suddenly, from the dark alley in which he hid, a terrifying and yet slightly curious thing happened. Just as the last tourist had rounded a corner, the prowler's eyes lit up. A man, dressed in warm clothing, walked right passed the prowler. The hunt was on. The shady figure rose from his crouch, stealthy as panther, and began to silently stalk his prey. His movements were cat-like in execution but also strangely cautious, as if he was afraid his quarry would turn and attack at any moment. This behavior is not the norm for such "criminals" and so the general understanding of this man's motives change exponentially. Mentally, he systematically assesses his prey. Slight bulge on left side. Probably a firearm, most likely a 45mm. Glock by the size and shape. So, what is an American made gun doing in Paris? Also, a piece of paper (envelope ?) pokes out of his coat pocket. Beads of rain water are collected on his jacket, suggesting a water-proof material. He also wears black leather gloves. All this is processed in his mind in the time it takes to snap your fingers. He silently pulls a small dagger from his belt and quickens his pace. He pulls a small white hankerchief out of his shirt pocket, and, as he walks up behind the man, slips it over his victim's mouth to muffle the scream as he slips the dagger expertly in between the ribs, right through the center of his heart. Before a drop of blood could be spilled on the emaculate Parisian sidewalk, the assassin has dragged the lifeless form into a dumpster, but not before taking the envelope and gun out of his coat pocket. The whole incident takes about 15 seconds. As the man's dark figure slowly walks of into the distance we here the almost unintelligible sound of singing coming from the bar across the street.
