Chapter 34 Chapter 34 One Hundred Million United States Treasury Notes, Transferable…
Cassandra Sparta, that was her name. At least, that was what was written down. Sparta wasn't a very striking surname, and few would go out of their way to connect it to a real Greek city-state that existed over two thousand years ago.
"Sparta".
That austere, self-denial, and bellicose military city-state, and even the entire brilliantly civilized Greece; the snow-white horse Phoebus galloped through the green woods at her whistle, the golden eagle Ikaros soared in the blue sky was her patrolling eyes, the Adrestia galloped across the waves of Poseidon's seas with a furious roar, and in the wind, rain, and scorching sun, Kassandra at the helm sang, drank, and laughed with the crew.
Besides these great adventures and bloody myths, the warm golden Greek sunlight continued to shine through the blue-white room, drying the grapes waiting to be made into fine wine, kissing her skin, her braids, her gleaming weapons and armor, and witnessing Cassandra—
Athena, the great falconer, the victorious mercenary!
—Every indulgence in pleasure, every joyful battle of revenge, every friendship, family affection and love gained and lost, every drop of blood and tears shed...
That's where Cassandra really comes from.
Over two thousand years later, the city-state of Sparta has long since faded into history. Kassandra, clad in a vibrant dress and smiling softly, stands as a jewel of Greek heritage.
"I've heard of you, Mr. Wayne," she held out her hand. "In some capacity or other."
Cassandra winked at Bruce. The young playboy, still in his teens, wasn't sure he'd grasped her meaning. He paused, about to take her hand for a kiss, and finally settled for a respectful handshake.
"Just call me Bruce, 'Falconer' Cassandra." Bruce said, "To be honest, I'm curious how you two met..."
This was not a lie, but after seeing the falconer and the princess of Paradise Island smiling at each other, Bruce realized that he would not get this answer.
"…but it looks like you won't tell me," he smiled as well, "right?"
They seemed to be talking happily and in harmony. Elio, who was watching there, blinked in confusion, and blinked again and again, but every time, his eagle eyes told him with certainty: Yes, the three golden targets were gathering together!
Just as the assassin was puzzled, a hand wearing a jeweled ring reached out and took a glass of champagne from his tray.
"I did as much as I could," said Galahad.
Elio turned his head and didn't ask how he recognized him, but just looked at him with a smile.
That smile was just the right balance between "I know what you're talking about" and "I'm happy to serve you." No one could find fault with it, except for the Templar, who had a blank expression, as if he had said nothing, and walked away with his champagne.
No one knew how many names were on Abstergo's hit list at that lavish banquet hosted by Wayne. It was hard not to think that the Templars would be tempted by the prospect of simply bringing in a group of kidnappers—a common occurrence in Gotham—to eliminate the many obstacles to their conquest once and for all.
But no one knows how many pairs of vigilantes' "eyes" and "ears" are watching here.
Elio turned away from where he had been standing and wandered through the crowd. "Everything is alright?"
"Everything is normal," Red Hood muttered, "except our 'guests' haven't shown up yet. Honestly, I'm kind of looking forward to their arrival... tonight's lineup is enough for us to save the Earth all over again."
With the Falconer, Wonder Woman, and Batman all gathered, not to mention the assassins and vigilantes watching from the sidelines, it's possible the Templars wouldn't have been frightened off, much like every other villain who ventures into Gotham looking for a way to make a killing, had they known the dangers of this purposefully gaping pocket.
But unfortunately, they don't know.
The only one who knew this, the Knights Templar, chose to push this matter behind the scenes.
Beneath the hustle and bustle of the banquet, Galahad was gently rolling his eyes, seemingly casually examining everyone who passed by. He handled social conversations as usual, but his nerves were secretly tense, waiting for the "accident" to happen.
That was why, when Leopold spoke to him and said she would be leaving for a while, he almost didn't react.
"What? Oh, okay," Galahad paused, "Come back soon, I can't do without you."
He couldn't warn her directly, but he was worried about Leopold's safety. Galahad's eyes followed Leopold's back as he left. The young Templar made his way through the crowd, asked the waiter for directions, and then went into the restroom.
When he opened the door, a young, scar-free, black-haired waiter was walking out of the compartment. He turned his head and his eyes briefly met Leopold's, then quickly lowered their gaze naturally.
It also made him miss Leopold's expression.
Leopold said nothing. As if he hadn't noticed anything, the Templar walked steadily to the mirror and carefully adjusted his appearance. The waiter, as if not recognizing him, quickly washed his hands and headed for the door.
They were about to pass each other, but suddenly, there was a strange crackling sound and the entire banquet hall fell into darkness.
here we go!
Elio realized this immediately. He was about to bolt when, as if remembering something, he quickly turned his head—Leopold in the mirror was also looking at him, clearly reacting subconsciously. Before he could say anything, the assassin took a few steps back, grabbed Leopold's shoulder, and pushed him into the compartment.
"Don't go anywhere," Elio said, lowering his voice. "Hide here."
He wasn't sure if Leopold would listen to him, but after a brief moment of surprise, the Templar nodded without any resistance.
"Go ahead." He said knowingly.
Elio stared at him intently and nodded emphatically. With no more time to waste, the assassin quickly released his grip and ran.
The sudden darkness in the banquet hall didn't last long. Amidst whispers, the door was roughly pushed open, and the intruders filed in. When the lights came back on, the kidnappers had already taken control of the scene with a few gunshots.
This was a common occurrence in Gotham, but no one was truly accustomed to it. The celebrities who had just been toasting each other suddenly transformed into trembling little sheep, mercilessly herded into a corner. Some wept, some prayed, some tried to contact the outside world... and when the robbers snatched him from the crowd, the caller's heart nearly stopped.
"Look what I found!"
The man who called the police was dragged out staggeringly, and the other hostages looked at him with horror, as if they had already seen his end. But surprisingly, the robbers did nothing to him.
"Keep calling," the robber pointed his gun at him, "put it on speaker so we can all hear it—but no talking, okay? You're only allowed to talk when I give the order. Understand?"
The person who called the police nodded nervously.
The call was quickly connected. "This is Gotham Police Department. What emergency are you facing?"
"Call your chief," the gun-wielding robber said into the phone. "You have no say in this matter."
"This gentleman..."
"We've kidnapped Wayne," the robber said, glancing over at the shivering flock. "Wetherby, Montagu, Cavendish, and other important figures whose names I'm too lazy to mention—by the way, what's your name, sir?"
His eyes fell on the person who called the police, who quickly gave his name in a crying voice.
“Help!”
Everyone heard a click on the other end of the line, like a ballpoint pen dropping on a table. Then there was the creaking of a chair being pulled out, and the operator called out, "Chief Gordon!"
The robber waited patiently. His companions moved around the banquet hall, all keeping an eye on the conversation. The hostages were similarly focused, glued to the phone as if it were their chance of escape.
No one noticed—hardly anyone—that a few men had quietly disappeared from the robbers' ranks.
The assassin pounced on one of the robbers from behind, strangled him and pushed him into the tablecloth, almost bumping into Red Robin who was hiding there.
They looked at each other's "trophies" and gave each other a thumbs up at the same time.
"We're competing to see who can catch the most people," Red Robin whispered. "Want to join?"
The robber held by the assassin struggled hard, as if to protest the vigilantes' kidnapping for entertainment, but soon he lost consciousness. He rolled his eyes and slid softly from the assassin's arms.
Elio released his hand. He nodded slowly and with interest to Red Robin.
"Of course," he said.
"...One hundred million U.S. Treasury bonds, transferable, bearer, with coupon." The robber was still concentrating on his phone. "I'll only give you half an hour. Do you understand, Commissioner Gordon? Do you need me to repeat it?"
"I hear you clearly," said Commissioner Gordon. "We'll do our best to accommodate your request, but it's a significant sum, after all. We might need more time to raise it. If you're willing to extend the time to three-quarters of an hour..."
He gave his subordinates a look, and the Gotham Police Department immediately took action, organizing a team to go to the scene and raise the funds the kidnappers were looking for. The kidnapper who called was calm and demanded precision, which made him sound professional. They didn't need to worry about him killing people in the heat of the moment, but the negotiation would be much more difficult.
Sure enough, Gordon's request for extra time was immediately rejected.
"Half an hour is half an hour," the kidnapper said, "you'll figure it out. Call us again when the money is ready. If you're one minute late, we'll drop a head worth a thousand gold coins from here."
He quickly hung up the phone, his head tilted, and his waiting subordinates escorted the useless caller away. Silence fell over the banquet hall, but the kidnapper glanced around and frowned fiercely.
"I told you to watch out for those cloaked men, idiots." He quickly loaded his submachine gun. "We've got company."
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