Chapter 68 Chapter 68 Just that one glance was enough for Rob...
As Robert thought back on these events, he realized how coincidental it all was. All of this—how he had rushed into the factory office after learning he'd been "fired," and how, unsurprisingly, he'd been yelled at and driven away, while those adults in suits argued anxiously about something, like...
It was like some kind of shadowy crow hovering over them.
But as they argued, Robert saw it. He saw, within the khaki door frame, among the bustling crowd, a frame from the video frozen on the screen; the assassin's scarred face hung condescendingly there, as if silently looking down at everyone arguing for him.
Just that one glance was enough to make Robert tremble.
"Who is that?" he demanded, grabbing the bodyguard's arm. "Why did you put him here?"
The bodyguard impatiently drove him away, but for some reason Robert hadn't considered, he didn't push the child hard. "Go, go!"
"Does that mean—"
Robert thought it would be difficult. He wouldn't be able to remember the man's name, but when he opened his mouth, the murderer's name immediately jumped out of his tongue. "Elliot Smith?!"
The open-door debate paused. The dignitaries shuddered, if Robert saw correctly. But he paid no attention. As the shuddering faces turned toward him, he too began to tremble; but a flame of hatred instantly filled his chest, a flame he'd mistakenly attributed to uncontrollable rage.
"How do you know his name?" a face asked.
"He killed—" Tears welled up in Robert's angry eyes, "He killed my father! It was he—"
The stern faces softened. Tears blurred Robert's vision; he couldn't see the look they exchanged, but he knew the bodyguard had put him down. He could vaguely hear the muffled voices, mingling with the irritation ringing in his temples and ears, as if to say, "This is the boy."
But he didn't notice.
All he knew was that a handkerchief had wiped away his tears. When he could see the world clearly again, he found that the adults in the office had suddenly shown him extraordinary kindness and sympathy; they shook their heads in pity and told him helplessly that Elliot Smith was a wicked troublemaker, a ruthless killer who had destroyed countless jobs and families, and who was so good at hiding and concealing himself that he had repeatedly escaped the pursuit and punishment of the law. But they had no way to deal with him, and neither could a little boy like Robert.
...Unless he was very, very lucky and happened to run into the assassin on the streets of New York, where he often roamed these days.
But that didn't mean anything. After all, Robert was still such a small child, unarmed and weak. How could he possibly defeat such a tall assassin, how could he possibly cause him even the slightest harm?
"You can only call the police," the turbaned man said, pressing Robert's shoulder intentionally or unintentionally. "Did you hear me? The only thing you can do is call the police and let professionals handle this matter."
"But..." Robert looked at them doubtfully, "You just said that he escaped from searches and roundups many times. Can the police really catch him?"
The adults exchanged a look he couldn't understand.
"Leave it to the police." The man just repeated, "You're too young to do anything. Don't try to be a hero alone, understand? You can't do any harm to him unless you can get very... very close." He stretched out his ending tone meaningfully, "But you can't, and shouldn't do that. You're too weak. No matter how much you hate him, no matter how much you hope he can pay for the harm he's caused you - he murdered your father in public and left in public with a dignified manner. He is the beginning and reason why your family has fallen to this point, and he has changed your life forever..."
"But you can't do anything," he said, a glint of pity flashing across his eyes as he looked at Robert. "Hold on. Don't miss this opportunity. You may only have this one chance in your life...to call the police."
Robert looked at him blankly, barely suppressing the instinct to retort - telling a boy of this age not to do something was the same as telling him to do something; before he discovered the malice in the adult's words, the young boy understood the subtle hint first.
He may only have one chance in his life to seek revenge, to exact his revenge, to accomplish something that even professionals cannot do - to make the lunatic who is at large pay the price.
At least, that's what Robert thought before he actually met Elio in person.
It was this assassin who had given his life such a bad start, but it was also he who, when threatened by the thugs who were clearly bluffing, had embraced Robert tightly; that warm embrace almost confused the boy, because if Elio was such a bad guy, why would he bother to protect him? But if Elio was not a bad guy, why did he do those bad things?
This confusion caused Robert to miss that opportunity. The closest opportunity to the assassin. He felt for the knife in his pocket the moment Elio pulled him into his arms. If it weren't for his momentary surprise, that momentary stiffness that delayed his revenge, he would have already... accomplished his revenge.
Robert didn't dare to think what had stopped his plan. Although the power of being treated so gently had turned into tears, flowing out of his eyes——
This was probably his only chance for revenge in his lifetime. But he failed.
And he was too young to understand what a lucky miss it was.
He also couldn't understand what was that thing that quickly expanded like a balloon in his chest and then exploded into pieces when he saw the familiar figure slowly walking along the tree-shaded stone path through the hole in the iron fence of the playground.
All Robert knew was that he wanted to run out immediately, to the assassin's side. And so he did. He ignored his teacher's calls and slammed into Elio's thigh like a cannonball; he would have fallen to the ground if the assassin hadn't quickly grasped his shoulder, helping the boy regain his footing.
"Hey," Elio greeted him briskly, as if the previous unpleasantness had never happened. "Watch your step."
Robert looked up at him, at this "killer" who truly had a kind and forgiving heart towards him, and tears welled up in his eyes again.
"You—I—" He grabbed Elio's trouser leg, closing his eyes as if for dear life, and cried out, "I'm sorry!!"
Elio also looked at the boy. He squatted down and gently held the boy's hand.
"It's okay," Elio whispered. "Robert, it's okay."
"It's not your fault!" Robert cried. "It's not your fault at all, whether it's the insurance, the factory or the welfare home. I know this - but I -"
Elio didn't speak. He simply held the boy's hand and looked at him with that quiet, gentle gaze; in that gaze, in that power, Robert felt that everything about him was seen, understood, accepted, and forgiven.
The teacher, who had been chasing after him, saw this and slowly stopped. Elio didn't look up, but with a slight upward glance, he gently stopped the teacher from moving forward. The teacher stood there in amazement and confusion, watching this boy, who had clearly been depressed for days and refused to tell him anything, sob like a wrinkled little monkey in front of this stranger.
"—I was too weak. I was too soft to blame all this on you," Robert choked, "but it wasn't your fault at all."
"That's not your fault, Robert," Elio said patiently. "You're still young, and your future is full of possibilities. Stop thinking about it, okay? The most important thing for you right now—" He suddenly smiled, perhaps embarrassed by his sermon, "is to stay in school. Don't worry about your family, and don't worry about money anymore."
He winked mysteriously at Robert, then changed the subject, "This isn't something a kid your age should be thinking about."
Robert stared at him blankly, with two strings of tears on his cheeks.
"Now, go back," Elio stood up and patted him on the back, "unless there's something else you want to tell me?"
·
Farhad Amer, founder of the Humanitarian Aid Organization (HAO), paced anxiously around his glass office in the Middle East.
He definitely did not fly back from New York to the Middle East, where security was tight and the entire building was crammed with surveillance cameras and bodyguards, in order to escape from the assassin's shadow, and to avoid the assassin's possible pursuit. Because unlike the terrorist assassins who were causing chaos and destruction everywhere, Farhad had been generously providing job opportunities to children around the world that local governments were unwilling to provide, and enthusiastically sent his charity organization to any corner of the world that was hit by a disaster. As for which came first, the disaster or HAO, those who raised this question were eventually forced to remain silent.
But those problems, those businesses; or rather, the business full of problems, are not important now. Farhad only wants to know one thing now, that is -
That assassin. That new generation of assassin, Elliot Smith, rising like a ghost; what happened to him? Was he dead? Was he still alive?
His mind was preoccupied with this one thing, with a concern he had never felt before for a life that was not his own, as much as for his career; Farhad took a deep breath, forced himself to calm down, and stopped at the glass wall.
A sandstorm is coming.
Farhad saw the yellow dust rolling up from the horizon. Like waves, they rolled in.
But the wrath of nature, which the Middle East was accustomed to, was not enough to freeze the Knights Templar.
What really froze him was a flickering green reflection he saw in the glass.
——It was the cold eyes raised from under the white hood.
bass!
Amidst the swirling dust, a line of blood splashed on the floor-to-ceiling window glass.
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