"Status Report."
Team One's light clicked on. Followed by that of Teams Two, Three, and Four. A single green LED on top of the monitor.
"Mark initial targets."
Again, all four lights clicked on, each activated by a man in full tactical assault armors surrounded by four like-geared individuals. No amount of flesh was exposed, and few, if any, joints were outwardly visible. The targets were fond of using blades. These Teams had no such sentimentality.
"Begin operation on my mark."
His eyes bored through the lenses of his mask, vision amplified by the night-vision filters and state-of-the-art HUD that singled out and locked on his target despite the darkness. His weapons were loaded, safeties were off.
"May the Father of Understanding Guide Us. Mark."
Five black, unmarked vans opened around a warehouse simultaneously, their passengers tearing pouring into the large, somewhat run-down building. The lead men, four subservient to the speaker, all fired off one shot in perfect synchronous, each hitting a key target, as planned. Their targets numbered two dozen, but half were down within the first five seconds. The sharp, staccato pops of automatic weapons fire tore through the collected crowd, which was comprised of a number of men and women from every apparent walk of life. The following five seconds were more interesting.
The remaining dozen lept and darted out of the lines of fire much faster than one would ever expect. From seemingly nowhere above, one fell onto a member of Team Two, the man collapsing with a blade in his throat, another already though one of the minuscule gaps of another man's armor before the bladesman was also put down. The Speaker, the leader of Team Zero however, was just as fast, if not faster, than his prey. He lept as they did despite the weight of his armor, moving fluidly to pick off his targets as they tried to flee. They knew they could not win, but they thought the could survive.
They were mistaken.
A man from Team Four went down, but took his killer with him. Within a minute, the warehouse was silent once more. The gunmen now numbered twenty, five lost to tricks and blades. Acceptable losses. No time was wasted, the black-clad men moving to key positions in the warehouse, every floor, planting small satchel charges before retreating to their trucks and vanishing into the night as the building was destroyed, reduced to cinders in minutes. It would be cited as an emergency demolition, and no one would ever be the wiser.
The leader of Team Zero removed his mask, his sharp features covered in a light sheen of sweat, voice cool, steady as he spoke into a small microphone. "Mission Accomplished. Returning to base. Five casualties, full pensions to the families." The trucks drove every different direction, the members vanishing again into anonymity, save for the Team Zero truck, which proceeded quite simply and plainly into the varied sub-basement garages of the towering Abstergo Industries building in the heart of New York.
A secretary was waiting for him as he emerged from the truck, stripping his equipment. Each piece would be scoured of any trace of DNA, on the off chance that anyone started prying too deeply into the warehouse's destruction. Simple matter of protocol.
'The papers are on your desk as you requested, Mr. Bishop.' A nod was her dismissal, and she vanished like a good, obedient little worker.
Within ten minutes, Alexander Bishop was cleaned, dressed in a fine suit, and sitting in his suite / office, looking out at the New York skyline. He sipped at his drink, the faintest of smiles pulling at his lips, the light of the office shining off of the small, red cross he wore on his ring finger. The Templars had won this night. And they would win again. These 'Assassins' were rats, chaos abound. A threat to the world...a threat he would eliminate. Intel was coming in from teams across the globe. They would be found. And they would be killed.
"Your move, Mentor."
