Heidelberg, Germany

As the two strangers entered the bar, they made for a rather unlikely pair. The man seemed out of his element (and a oddity in any setting besides a fashion show or a board meeting at that) dressed in a flawlessly tailored, single-breasted, black suit, mustard vest, starched white shirt and a red and gold power tie; the dreadlocks cascading down his back contrasted well with his coffee skin tone. The engraved cane he held in left hand was clearly decorative and fashionable, but not strictly for show as evidenced by the slight limp that accompanied his steps; the gold ring with its single, red stone that decorated his right ring finger caught and reflected the light with his every movement.

The woman slightly behind and to his left was equally eye-catching, but for a different reason. Her red leather pants looked as if they’d been painted on and she wore a red silk shirt that dipped low enough into her cleavage that it was unclear as to whether she wore anything beneath it or not. Those who came to their senses long enough to meet her eyes quickly came to the conclusion that it was a mystery best left unsolved – it was clearly not a subject up for discussion. Fashionable but functional red leather boots covered her feet and a long, black trenchcoat completed the ensemble. They both wore sunglasses – his, a pair of nez-pince with gold frames, hers, a black pair of mirrored Ray-Bans.

"Can I help you?" the bartender said, and several of the patrons snickered and muttered under their breath. The pair remained silent and continued to scan the room as if they hadn’t heard. The bartender took in a breath and repeated the question, this time, with a sardonic overtone.

"You could help me, if I needed it, but I don’t. I will find what I need on my own." He turned his head to the side, and the bartender could see the flesh-toned earpiece in the stranger’s left ear. Lifting his arm, the stranger tapped a sequence on his watch and spoke into it, saying, "Dr. E, we are in position. I require a description if this operation is to move along."

The stranger was silent for several seconds, and then he nodded to himself. The woman stepped forward, heels clicking against the sticky floor. "News, boss?"

"Him," the man said as he withdrew a cigarette case from his inside pocket. With a nod, he gestured toward a lanky, pimple-faced man in the corner. "Guards first."

The lanky man jerked upright, then looked around frantically. Two men at the bar suddenly turned around and stood up, hands inching beneath their cheap overcoats. "You got a problem?" one asked, his thick, Russian accent making the statement almost indecipherable.

"Oh, please, like either of you can do anything at this point. You were made the moment we hit the door. Now sit back down and leave us be before someone does something… regrettable," the stranger said. He shielded the lighter’s flame as he lit the cigarette. One of the men backed down, but the other growled deeply in his throat.

"I’ll wipe that grin off your face, pretty boy, then we’ll sit down and have a chat about regrets," the other said, and threw an overhand right cross that slammed into the stranger’s jaw.

The stranger calmly put his cigarette holder back into his coat, then casually rubbed his face, wiping a small bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. He blew out a bit of smoke, smiled, and said, "Alpha three, engage."

The door burst open and 6’4" inches, 260 lbs. of muscle-laden attitude covered in a steelweave vest stomped through the door. His arms were bare, but every inch was covered with scars and he carried a wicked-looking baton in his meaty fist. Bright blue sapphire-like eyes bored into everyone in the room before finally settling on the man in front of the well-dressed stranger. "This guy bothering you, ‘Nox?"

"Not for long," the stranger said, and he took a full step backward. The newcomer grinned and stepped forward and the look on the Russian’s face resembled that of a deer caught in a truck’s headlights.

To say that the Russian was outmatched was akin to saying that a sailboat is slightly smaller than a battleship.

The newcomer’s baton bobbed up and down in a regular rhythm, accompanied by grunts and yelps from the unfortunate victim. Several times the Russian returned a blow or two, but he might as well have been hitting a concrete wall for all the effect it had on the newcomer. In the meantime, the lanky man darted out of his chair and took three steps toward the back door. There was a flash of red/black, and the woman in red appeared, like magic, in his path, an unwavering Glock 17 pointing between his eyes.

"We can do this the easy way, or I can kick you in the crotch and drag you out of here by your hair," she said, straight-faced. "I’ll give you one guess as to which I’d prefer."

The lanky man paused for a full second, but decided to take his chances by running. True to her word, she dragged him out by his hair, but only after she kicked him three times (twice where she told him she would), punched him once and handcuffed him. He never stopped screaming, even when she paused to stuff a dirty bar rag in his mouth. The large newcomer with the baton finished his work around the same time the lanky man left the building, and he sighed and followed her out.

The well-dressed stranger pulled out an object from his coat pocket, walked to the bar, placed it on the countertop, turned on his heel, and headed for the door. He paused in the doorway and turned to face the stunned patrons. "You could tell someone about this little event, and it’s possible they’d listen, but my suggestion is that you don’t." He exited the building and shut the door.

Seconds later, the object on the bar rattled to life, then flared brightly before disintegrating into a pile of ash. Everyone in the room stood in rapt silence for a moment, then rubbed their eyes and wondered why one of the tables was overturned and there was a broken, battered and bruised man on the floor, moaning softly and bleeding all over the grimy floor.