The Supremacist
Hendrik Schmutz sat at the bar in the Shamal hotel and casino.
And he was nervous.
He was holding a suitcase full of illegal DNA specimen's in his hotel room and also had intent to sell them illegally. What if a cop needed to search his suitcase? What if the Sheikh had him frisked and found the gun on him? Even worse, what if the Sheikh decided to say "To hell with the deal!" and just shot him and took the specimens. He ran through each scenario in his head, and didn't like any of them.
He began to ponder the bright the side after sweating out his fear. He was going to be a very rich man if it all went smoothly. Any moment now the Sheikh would arrive with his scientist and a suitcase full of blood diamonds, worth approximately 14.5 million dollars. No more slums, no more illegality, no more South Africa. It would all be smooth sailing once he got those diamonds.
Feeling relived, he headed to the bathroom to get another relief. Afterwards, while still in the privacy of his stall, he took his gun from his jacket pocket and admired it. A silenced Sig-Sauer p22, it was a beauty if he did say so himself.
After returning from the bathroom, he went over to one of the large, intimidating Arabians guarding the entrance to the room the Sheikh had scheduled the transaction for. The men were all atleast 6'3, clad in sunglasses and muscular. The fully loaded and readied MP5's each carried didn't exactly detract from their frightening presence either.
"If the Sheikh gets here before I return, tell him I went my room to get the specimens. My room is 707."
The suit-clad Arabian simply nodded.
Unfortunately, someone much more dangerous took much more interest in the conversation…
The Assassin
A few feet away a man carrying a suitcase with a bald head and fine Italian suit had been eaves dropping on the conversation.
He was known to the reception woman under the pseudonym Cornelius Cropes (an anagram of 'corpse' quite clever in his mind). But in reality his name was only Agent 47, and everyone who knew it was either dead or working with him. He ran over his list of tools mentally in his head. Plastic explosives, a Silenced AMT Hardballer, a W2000 Sniper Rifle in his suitcase, and his trademark fiber-wire garrote.
"More than enough to handle an old man, a scientist, and a white supremacist." he whispered to himself
It was time to move, he was intent at heading off Schmutz at the elevator.
The Supremacist, Part Two
Hendrik entered the elevator after calming his nerves. Unfortunately, it would be the biggest mistake (and the last mistake) he ever made.
Hendrik examined the elevator. He always tried to make sure he was aware of his surroundings. He hated surprises. Looking up, he discovered a missing tile in the top of the elevator. He sighed, the maintenance of some American establishments was disappointing.
"Gross. That's basically a fucking invitation for rats to get in."
These would be his last words.
One second later, he felt something around his throat, ever so lightly. Again, before he knew it, the sensation on his throat tightened. Two seconds later he was choking, coughing, and wheezing. Half a second later the room was going black. Another half second later, He reached in his pocket, fumbling for the gun. Another second, he looked up in an attempt to see if he could identify his killer and by some miracle aim for his head. All he saw was a bald head, and cold, crystal eyes. His world went black, and the grip on his gun loosened. A final second later he dropped his gun, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Two gloved hands hoisted him up to the top of the elevator, and laid him on the top.
In seven seconds flat, Hendrik Schmutz was dead.
The man behind the icy, blue eyes, Agent 47, hopped down in to the elevator. After tossing Schmutz's dropped gun to the top of the elevator, he replaced the tile and was on his way.