In the end, there was a bullet for everybody. He'd always known, somehow always know that in the end, everyone had a piece of hot lead that belonged somewhere in their skull. With that thought, he pushed the final round into the 7 shot clip, then locked the clip into his trust silverballer pistol. The metallic snap of the clip resounded like a cannon shot in his ears, his brain instinctively following up by commanding his free hand to pull the slide back. The weapon clicked as the first round slid into the chamber. Like a million other days in a million other places, number 47 was armed and ready. He laid the pistol down next to its twin, the silver plating gleaming dully in the dim light of the cheap motel room. 47 reached into a small backpack he had, and removed the two silencers, quickly screwing them into place. When both the weapons were ready, he slid them almost gingerly into their shoulder holsters. He pulled his suit's coat on, and buttoned it up. Everything was in place, everything was ready. 47 stepped out of the nasty motel room, and walked slowly to the car he had rented. It was a BMW Z4. It was small and black, which made it easier to hide if need be, but the vehicle was considered classy enough to make him look inconspicuous at the party the target was attending.

The car thrummed to life as 47 turned the key and dropped the transmission into reverse. His destination was a very high class hotel named "The Phoenix Tail". 47 pushed the vehicle into drive, and sped off out of the gravel parking lot, the hastily poured pebbles being launched every which way as the tires spun, then gripped, shooting him into the night. 47 drove for an hour solid, crossing over to the beach side. America was a very large area for his "business" but Florida was one of the few states he'd never been too. None the less, his meticulous preparation had prepared him for every possible scenario. He'd familiarized himself with the area, planned escape routes and located multiple "safe" zones should he be pursued. Time always seemed to fly when he drove, and before he realized it, he was slamming on the brakes to prevent from missing the turn to the hotel. As usual for such a "high class" event, there was armed security, a minor irritation, but not an unexpected one. 47 pulled up to a stop as the two guards at the gate waved for him to do so. He flipped up the forged ID card, and the guard waved him through. As he accelerated through the gate, he noticed that tonight's clay pigeons were armed with medium caliber semi-automatic pistols, Browning HP from the look of them. The chief turned the wheel and pulled the vehicle perfectly into a parking space, then silently exited the car, and began walking for the front entrance.

Two more men were at the doors, and this time, they gave him a more serious check, staring at his ID card for at least thirty seconds. Finally, the big man looked up, nodded once without word, and opened the large front door. The chief stepped into a massive lobby, and he paused for a mere second as he surveyed the room. One door across the room was cracked, with a single eye peeking through, watching the guests. The man at the front desk looked like he was worried about loosing his job, but he was sipping on what appeared to be a whiskey. About thirty people were milling about, putting on their best "I'm richer and more civilized than you are" faces. The grand staircase had a few people standing on it making small talk, and no guards were posted on either of the two side doors. The chief moved, daring not to arouse suspicion by standing still too long. He approached the front desk, who appeared to be breaking out in a sweat when he noticed 47's approach.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Mister Aaron Stickman." He said politely. The man seemed to jump when he spoke, then quickly began flipping through the register. "Ah, yes sir! He's in room 707, shall I ring him for you?" the man asked with false eagerness in his voice. 47 shook his head no, and turned, heading into the crowd. He crossed through the middle of everyone, and then purposely bumped into someone who seemed to be having an exceptional time. "I'm sorry about that...could you direct me to the elevators please?" he asked apologetically. The man grinned and pointed across the room...pointing to some steel doors directly under the stairs, guarded by a single man. 47 walked calmly up the elevator furthest away from the guard and pressed the up button casually. Then, he did what most a-typical people did when waiting for an elevator. He looked around at the ceiling and floor and walls as if they held something of vast importance, as if they were utterly fascinating. Then, the lift pinged, and the doors slid open.

47 pushed floor 7, and the doors slid shut. The elevator jerked, and he was being propelled upwards at an unusual rate. Several seconds later, he entered the seventh floor. He read the numbers on the doors quickly, and determined that his target's room was on his right hand side to the left of the elevator doors. He approached the door, and pulled his lock pick. Gently, he inserted the tool into the lock, and began to feel for the tumblers. It took him a mere 3.7 seconds to have the lock open. He put the lock pick away, and took a quick look down each end of the hall, discovered it was clear, and pulled out his pistols as he gently pushed the door in. He stepped in, and the long practiced maneuver of silently closing it passed without a noise. 47 took aim at the man on the balcony, both weapons aiming directly for the back of his skull...but then he got a better idea. The chief put his weapons away, and ever so slowly began to creep up behind the man. Silently, he slid the sliding glass door of the elegant balcony open, and when he was in position lashed out. His hands moved like a blur, and before the target could even register sound or movement behind him, his spine had been snapped, and he was dead. 47 then hefted the corpse, and shoved him over the edge of the balcony, watched him fall...fall...until finally he landed hard in the back parking lot on top of some kind of SUV...over 70 feet below.

That was when the unexpected came into play. The chief heard someone yell "HOLY SHIT!" and knew he had about a minute to get out of the area before the guards went berserk. It would appear to be a suicide...if he evaded detection. If not, well...47 suppressed a grin. It had been some time since he'd had to shoot his way out of a mission. He almost missed doing it, and half hoped he would half too. He moved down the hall in a slow jog to the elevators, called on, and rode it down to the third floor. From there, he got off, and headed for a stairwell on the far right wing of the floor he was on. All went well until someone behind him shouted "Hey! You! Hold on a minute!"
47 didn't have time to play games. He spun the two silverballer pistols in his hands. He fired a single shot from each gun. Each of the .45ACP rounds found their mark, tearing into the skulls of each man, and punching out the back, leaving a shower of gore and blood on the carpets and on their clothes. The two men fell, dead, and 47 moved to one to police his weapon for his ever growing gun collection. He shoved it into one of his suit's pockets, and entered the stairwell.

Here, a very rare thing occurred. He was caught totally off guard. A whole squad of men, guns drawn, was charging up the stairs. One of them cried out an alarm as they spotted him. 47 didn't miss a beat; he raised the ballers and opened fire. His first two shots punched into the chest of the first man, and blew him backwards with explosive force, throwing him over the heads of his comrades, landing him hard on a small landing.

But the guards had recovered, and opened fire. The pistols slammed rounds into the walls and door as 47 quickly retreated to the hall, sprinting as soon as the door was shut. He rounded a corner, and quickly pulled his lock pick, forcing the door open. He stepped into the room and shut the door, and holstered his pistols, drawing his personal favorite weapon...a fiber wire. He stood motionless, waiting...and soon, someone slipped into the room, carelessly believing that he wasn't in the room...and then 47 struck. He lashed out with the wire, and wrapped it firmly around the man's neck. His airway was instantly constricted, then block, and quickly, he began to strangle as 47 turned and pulled over his shoulder, choking the life out of the man. He died within seconds, and 47 flipped him onto the ground, crouched, and began to strip him of his clothing. Next, he policed his weapon, and snuck into the hall, heading for the stairs.

The front door guard was very confused, as he watched the bald guy walk out the front to "check the parking lot". He didn't remember any bald staff...he was just about to go after him when it occurred that some people get haircuts, and they sometimes shave bald. A minute later, a Z4 rode off into the night, and the guard knew that the assailant had escaped them...something beeped behind him and he turned around...and the first of twenty car bombs went off, the black of night lighting up like a fireworks show.