"Mister Jennings, you must be tired from your journey. Can we get you something to eat?" A butler asked as the man parked his Mercedes Benz in the front of the mansion.

Michael Jennings gave a tired half hearted smile. "If I had time to eat, I would." he said in a light tone. "I bring word from the attorney general. I must talk to Mister Tabour quickly." His declaration seemed not to bother the butler, as if such news were something he heard every day. "Mister Tabour's enemies are drawing closer, soon they will muster up the courage to strike, I must speak to him at once."

"Of course, sir." the butler bowed to Jennings and brought his hand to the door of the estate. "Right this way."

Michael followed the man inside, but before entering completely he stopped the butler and gave the keys to him. "Would you mind keeping the engine running? I'm in kind of a hurry. I need to get back to the Attorney General's side before he notices I'm gone. You understand, right?" Michael gave a smile fit for an actor.

"Of course, Mister Jennings. The Prime Minister is expecting you in his private reading room." The butler bowed to Michael, gave him one last look over, then left back to the entrance leaving the other man in front of the double staircase.

As the butler left, so did the smile from the charming man's face. If anything did discribe the man, it was charming. He wore a black form fitting tuxedo. His skin was a healthy tan, at least within his face and hands where it was visible. With neatly cut black hair and hazel eyes, no one could contest his charm. Yet, when the smile left his face, the truth was revealed. If only the butler had seen it before he turned. Instead, he now lay on the floor, completely still.

Michael went to the man and took his key back, being careful yet again to not put his hand on the unlock button, which had a very small, almost microscopic spike on it. He felt along the edge of the key until a barely visible flap of plastic came loose. He pulled, taking the spike with it, and put it in the trash next to the door. He then set to the task of moving the body out of eye-shot, and shut the door.

The man named Michael was in no rush as he went to the restroom before the double staircase. It was the easiest place to infiltrate, as he had learned from his partners. Within the room there was a sink, toilet and a trash.

Michael lifted the lid to the tank of the toilet and removed two plastic bags which held his pistol and silencer. He then went to the trash and flipped it over. He felt along the bottom until his finger hit a seam. Bending it towards himself, he uncovered a false bottom, which held a belt with seven clips for his weapon and a holster. He knew from his intel that the Prime Minister should be the only one in the estate, yet years of experience within his practice had shown him that things rarely ever went the way they should.

The man named Michael strapped on the belt high on his waist, so that nothing would be visible from under his tuxedo jacket. He then left the restroom and walked up the double stairway to the reading room.

Michael knocked on one of a set of grand double doors and waited. "Is that you, Michael?" a voice sounded from the other room. Instead of asking, Michael casually stepped to the side, away from the set of double doors, right before two shots fired directly into the place his hand rapped on the door.

Smiling to himself, Michael allowed all of his weight to fall to the ground, simulating a body dropping either dead or mortally injured. footsteps sounded from the other side of the door. Tambour seemed to gather more confidence as the other side remained silent. "You didn't think I knew, did you Slate?"

"W-why would you call me that? What do you know? I don't understand, I-I only came here to inform you of the deal with the Attorney General." The man from the other side faked a grimace and coughed a few times for good measure.

"I've known for some time now that you've been playing both sides, Slate. You aren't the only spy in the game. Jason Slate, I've had your records looked up and I'd have to say, they're quite colorful."

"Who is Jason Slate?" Michael sputtered out the words to the door.

He heard rustling from the other side of the thin wall. He could hear paper being flipped and could imagine Tambour looking through a file. "You've been deployed to every shit zone we have in this world. Where there is war, there is Slate, but never the name. Never so much as a fingerprint left at the scene. Only telling of seeing a lightly tanned polite young man with dark hair and stormy eyes in a tux which seems to appear and disappear during the time of a local superpowers demise." The file shut as the man sighed. "I had hoped to talk to you before all of this, but you are far too dangerous to be allowed even another moment of life." The door opened in a rush and Michael saw a portly old man looming over him. Tambour panted quickly as his gun's sight landed on Michael. "Goodbye, Slate."

"Bang!"

A gun discharged, yet not the one in Tambour's hand, nor the one in Michael's.

"Wha-?" Tambour put his hand to a blood soaked shirt. The wound was larger than what he would have expected from a gunshot. If he had enough time to ponder what truly happened, he would have remembered that an exit wound was always larger than the entry.

As the last wisp of life left Tambour, Michael saw the curtain from the inside of the reading room move with the wind. The dark curtains blotched out much of the room, yet with the little light of a reading lamp, he could just make out the silhouette of a man. How he he had gotten in there without moving the curtains, he would never know. But he did know, this man was Jason Slate.

"Thank you, Michael." The silhouetted man said as quietly as the breeze rustled curtain. "You have done well yet again. My compliments on another well accomplished performance. A large bag was thrown to Michael as he got back up to his feet. He looked down at the bag, knowing it was full of his share of the bounty.

Usually, corporations would pay out after the tasks were completed. But to do so for Jason Slate was to insult him. The money given to him was more of an offering to the spirits of the dead to come collect a long awaited soul. To give money to Jason Slate, was to unleash death with pin point accuracy. Michael had never met another with a mind such as Jason's.

Michael didn't count the money, to do so was to truly insult his partner. Instead, he watched the silhouette looming over the desk. He saw wisps of grayed hair hanging down in a ponytail, the pale threads reflected from the light of the reading lamp.

"These are blueprints for a nuclear missile." He pointed at the schematics which littered the desk. he then pointed a gloved finger to the edge of the desk. "These are the plans to point said missile at China, framing our country and possibly starting the next world war." The light of the lamp caught a gleam in his eye as he looked to Michael. "We may have just saved the world as we know it."

The way he smiled would haunt Michael's every dream for the entirety of his existence. It was a symbol of defiance to all who would disrupt his self-made peace. It was pride in the grisly work only he could do. That only he had the stomach to do. This man alone had probably saved the earth countless times. He may be rich, or maybe not. Michael didn't know, he didn't think Slate cared about such things. Men usually found joy in a spouse, children and fancy things. They usually found pride in the mundane challenges of the world, yet all of that pride instead rested in the accomplishments within the impossible for this man.

Watching the man take pictures of the evidence and burn the rest, Michael waited until his partner finished his task. His final task. Then, regretfully, squeezed the trigger.

After the loud ring, Jason gasped. He felt a stinging sensation in his head, but it went away just as fast as it came. He heard a thud near him, but didn't quite know what it was. It sounded a lot like the impression Michael used to fool others into thinking he had died, yet this one seemed heavier, more real.

There was something else. Something more than the sound. Jason felt much lighter. No, that wasn't right. He didn't feel. All the aches and pains within his life were non-existent. The pinching feeling in his lungs he had felt for years from smoking was not there. He didn't even think he was breathing.

Panic ensued as he tried to draw a breath, yet couldn't. But he noticed he also didn't need to. He looked down finally and found the source of the thunk.

A body had been placed by his feet. At first he couldn't quite understand the sight. It was what looked like a lean body shrouded in black. Wisps of gray hair mopped the side of the face as blood pooled below. He then realized why he couldn't feel anything.

Though the realization hit him in moments, he looked towards the door and still saw Michael's arm held up, a smoking gun pointed where Jason's head would have been only moments before.

It felt like slow motion. He saw Michael drop the gun and run down the steps. He didn't even take the money he had earned from the mission.

"Why?" he whispered as he looked back at the floor where his body lay. "Why the hell!"

'Oh shut up and make peace with it. We have work to do.' A haughty voice sounded as Jason suddenly lost his bearing. It felt as if his entire existence funneled upward as his world turned to black.