It was a sunny day, and as the golden rays of sunshine reflected off the black Mercedes, our hero was lost in thought. What was going to happen in the next election? Would he still be relevant? Why did he feel so much unease? He had built a large empire of assassins with nothing but his wits. But now… he wasn't so sure how long all this was going to last for. He had no identity, he had no records. called him Johnson, no now run my cartel of undercover soldiers called the hooded healers. A secret service that started with my most loyal body gHe was nameless. For the sake of protocols and considering how difficult it was to stay at the top of the food chain without a name, he had adopted the alias Johnson. It was the name of an ogre of a step-father who had bullied and maltreated him throughout his childhood.

Why then did he adopt that name? Perhaps beneath the disdain and hate he had for Johnson, who was now dead; perhaps beneath all those disdain and hate, he admired his ruthless fearlessness and wanted to be just that. Or maybe he just liked how the name rang.

Unfortunately, no one would ever know.

He ran a cartel of assassins who were distributed across the country. Glancing distractedly at his left hand, he read the time from his heavy, golden wristwatch- it read 10:21am. In a few minutes he would be in the office of the most powerful man in the country. And as the trees and buildings zoomed past them, a dark thought lurked at the bottom of his mind. Sooner than he realized, he'd be forced to make a decision. One that could make him the most wanted man alive or a national hero.

"How long till we get there" he asked, his voice low and deep. His question was directed at a heavily built dark man sitting sleepy eyed in the front seat.

The question seemed to jerk him out of his reverie. "Just a few more minutes, ten at the most." He slurred.

Johnson focused his attention on him, somewhat amused. "Keep sleeping like this and I'll have no problem firing your sorry ass"

A cheeky reply might have been fun banter on another day, but giving one today was like flying into the Bermuda- he could survive, but what where the chances? Pain. For that was his name, took the wiser decision and went back to pretending to be asleep.

Almost as if it was planned to break the uncomfortable silence, Johnson's phone rang. "Yes?" he questioned. He had an old habit of replying in monologues during phone conversations. After he must have gotten a reply, he simply nodded, muttered an incomprehensible sentence, and then brusquely ended the call, forcing the Mercedes back into the uncomfortable silence that it had been in.

The Mercedes turned sharply into a wide-opened gate, jolting everyone in it. The untouched coffee Johnson held in his hand, lost gravity for a few glorious seconds, before remembering the laws that held them bound. That meant it spilt everywhere in the car, across his face and hands and scalded an annoyed Johnson. Surprisingly though, the driver wasn't soaked with rich hot tea. Johnson was about to confer his regular condescending remarks on the poor driver, then seeming to think better of it, bit back his tongue in reply. It was bad luck to cuss before a huge meeting.

Praying to whatever God assassins worshipped, he muttered some good luck phrases whilst holding his pendant. He was definitely going to need it. The president had never before then agreed to meet with an assassin, much more Johnson. Johnson who was known by all members of the country as the most powerful, and dangerous criminal yet seen. Not only had he agreed to meet him, the press knew about it too.

He had heard that camera lights sometimes stunned celebrities, but he still hadn't expected so much light. As soon as his feet touched the ground of the Mercedes, he began to understand the wisdom in undisclosed meetings. He could almost already read the caption above his picture.

Influential assassin meets the president. No, too common.

Maybe, "The killer and Sulimani hold closed door meetings." Ah, yes. The media were a predictable lot. As much as Pain tried to shield him from the bombardment of questions and flashing lights, it seemed almost impossible. Johnson was forced to kick one desperate reporter who proved too cheeky out of the way. The entrance was just a few metres away, but with that amount of reporters, it seemed like a Call of duty warzone. Two female reporters who looked the wisest of the lot, realizing they couldn't get to him in regular fashion, staged an ambush at the entrance. Thankfully, all that was needed was a grimace and cracking of knuckles from Pain.

After a few minutes, they got to the elevator. The elevator chimed and swung open for Johnson and pain. The presidential villa held an aura of power- it was serene and quiet. People went about their daily activities like they'll do any other day. And yet Johnson knew that "any other day" or not, he wasn't going to come out of here alive, not if he executed the contract he'd been paid handsomely for- no amount of fighting could guarantee that. The elevator hummed as it ascended slowly, and as it did Johnson realised that even Pain was oblivious to the mental turmoil he was in.

Pain- The man he trusted so much, maybe the most. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to confess his crime to his most trusted employee. They say a thought's not a crime- it's not an action that's been carried out. After-all, one could jump off the top of the burg caliper all day long in one's mind and still not be hurt, or rob the world-bank and still be poor. Imaginations help us escape reality. But this was different- it was a thought that was to be put in action. If it were nothing but a thought, he wouldn't be here, a few seconds away from meeting the Commander-in-chief.

The elevator came to a halt. The doors swung open to reveal a smiling president. He was an old man, whose face glowed up whenever he smiled. It glowed up lots of times. He wore a black suit, and by merely observing him from a distance, it was impossible to know his real body size. His shoes were no different- really fancy, but a tad oversize.

"Welcome Old friend" he beamed, gripping Johnson's hand so firmly the later almost let out a yelp. For an old man, he had a surprisingly firm grip. Releasing him a few seconds later, he led him by the arm into his personal floor.

'Old friend?' Johnson didn't think belonging to the same secret society qualified him as a friend. Had they even been behind closed doors together?

There were lots of surprises, so much so that Johnson found himself nodding and smiling, whilst being dunked with bucketful of fresh information. National media had never published a picture of a smiling president. Perhaps they thought it indicated weakness, to have a president who showed his teeth to the world or maybe the president simply didn't smile for the cameras.

As they walked down the really large corridor, Johnson began to value the position public servants were in. Not to say he was jealous, why should he be? But he couldn't help but notice the luxury that surrounded the president. Surely the crazy interior decorations he was seeing wasn't funded by the president's personal pocket.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed security details- not that it was strange. He was in the office of the president after-all.

The president's office was a twenty-story building; but the elevator had stopped them at the tenth floor. Probably to protect the president- so an African 9-11 never happens; or it may simply have been his preference. The middle floor, not so high up as to trigger fear of heights, and not too far down as to not make him seem in control.

"After you" The president's genuine smile was still on, but now he detected a trace of seriousness. He had unlocked the door by placing his hand on a glass panel. It was an advanced type of door anywhere in the world; it seemed so out of place in an African country. A thought struck Johnson- the door would remained permanently locked if the president ever went missing. It didn't look like the kind of door that would come down to anything less than a really powerful dynamite.

"Of course, Sir" With that he bounced past the president who waited, hand on the doorknob for Johnson and Pain to walk in.