Exactly what he needed.

A smile sat lightly on his lips as he stepped into the hall of the giant building, and out of the cramped broom closet.

He was pushing a small cart, his gun concealed in a compartment right in front of him along with an extra magazine. Just in case the security was an issue.

The back of the loose jacket bore worn lettering, an 'I' missing. JAN TOR

A clearance card hung around Kurschev's neck, noting the obvious about the janitor. His hat was old, and sat atop the long, ragged wig that changed his hair from blond to brown.

Glasses with no prescription sat low on his nose, and contacts changed his blue eyes to a shade of green. He was nothing but a modern day hippie with a low paying job.

Smile and nod.

Two security guards passed him, scrutinizing his face and the card dangling from his neck. High class, CIA possibly, and well suited for the job. Kurschev could tell by their stride. By the way they carried themselves. Came with the job.

They were obviously working their way to the conference room, there to stand guard in case anything were to go wrong.

He ran over his plan in his head. Take out the guards, or just leave them in the confusion. Get close, fire the shot. Kill the target.

A man was standing by if he failed, there to take over should the assassin mess up. But he wouldn't, he was very confident in himself. This was an easy kill.

The man would die. Everybody wins.

Stopping outside another set of doors, Kurschev turned down a long hallway and casually removed the janitor garb. It was tossed inconspicuously into the garbage can on the cart and buried under some paper towel.

A short black wig was removed from the mop head and placed on the assassin's head.

No longer a janitor, the glasses came off and the contacts were kept in place. News reporter it was.

The suit was recently pressed, and the tie almost perfect. The shoes were changed as he walked back to the set of doors, and the janitor's clearance was pocketed.

The door opened and another set of CIA agents came out, glancing at Kurschev and nodding.

Smiling pleasantly, the assassin slipped into the door and fought his way to the front of the crowd, occasionally elbowing someone in the ribs. Ruthless reporters.

He didn't let his mind wander in the waiting time for the target, instead he focused on the mission ahead.

It felt good to be back. The adrenaline was rushing, and Kurschev fought back a smile and shaking hands.

He saw the body guards first. 4 of them; 2 on each side of the podium as the president walked out.

Flashes filled the room, and shouts of 'Mr President!' were heard.

Shaking it aside, the assassin signaled for the targets attention. "Mr. President."

The room fell into silence.

"Mr. President, I know this may sound a bit odd but let's start this off with something personal if you don't mind?" The Russian accent was gone, leaving no trace. "Mr. President, since you're so smart would you mind answering the philosophical question of 'What does it feel like to be dead'?"

Kurschev's hand went to his inner coat pocket and he smirked as 2 of the body guards placed hands on guns. A tape recorder.

The target shook his head laughingly. "And what, may I ask, makes you think I have the answer?" He was smiling. That was good.

Kurschev shrugged. "Because you'll know." The hand produced the HK and a single shot was fired.

One man fell to the floor. The reporters snapped pictures as they tried to flee from the gunfire.

Russ James stood over the fallen assassin. "Anton Kurschev. We meet again." The gun was pointed at the floor. He saw no harm in the man he had shot.

Anton scowled and spat at the man. "Russel James."

The body guards jaw was set and he raised a gun--Kurschev's gun.

Another shot.

"It's Russ, Ass hole."