It was just one of those days.

Tokyo was alive and busy, even for 2 am, when the sky was its blackest black. The stars disappeared behind a haze of pollutants and neon lights took their place, flashing and beckoning as I drove my black SUV into the parking garage of one of Tokyo’s largest buildings, the Hilton Kyota.

I drove smoothly up the ramp, swerving around and nodding to the valets. I wouldn’t be needing them. I parked my car near the exit ramp and next to five empty spaces. By looking in my mirror I could see five other black SUVs pulling into place alongside me. I smiled and got out of the car.

I slipped on some dark sunglasses to complete the matrix-y effect. My black leather trench coat swirled around my ankles and heavy army style boots. The perfect intimidating appearance. Looking out between the slats of the concrete garage, I could still see the neon lights, flashing in Japanese. What a view this hotel has, city, city, and city. Nothing less, nothing more.

I walk confidently across the concrete to the tall glass doors decorated with the Hilton Kyota seal. Decorative lights hang listlessly, giving it a fake and unrealistic look. I smile at the valets again, but they seem more unease now that there are six black cars and almost twenty black-robed men coming towards them. Indeed, I can hear the doors being slammed shut again as my colleagues join me in front of the door. The security personnel, having no reason to not let us in, allows us inside, watching us beadily. I nod to them as they hold open those magnificent glass doors.

Immediately I sense the posh air of the place. Glass chandeliers line the lobby, satin chairs and couches, massive flower arrangements. A weak, fake light illuminates the place still. I knew the Hilton Kyota was catered to British and American visitors, but I didn’t know how much. There isn’t even a hint of Japanese culture in this building, even if there is an explosion of it outside. The only thin that hints that this is in Japan is the Asian workers, all smiling thinly at the large party.

The others proceed to the elevators, all garbed completely in black as I am. I walk up to the front counter, where an overworked Asian woman smiles bleakly at me.

"Anything you need?" she squeaks.

"Yes, ma’am, where does Les de Fleuroe reside, please?" I ask politely.

She checks a database and hastily replies. "Room 239, sir. 47th floor."

"Thanks."

I go around the corner to where the elevators are, and to where my colleagues are waiting. One of them gives me a thumbs up and presses a button. I notice that at least ten of the guys have already gone off to take care of other important business. But 8 or so have been calling all the elevators down to the first floor, since there are four of them. The last elevator comes down and we all get inside an elevator, two in each. One of my closest associates, Jerry Wineberg, joins me in one. We ride the elevators up to the 89th floor, and I feel the vertigo rising inside me. The doors open and I get out. Jerry stays to take care of things.

Marshall, Rockefeller, and Monoris join me, while their partners cut wires and disable the elevators. They will join us soon. I confer with all of them quietly, and then we shoot out all the cameras. There is only one apartment of this floor, one large apartment. And it’s Eric Munray’s.

I press the buzzer and someone comes to the door. She is middle aged and very tired looking, but she lets us in and tells us that she will alert Mr. Munray. She asks us to sit down, but we remain standing.

"Who should I say is calling, Sir?"

"Uh, Billy Morrison."

After she leaves I confer with the others again.

"Do you think he’ll be well armed?"

"Nah. He’s a rich snob, everyone else does everything for him."

"But Will, what about the assassin? The rumors?"

"Screw the rumors, Marshall. Just kill anyone who looks to be armed and tranq everyone else. There shouldn’t be any trouble."

After a couple of minutes she comes back.

"Mr. Munray is very… busy right now. Could you come back later?"

I look to Marshall and Rockefeller and smirk.

"Just how is his busy, miss?"

She wrings her hands and bites her lip. "He’s rearranging his staff, sir."

I laugh at her private joke and she smiles.

"Well, miss. It’s important. I don’t think he’ll mind our interference MUCH…"

She makes a move to stop us but then reconsiders. "Fine. You can go in."

And we do. She pulls open the doors and lets us in, but she stays behind, reaching for her coffee. "Thank you," I say and go in.

Once inside the sitting room, I find he is busier than we thought. At least a dozen Asian prostitutes are sitting around on couches, talking and waiting for their turn. Rockefeller gives me one of those looks and I laugh. The girls look our way and I walk towards them.

"Ladies," I smile charismatically. "I need to speak to your boss…"

"He’s in the next room," a girl pipes up, pointing to a large silver door.

Rockefeller nudges me and I notice a side corridor branching out from the large circular room. A man dressed in black is pacing around looking out the windows. Marshall goes to investigate, suspecting that this might be the "assassin", Munray’s personal bodyguard.

My attention swivels back to the girls, but they have gone. I feel Rockefeller and Monoris fall to the ground by my feet, both shot in the head. Looking up, I see a solitary woman staring daggers at me from across the room. She has the barrel of her gun leveled at my chest. I raise a hand to dissuade her and slowly start walking towards her. "And who are you?"

She narrows her eyes are readjusts the gun.

"What do you want with Munray?"

I shrug and stop two feet in front of her. "Oh, nothing. I just want to talk to him."

"Liar!" she seethes and pushes the gun against my temple.

"Okaaaay, maybe I want to talk to him and kill him. Is that better?"