The soft ticking of the clock was the only sound in the room. The man sitting at the beautifully carved mahogany desk had his head in his hands, elbows propped against the surface, and seem to be barely breathing as he stared at the reports spread out in front of him. And then with a sudden violence that was alarming, he swept the documents from off the desk, knocking over a mostly empty cup of brandy and pen stand to the floor along with them, the cup instantly shattering against the hardwood floor. If the numbers were right, then is likelihood of being reelected was in serious danger. And that was unacceptable.

With a deep breath through his nose, the man straightened his crimson tie, brushed imaginary dust from the sleeves of his well tailored suit, and swept his hands back over his graying chestnut hair. He stood up from the desk and walked over to a decanter, picking up another cup and pouring himself another drink. He drained half the glass in one gulp before he moved slowly over to a painting that had been hung on the wall to disguise the lack of any windows in his office. He stared at the delicate oil painting of the countryside landscape, but wasn't really seeing it, his dark gray eyes unfocused as he thought. Absentmindedly, he sipped at his brandy.

[I]'there's no other way.'[/I]

The thought was cold and hard. But he was willing to do anything to maintain his position. Finishing his second drink that evening, the man moved back over to his desk, pulling out a set of keys from his pocket and unlocking one of the drawers. From inside, he withdrew a burner phone and dialed a number from memory. It rang twice before it was picked up.

"Yes," the quiet voice that answered asked simply, free of inflection or emotion.

"I'd like to schedule a meeting. I have a job that needs to be done," the man responded, unsurprised.

"When and where," The Voice then said.

"Tonight. Same location as last time."

"9 o'clock. Don't be late."

The call disconnected with a click and the man slipped the phone into his pocket, planning on disposing of it later. He then pressed the button that would connect him to his secretary on the phone still safely sitting on his desk.

"Janet, i've accidentally knocked over a glass in here. Would you be so kind as to come clean it up?"

There was barely a beat of silence before the woman was responding, clearly used to this sort of thing by now. "Right away Senator. Will you be needing anything else?"

"No," he said, debating pouring himself another drink, "I'll be heading out for the evening, so make sure you lock up after you're done."

"Yes sir."

Checking his reflection briefly in a mirror to see that his tie was still in place, senator Hunt strode from his office, mind on the next steps. He always had a plan for everything.

[Center][B]...[/B][/center]

Cold. That was how the shiny new silencer felt in Ronan Kelly’s hand as he examined it in front of the nervous rat of a man known by his associates as Marcus.  The greasy, thin, sleeze bag was currently wringing his hands together, a cringe adorning his face as he stood partially hunched over. In his line of work, you would've thought he would have had more of a backbone.

“I h-hope this latest model meets with your expectations Mr. Kelly,” Marcus managed to say with only one small stammer, one of his hands groping in an inner pocket for a handkerchief to dab at the sweat beading on his forehead.

In response, Ronan picked up the gun that accompanied the silencer and twisted it into place on the muzzle of the weapon. He then, Very casually, pointed it straight at Marcus and pulled the trigger. The dealer squealed loudly, dropping his handkerchief to the floor and throwing his hands over his face as if he really had been shot. There was, after all, no ammunition actually loaded into the gun.

“Relax Marcus. If I really had intended on coming here to kill you, you wouldn’t have seen me first,“ Ronan intoned in a low tenor voice  with a wry smile that didn’t touch his eyes, ignoring Markus's partner that had started cackling on the other side of the room at the incident. “The equipment is sufficient for my needs. You’ve done well this time,” he added, Careful to not give the man too much praise as he removed the silencer and crouched down to slip it into his suitcase. If Marcus received too many compliments, he was likely to start getting some actual confidence

Marcus, in turn, released a tremulous and rather shrill giggle as he produced yet another handkerchief, the sound setting Ronan’s teeth on edge. He wished he didn’t have to deal with men like this, but in his line of profession, you didn’t get very many options.

“Good one Mr. Kelly,” Marcus wheezed breathily, wiping the cloth across his entire face.

Picking up a loaded magazine, Ronan slid it into place, giving the bottom a slap so that it clicked securely into the gun. Slipping the weapon into the holster already at his back, he then picked up the second pistol, loading it in a similar fashion, before putting it into his shoulder holster. Lifting the remaining item, a backpack filled with extra ammunition as well as a few other items he had ordered, Ronan pulled one strap over his shoulder before his hand slid into his back pocket. Marcus instinctively flinched as something was tossed in his direction, but it was merely a white envelope.

“Be seeing you,“ Ronan stated simply as he grabbed the handle of his rolling suitcase and headed for the door. As he swung it open, He could’ve sworn he heard the man behind him release a shaky sigh of relief.

With a long and quiet sigh of his own, Ronan allowed himself one frown of displeasure and a brief shake of his head before he smoothed his features into a neutral expression. He hoped the show had been convincing enough for Marcus's partner to have a favorable report to pass on to Ronan's father. Boots crunching Saufley over the gritty back alley walkway, The wheels on his suitcase making similar, though louder, grinding noises, the man made his way out from behind Marcus‘s establishment to the street beyond. Sparing the refurbished appliances store that was the front for the real Business a brief glance, Ronan reached into his front pocket and retrieved the set of keys from inside, unlocking the door of the Ford Fusion waiting for him at the curb. Popping the trunk, he effortlessly swung his suitcase inside, sliding away the handle, before dropping the backpack next to it. Slamming The lid of the trunk back into place, he made his way around to the drivers side and got in, pulling his seatbelt across his body. Key then inserted into the ignition, the car started quietly with a simple twist.

[i]‘Time to get this show on the road,’[/i] he found himself thinking darkly, even as one of Beethoven’s symphonies began spilling out of the speakers as he put the car into drive and started off for his next destination.

Assassination wasn’t a profession someone simply stumbled into. You either had to actively pursue the career or else be born into a family of assassins. Unfortunately for him, Ronan fell into the latter category. His father killed for a living, his two older brothers following in his footsteps. His grandfather had been an assassin, even his great grandfather had gone about killing people. As far back as you could look into the Kelly heritage, their hands were stained red. And there was no other option.

Ronan’s own hands tightened on the steering wheel as he thought over his latest assignment. A power-hungry father wanting to make a good appearance on paper and television, using his own daughter‘s death for his own gain. Not the most Pleasant of situations. He would do it, because he had no other choice, but that didn’t mean he would enjoy it. Jaw tight, he turned up the stereo and tried to loose his thoughts in the music while he drove.

[center][b]...[/b][/center]

The house he was told to meet at was easy enough to find in the end. Ronan pulled into the driveway, noting the expensive looking Mercedes that was no doubt government issued already there and sighed. He hadn’t yet met Senator Hunt in person. And what he had gathered of the man over various phone calls was nauseating. But again, it wasn’t as if he had a choice. Turning off the car and putting on the parking brake, Ronan flipped open the glove compartment and withdrew the wallet he had stashed there. Briefly, he opened it, gaze flickering over the forged drivers license with the name Scott Daniels printed next to his own face before he pull the key out of the ignition and got out of the car. Putting the key in his front pocket and the wallet in his back, Ronan took a moment to check his appearance in the side mirror before approaching the building.

His dark brown hair was cut relatively short, with the top slightly longer, styled neatly with a part down one side. He must have run a hand through it at one point without noticing, because pieces of it were sticking up in places, but a quick brush of his fingers had that set to write. Sharp, chiseled angles to his face gave him a good looking appearance, though his own face head always made him uncomfortable. A shadowing of stubble had appeared on his face over the course of the day, but it would be gone when he shaved that evening. Scrutinizing his own gray green eyes, he tried out a brief smile for practice, but felt it came off too much like a grimace for his liking, which only made him scowl.

[i]‘Good enough,‘[/i] he thought as he retrieved the ruddy brown blazer from where he had thrown it into the backseat and slid it on over his light gray henley shirt, giving his dark washed jeans a quick once over before he made his way towards the front door of the house.

What looked to be a secret service agent was standing just outside of the covered porch, watching his approach carefully. Briefly, their gazes met before Ronan showed him his ID and the official nodded, gesturing Ronan onward. Replacing his wallet, he stepped up onto the porch and automatically looked around.

An older man stood near the door, obviously the senator, with an expression that was like the cat in the cream at his appearance. Standing just behind him was a second agent, who was observing Ronan's approach calmly. They nodded to each other silently before Ronan stepped forward and extended a hand to the senator.

“Senator Hunt,” he said, offering a brief, bland, smile, Face growing neutral again quickly to hide his inexperience with the expression. He chose his next words carefully. “We meet at last. Scott Daniels.”

Senator hunt had on his campaign smile as he took the offered hand, giving it a firm shake. "Glad to finally meet you Mr. Daniel's," he said in a voice that sounded like it was used to performing in front of cameras. With the use of video doorbells becoming so commonplace, it was a smart, and   strategic, choice. "Shall we get right to it then?"

Ronan nodded shortly, watching as the well dressed man turned towards the front door and gave it a firm knock.