[ WP ] You are an assassin . Your target is on board a plane . During the flight , you meet an old friend from college , his wife is your target .

I woke up to the sound of my burner phone vibrating on the side-table next to my bed, rattling like a tin can full of angry bees. I checked it, got one new message. It was a picture of a woman: redhead, ponytail, pink blouse under a black hoodie, dragging a rolling suitcase behind her into an airport building. I knew where it was; about ten minutes by foot, less by car. I grabbed my rental's keys and headed out the door. It was a nice day outside, perfect for a drive into the city to window shop, but I had a job to do. 
 
 I got on the plane with no problems, even got my tools past security. I got onto the plane just as easily, citing a family emergency. Sure, I was in coach and the target was in 1st, but a job was n't worth taking if it did n't present at least a little bit of a challenge. 
 
 That was the least of my problems. 
 
 When we were in the air, I excused myself to use the restroom and changed into a flight attendant's uniform I'd obtained two days before. My first hurdle appeared in the form of a stewardess. Tall, blonde, eyes that betrayed the exhaustion behind her smile that faded the second she saw me. 
 
 `` What are you doing in the restroom?'' she asks. 
 
 `` Sorry, nature called very strongly. I'm still getting used to flying.'' Not entirely a lie. 
 
 `` That's fine. Now, listen, I want you to handle 1st-class. I'd do it, but I'm afraid I'd wind up throttling the kid who keeps tripping me whenever I pass.'' He'll be the one with the Transformers t-shirt and bright-red sneakers.'' 
 
 `` Thanks for the warning. Look, go take a break, you look dead on your feet. Grab a coffee or a sandwich or something.'' Again, not entirely a lie. The poor kid's bound to start losing hair next. 
 
 `` Sure, I think I will.'' She leaves me with a quick smile, a genuine one, judging by the way it reached her eyes. I look at the list of names in my hand. None of them matter, except one. Mischa Elgin, row 4-b. Steak, medium-well, side of white rice and veggies, red wine. Pretty average meal choice. It'd be pretty easy to disguise the poison I'd intended to use. So I went down to the kitchen and got to work. I grabbed the tray with the appropriate name and row on it, then headed back up to 1st-class. 
 
 That's when I met hurdles 2 and 3. Namely, an old friend and his wife. I'd recognized that blonde mohawk anywhere. It belonged to my best friend in college, Aaron Elgin. I tapped him on the shoulder. 
 
 `` Yeah, we've been waiti -- oh. Oh! Dude!'' he exclaimed. Great. He remembers my face. Do n't give yourself away. Keep it together. 
 
 `` I know, right? How's this for a freaky coincidence?'' Easy, keep it low-key, small-talk. `` And Mischa, too!'' 
 
 `` Yeah, we're flying up to stay with Joey for his wedding.'' Joey was another friend, a bit of a lech, but he wanted nothing more than to settle down. Good for him. 
 
 `` Yeah? Who'd he get pregnant?'' A small joke. Keep it low-key. 
 
 `` I dunno. Wait, how d'you know Mischa?'' Crap. Crap. Crap crap crap crap crap -- 
 
 `` We're Facebook friends,'' she says. Phew. I'm safe. I'd like this woman, if it was n't my job to ensure she'd be leaving the plane in a bodybag. 
 
 `` Yeah,'' I nod. `` Hey, tell you what. Lem me get you a bottle of the good stuff; you do n't want this,'' I say, grabbing the wine. `` It's grape piss. Lem me get you something better.'' 
 
 I could n't have gotten back to the kitchen area fast enough. I quickly grabbed a different bottle, poured the glasses, slipped the poison into the drink, and stirred it. No taste, no smell, no color. It could n't be a better poison. It's a shame it was being used on such a nice lady. 
 
 The next day the story was all over the news. A young woman collapsed into seizures and died on her way to visit a friend. The source of the seizures, a poison of nearly-untraceable nature, was found in the possession of one of the flight attendants, a tall blonde woman with green eyes. I raised a glass in a toast of my own. 
 
 `` To a job well done.''
