The following was written during my training at the hands of Lord Bushido: 
 
 A breeze snaked down the back of Tomo's neck as she crouched in the shadows, watching the house.  She ignored it.  The breeze had nothing to do with what she was there for, and could only bear silent witness to the unfolding events.  The lights in the stately manor house had finally gone dark, the last being the master bedroom, a wide bay window facing the courtyard she now lurked in.  Mentally she reviewed the dossier she had received three days ago on Mr. Alan Coldwell, 46, married to Irene, two sons in college.  Public persona read like a Forbes 500 fantasy; head of a large global company dedicated to finding and developing renewable resources.  The private persona was a bit less philanthropic.  The bulk of his personal wealth had been made in human trafficking and the modern day slave trade.  Her client had been eager to explain his reasons for the contract.  Tomokata didn't really care.  Mr. Coldwell's activities were more than enough to make the hit worthwhile. 
 
The night guard assigned to the lushly landscaped courtyard strolled by, smoking a cigarette, the SMG casually hanging at his hip from the shoulder strap.  Her lip curled.  The private security Mr. Coldwell had hired was next to useless.  There wouldn't be any need to even confront them, much less kill any of them.  The guard continued on his way, following the winding path deeper into the carefully manicured trees, and she made her move.  Slipping from the shadows beneath the spreading weeping willow she'd been observing from, she darted forward to the house, a hand dipping into one of the many pouches slung around her narrow waist.  Quickly, with an economy of movement, she crouched by the back door, fingers deftly working the lock picks she had procured.  Her  recon had said that this door's alarms were left off to allow the guards easy access to the house proper.  Their mistake.  
 
Noiselessly, on well oiled hinges, the door swung open and she slid inside into a large well appointed kitchen, which would be airy and welcoming during daylight hours.  Now it was merely another dark room she had to go through in order to reach her goal.  Crouching behind the granite topped kitchen island, she stowed away the lock picks and unsecured her suppressed Glock, but did not draw it.  Just in case.  There were three guards on random patrol routes throughout the entire house, and it was best to be prepared.  With whispering steps, she left the safety of the island and moved to the door that led to the stairway.  Quick peek around the door frame revealed no visitors, and she began her ascent. 
 
Soon enough, she was at the master bedroom, who's window she had been so assiduously watching all evening.  This door creaked, so she reached for a tube of graphite from a pouch and quickly squeezed a healthy amount into the hinges.  It worked like a charm.  When she turned the knob the door moved like a ghost.  Just as quietly, she closed it behind her and moved to the side of the bed.  Mr. Coldwell lay on his back, mouth hanging open, a slight snort escaping him now and then.  His wife, the pretty blond trophy wife, slept in peaceful ignorance next to him.  Tomokata had done her research.  Mr. Coldwell was a diabetic, insulin dependent.  The next object she removed from a pouch was a syringe and a small aerosol can of topical anesthetic .  Tetrodotoxin, good old blowfish.  No one would question another puncture mark, and unless someone was specifically looking for it, the poison would never be detected.  The client had requested it look like a natural death, and as she sprayed Mr. Coldwell's bare arm with the anesthetic and inserted the hypodermic, that was exactly what the client would get.