For the first time in two weeks, Zach White manages a smile.

For years, he watched in dismay as his nemesis outsmarted him and stood in his way, time and again. Today, however, he will get what he deserves.

Five months ago his hopes and dreams were rent asunder. Now, his enemy will finally have a taste of his poison. And Zach revels in the fact that he now has the upper hand.

This time, Zach will have his opponent fitting the round pegs in the square holes. Vengeance is a mere emotional response, Zach thought.

Drawing in a breath of air, he executes his move. Gracefully and elegantly, he adds the finishing touch; a bright crimson filled the empty canvas. Beautiful.

… …

My name is Zach. In my line of work, we keep many secrets. My name became “Neil Fitzgerald” and my state of residence changed to Los Angeles, CA., all in the name of a low profile. Am I a government agent? Perhaps. I cannot tell anyone of the truth. As one can see, it is a mandate I keep secrets, in all I do – even down to my dining preferences.

One day I made a deadly mistake. Somewhere down the line, I blew my cover. I wasn’t sure when, but I remembered very vividly when it all fell apart – its realisation became too hard to bear for me…

A beautiful day it was. 65˚F; clear skies.

As usual, I dispensed a cup of warm coffee from the coffee machine and sat down by the window to observe the idyllic view outside. It was magnificent; an almost panoramic view of the urban sprawl that stretched from Downtown Los Angeles to Beverly Hills.

As expected, the telephone beeped. Time to get to work.

I dressed myself in a dark crimson business suit, complete with a tie and complementing tie clip, then proceeded promptly to leave the house. As I closed the door behind me, an assuring click, accompanied by a brief and monotonous beep signalled that the doors were locked, and that the primary security system has been activated.

This should be an easy job. It won’t be anything I can’t handle.

In a matter of minutes I was in a similar residence to my own. Covert operations require clandestine measures. Naturally, I would expect to have a lock-pick in my arsenal. A few subtle clicks later, the door swung open, a sign of unsolicited invitation. The lock-pick: a spy’s best friend.

Surreptitiously, I crept into the room. Rays from the morning sun shone through the clear glass windows and lit the room up with a golden nuance. There was something about the room, however, that made it rather ominous. Perhaps, it were the arcane designs plastered as wallpapers that adorned the apartment.

Nevertheless, I kept my usual composure, and set foot in further. As I made my way in, the mustiness of the air became increasingly unbearable. Fortunately, the carpeted floor aided me as I worked. Pretty soon, the explosives were set in position. This desolate apartment ought to be demolished with the rest of this building. I smirked. My job was complete.

Still calm, I walked to the elevator, trying to avoid the stairs as I made my exit.

“Freeze! Hands behind your head! This is not the FBI, CIA or NSA,” said a thick voice from behind me, “There’s a price on your head, young man!” Price on my head? I wondered… Who does he think he is, Johnny Polygon? “Get down on the floor! Now! Don’t even try to escape!” There was absolute certainty in his voice, admittedly.

Instinctively, I tried to run. It was a forlorn attempt. They had me pinned down. There was no escape for me, I knew. The army of footsteps that I could hear from behind me crystallised my fears.

In my next conscious moment, I was in my bed. Home sweet home.

Everything seemed to be in place. The alarm clock/iPod dock hybrid was where I expected it to be, so was my iPhone. The time read 11:17 AM. The air was even more ominous as before. Fear and anxiety still kept their grips on my emotions. I wasn’t dreaming, I couldn’t be.

The Id took over my mind. My stomach was growling. I must not have not eaten for weeks.

Floundering as I got up, I reached for the exit. Something about the room was not quite the same as it was before.

On my study desk there was a note, written in lazy scrawls. There was a certain familiarity to it, yet I couldn’t figure out what made it so, until I made an effort to read it. It was written like a letter.

“Shocked, are you, Neil? Or shall I call you – Mr. White?

P.P.S.: Like you have always told me, Neil, vengeance is an emotional response. I was beginning to believe in it.”

I did not walk this far down the road to have it end there.

I kept a life of secrets. But at that moment, the embargo was lifted, in both ways. In one way, I have exposed my deepest secrets to this woman; in another, that woman has exposed her true colours to me.

I stared at the piece of paper with utter disdain.

I was bewildered. I knew only one thing. To kill. It is what I have always done. It is the truest secret I have ever kept.

… …

With a certain vengeance, Zach pulls the trigger back, a second time to ascertain his victim’s fate. In silence she falls. Like the gates of hell opening to welcome her, the ambient sounds of the busy city gives way to her demise. She is now irrevocably relegated to a rigid corpse, her fate set in stone.

Far beyond the epicentre of the tradedy, Zach White walks out of a fast food chain outlet, Cheeseburger in one hand, a mobile phone in another.

“Hello. This is Mr. Neil Fitzgerald speaking. May I enquire about the life insurance policy of my late spouse, Mrs. Victoria Fitzgerald?”

“Yes, this is Mr. Tony Scott speaking. I will be attending to you today. I shall have to put you on hold while I retrieve the relevant files. Please wait a moment, sir.”

Checkmate.