The girl.

As I blend in with the group of girls, a gaggle of stunning young ladies from around the world, I know for a fact that to the casual observers I have practically morphed into a state of invisibility. No one will know who I am.

A snap judgement will be made the minute they lay eyes on me and no one will perceive a threat. They will see the mass of dyed hair; the fake tan, the jewellery dripping off me like baubles, the mini skirt, the long legs and they will see me as just one of the girls, as if we are a symbiotic part of a collective mass operating with a hive mind, distinguishable only by varying shades of lipstick.

It's what's known in my business as a legend.

It goes beyond a disguise, it's who I am for this mission.

For this mission I am just one of girls: one of Jeffrey's girls, whom he somehow managed to summon to his private jet, for God knows what, with the full knowledge and blessing of corrupt members of law enforcement. Who else would be on his way to incarceration in a private jet, drinking champagne with a bevy of women and Harvard-educated attorneys at his side?

The mood is all rather festive as I climb aboard and the plane takes off, literally flying above the law in brazen luxury , metaphorically raising a middle finger to all the principled people below and all their self-righteous moral judgments.

Unfortunately for Jeffrey, I work for one of those principled people: a very rich and powerful woman, who knowing the corruption that plagues this country, sometimes takes the law into her own hands.

And I help her do it.

Jeffrey oozes charisma as he regales his coterie of friends and advisors with inflight tales of recent court appearances and interviews with police, as one would relate anecdotes for a stand-up comedy skit. No mention of his victims, not an inkling of remorse, no acknowledgement of his crimes- I know this job won't weigh on my conscience like some of the others.

"How about a drink my dear?" He calls to me as I'm standing nearest to the bar area. (Yes this plane has a bar). I smile at the irony, as unbeknownst to him, he just requested his own death.

I flick my fake hair , flash my pearly white veneers as if competing with all the cats of Cheshire and pour him a glass of bourbon. Thanks to some deft slight-of-hand skills, no one notices when I add a prepared vial of synthetic poison; a bespoke blend of lab- concocted toxins, which apparently tastes like limes and take the glass of death on the rocks over to him.

My hand doesn't even waiver as I pass him the lethal liquid.

"You have beautiful eyes." He says, taking the bourbon and drinking it .

"Thank you." I reply with a fake southern accent but with genuine sincerity, as I've always been a little insecure about my eyes ... I also feel it's a polite courtesy to acknowledge someone's final words.

I watch as he sips.

His eyes linger on me and my eyes linger on his lips.

Suddenly his face contorts. He grabs his chest in agony, eyes wide, struggling to breathe .In just a few seconds, he suffers a massive heart attack, keels over and dies.

My work here is complete, so I scream and without a complete understanding of events, the rest of Jeffrey's girls scream too.

An emergency landing later , with much ado, much panic, more screaming and even more crying we all disembark and I slip off into the night, throwing off my high heels and fake hair as I run.

When the FBI start their investigation ,they don't have much to go on. A false name. An abandoned wig. No distinguishing details....

Just a general description of a girl.