Turn About

Chase 01

The day after I killed Alex Valin, I went to the office in a sour mood. No, I wasn't feeling remorse for my actions, rather I was pissed that the bastard tricked me. Failure was new to me, even a partial failure, and with the datafiles still floating around in the world my boss would hardly be looking to give me a bonus.

Speaking of bonuses, I had gotten a hefty credstick for my troubles, all I needed was to get a slick hacker to crack it open. Most people would be in for a rude awakening if they took that to a freelancer and expected him to make good on that much, but my rep was good enough that no one would double cross me.

My boss? Nope, he didn't care about stuff like that, all he wanted were results.

I went in to the office that morning to keep suspicion down. Being out on the day someone turned up dead was likely to be remembered, even if there was no way to connect the two things. In my work I rubbed elbows with a lot of corporate types, and what was worse is that I couldn't kill them unless they fucked up. Going through my day involved a lot of false smiles, mind-numbing conversation, and the constant hope that some of these bastards would hurry up and do something to let me kill them.

After all, that was my real job, and I loved my job.

The other VPs on my floor were already in their offices when I arrived. Getting to work late is one of the few joys in my life, and luckily everyone else thinks I'm well-connected enough to keep it from being a problem. If only they knew how right they were.

I keep myself from looking at Alex's door by sheer force of will. Being nonchalant after killing someone is something that takes constant vigilance, and quite a bit of practice. Back when I first started, after a kill, everyone thought I'd gotten laid. Time had taught me the value of being a little more discreet. This time I walked to my office, casually ignored my secretary's greeting, and closed the door behind me.

My desk is a solid, comfortable weight in front of me as I sit down. Something most people do not realize is how important a desk is to somebody who works in an office environment, and that list includes everybody worthwhile. It's a workstation, a foot rest, and a communication center. Everything you do flows through the desk, and nearly every moment of the day is spent near its comforting bulk.

I keep guns in my desk. Not just a handgun in a drawer either, I have anything and everything I could possibly need stored in hidden compartments. In addition I have installed two .50 caliber swivel-mounted computer-assisted machine guns in the forward compartment, and a transparent plate of telescopic Plexiglas with an interactive holodisplay.

My desk looks needlessly large, but in my world a person's desk is a statement about how important they are. Few people in the entire company have a desk that can compare with mine, and I'd bet bullets to pens that none of them are fully loaded.

There is a gentle knock at my door, and then almost immediately after my secretary walks into the office. She has a habit of doing that, knocking and then entering before I answer. I imagine what it would be like to turn on the guns and spray her across and through the walls. Naturally, she has no idea why I stare at her with a bemused smile when she enters.

"Sir, I have a memo for you," she says.

Instantly I sober. There is only one person who sends physical memos, only one person who cares about security enough to do that. She sits the rectangular black box on my desk and then walks out of the office. I hardly notice her go, as I stare at the dark box. It is eight and a half by eleven inches, the exact size of paper, another rare throwback to older times.

The black box has a reader on the front that performs fingerprint and retnal scans before it opens. I hesitate only a moment, and then I put my palm on the shiny surface. It only takes a moment to scan, and then the display changes to a small box. Then I put my eye in front of it, and a light runs up and down. A small click sounds, and then the box unlocks.

Inside is a single sheet of paper. It is crisp and white, and on the top of the sheet is printed 'EmergiCare'. I recognize it as the name of a hospital corp that operates out of the area. Then there are a list of names running down the sheet, a patient admittance sheet. Near the end of the list is a name that sears itself into my brain.

On the back of the sheet is a simple message, "Finish the job."