1.

He had seen the share information that morning. He knew exactly why he had been called up to see Goldstein; he'd been expecting it.

He passed through the familiarly lengthy corridor that lead to his superior's retreat-slash-office with a swift, confident stride, a smile hidden just below the flesh of his lips. Imported greenery sprouted from the walls and floor in places; someone's vague effort to convince you that this was a friendly, natural environment. A few pictures hung perfectly straight at regular intervals. In all of his time at the company, he had never noticed what the pictures were of.

Footsteps padded by the expensive carpet, he reached the oddly-designed approach to Goldstein's lair. The corridor, thin and weary all the way from the elevator, suddenly exploded outwards into a large oval shape, as an asophagus to a mouth. The area was bordered by moulded plastic windows and was utterly empty.

Something to do with Feng Shui he imagined, and knocked on the only door the opening presented.

He stepped inside upon receiving a muffled prompt through the intercom set into the wall beside the door frame. Apparently one of the perils of Feng Shui was that it became impossible to raise one's voice enough to shout come in. Acoustics or something.

"You've seen".

Once he had sat down in the broad leather chair provided at one side of the massive, curving desk (all curves here, no edges), the words were practically thrown at him by their speaker.

The question wasn't worthy of an answer. Of course he'd seen. He'd had his finger on the pulse of the company for the last six years, feeling it gradually reduce it's pace and vitality. Of course he'd seen.

He didn't answer.

The old man sitting behind the desk moved uneasily. He was looking more drawn than ever, yet still maintained the stout build he'd had as a young man. Fat replaced muscle; but it was still maintained. One hand shook minutely, clinking his cufflink against the desk's hard surface.

"What do you think, Barker?" he asked his younger compadre.

Barker stared for a few moments. Goldstein … squirmed?

"You know what I think".

More silence.

The air had a different texture this high up in the building. It was thinner, but only very subtly so. Enough that you'd notice only if your chest was tight, your heart weak from one too many angina attacks.

"You alright, Mr Goldstein?"

The prefix was like an assassin's dagger - almost unnoticeable, but with a wickedly sharp prick.

"Fine. I'm fine".

"Do you want me to make the call?"

"No" Goldstein replied as quickly and firmly as the wisps of breath passing between his lips would allow.

"Then let me rephrase; do you think we have any other choice but to make the call?"

Barker had a Devil's tongue. He had a thousand phrasings slithering through his mind right now, each attacking the question from a delicately different angle. And each ready to strike at the same answer. The answer Barker wanted to hear.

Goldstein's look was reply enough but Barker wanted to hear the words.

"Sir?" he prompted.

"Make the damn call" the old man said, and swivelled his chair away from his second-in-command to the view of mid-town Texas that spun out before him. The buildings glittered. He couldn't hear the traffic. Not this high up.

2.

A city's heartbeat could well be symbolised by the sound of a hundred thousand feet treading the same vein of concrete in perfect unison. The beginning of a new work day is signalled by the emergence of the pilgrims on their way to their places of worship. They arm themselves with pistols, this massive regiment, and knives and other such lethal accessories - but also with briefcases, mobile phones and perfect hair.

The enemy is failure and it lies out there somewhere, in wait.

Each soldier fears as they stride; fears the unknown attack, the stray bullet that will bring them falling to their knees and, even if just for a moment, destabilise the onward march.

The churches line the streets, looming overhead and blocking out the sky. At some points, where concrete and glass kiss high above and erase all the blue pieces that may lie up there, the natural world is forgotten and all that is left is this amazing new world we have created.

The pilgrims, the soldiers, spill into and out of the march as they reach their individual destinations. The numbers begins to dwindle. The heartbeat quietens. And slowly, but so quickly, Armageddon approaches in the form of nine o'clock, at which point the streets will be deserted once more, save for those who do not fight this war and whose lives are disordered and without borders; without lunch breaks (1 hour), two-to-three coffee breaks (15 minutes) and monthly paycheques.

She can move amongst them, unnoticed, and she does.

She barely needs to walk, or think about her destination. Somehow the flow can just take her there. To look at them, the workers are as indistinguishable as ants in a colony but the flow knows. The feeling of being guided by whatever forces were responsible was at the same time comforting and worrying. It could easily drop her somewhere unintended if it so wished, she imagined. But it never did. It stuck to the giant clocks that glittered sporadically on the surrounding buildings because time was money and money was time and both were gods here.

She appeared before a building that she had noticed before but never been in, suddenly ejected from the thousand-strong parade. The soft hum of all those feet moving, briefcases swaying and high heels clicking became a mind-churning noise now that she was no longer a part of it. That was no pulse; that was chaos.

The entrance to the Bridport building was massive and arched, evoking the sense of standing before a cathedral in the dead of night. It was a male thing, she had decided. The bigger the entrance to my building the bigger my dick is. But now they were all like that, older buildings renovating so that the first several floors were taken away to make room for a new lobby, newer ones pushing the idea beyond it's weak limits.

There sure are a lot of big dicks in the city, she thought as she stepped inside.

The noise was cut off. The light was cut off.

In these buildings all that existed was what lived within them. The city's new-found churches were also biodomes.

A hired guard was standing in front of her, muscled arms highlighted by the odd swirling pattern on his uniform. She stepped up to him, smiling.

"Jessica Bauval. Grade Three secretary".

As she spoke, she took an ID badge from the pocket of her suit jacket and handed it to him. The guard bit down on the plastic coating, then licked it. He never took his eyes off her. It was like watching a dope cop scratching coke across his gum to see how good it was.

The guard seemed satisfied that it wasn't fake.

Of course he did. Jess had the best fakes for miles. Each of the six-hundred-odd ID pins she had back at her apartment were perfectly matched to the real things in not only size and design but chemical composition. Industrial spies and moles were making life more and more difficult for her to get into places now but they were all so clumsy. Served them right if what she had heard happened to them when they were caught did happen.

"Grade Three" the guard recited. "Top Level: floor forty-eight. No more. You can bring two weapons in with you. No shotguns or freakish stuff. No pistols more than .35 calibre".

Jess reached into her suit and took out a nice little automatic that a friend had edited slightly, adding a sneaky mechanism that imbued a .32 calibre pistol with the organ-splitting power of a .45 but without the kickback. She let the sun glint off of the good side (the other being slightly scratched from when the mechanism was put in place), then placed it back in her holster. She showed him the hunting knife she always carried in her handbag.

Around them lines of workers moved slowly through the checkpoints. Occasionally someone had to give up a weapon that went over the calibre limit, or was told to use another entrance. Metal clinked. Lots of shiny, gleaming metal.

"Fine, fine. Knives are fine" the guard said, impatiently. He had another seventeen hundred employees to check through before nine o'clock that morning and all for five bucks an hour. His bosses told him it was worth it, so he believed them. After all, they paid his wages.

3.

She'd told them to meet her in a small, bohemian cybercafe.

The coffee smelled stale. Around them, people buzzed and purred as they clicked-and-pointed their way around the world via modem. Jess found it easier to be in a place that was constantly moving with hundreds of tasks being carried out simultaneously around her. City girls needed the comfort of crowds and noise - it made it easier to forget yourself.

"I didn't think normal people used these places" the younger of the two men said. His grin was lop-sided, and practised. His aftershave was harsh and stinging.

Jess shrugged. She watched the other, older man. He hadn't said a word since they had walked in. "Everybody wants a piece of the Web".

The younger man snorted. "It's overrated".

"I don't care".

For a split-second, Jess' coldness threw him. Then the smile slid back into place and it became clear to her that he was used to being snapped at by women.

"Anyway, down to why we're here". Barker, he had said his name was; Troy Barker. But you can call me Troy. "We're interested in gaining the employ of a certain person who has so far, shall we say, been somewhat reluctant. We've made multiple offers. Generous offers. The last three weren't even answered. We think his current employers know we're after him and are doing their best to protect him".

"We don't normally do this" the old man suddenly said, quietly. "We need some new faces at our company. We're desperate".

His hands were shaking. His eyes darting.

"What do you want from me?" Jess asked.

"We want you to help us get him". Barker had taken control of the conversation again. "By any means necessary".

"That can mean a lot of things, Mr Barker".

"I think we both know exactly what that can mean. Bring him to us".

"There are a few ways we can do this, as I stated in our phone conversation". Jess stubbed out her cigarette and spat out a puff of smoke. "Option one is clean, but the questions afterwards can get messy. I don't know if you gentlemen would like to waste your time answering questions you'd rather not be answering".

"Then you'd suggest option two".

"In this case, yes. It's best to keep things simple. This way's not as subtle but sometimes that's what you want. To send them a message".

"Don't mess with us" Barker said, grinning. The old man sipped his iced tea.

"Whatever" Jess said.

"So we keep it simple, easy".

"That's right. Simple". She held his eyes for a moment. "Just the head".

"Just the head?" Barker parroted, face split in two by his smile.

"Just the head".

4.

A set of wrought-iron spiralling stairs led up to a thin catwalk that overlooked the main entrance. Jess climbed them and noticed two sets of two guards at each end of the catwalk, like warriors protecting a rope bridge in Colonial Africa. In addition to the regulation pistols, they each held a weighty, double-edged axe in one hand. She didn't afford either set a glance as she began onto the catwalk but noticed that their teeth were all sharpened to small points that gleamed amongst the wet flesh of their lips.

They were hired bulldogs - too expensive to be there all the time doing such a measly task as oversight.

Which meant the company knew.

No big deal, though. It would just make life a little more interesting.

Jess kept her head straight, her neck firm, looking natural, so natural, as she stepped off the catwalk and into the carpeted corridors of the building. Down below, workers continued to flow in and make their way to their workplaces; be it the 50,000 dollar suits that infested the upper floors or the overweight greasemonkeys that sweated to keep the giant turbines that powered the building in decent working order.

A bank of elevators presented themselves to her at the end of the corridor, just as it turned left. A few people waited before them, stepping in and out without a single word exchanged between them. Jess slowed her pace until they had all found an elevator and the doors slid shut behind them, then took one of her own.

The elevators were only big enough for two people but moved quickly and smoothly, making perhaps a thousand trips from top to bottom in the first few hours of the working day. Once inside, she reached down to her knee-length, utterly conservative skirt and trimmed a pre-cut six inches off of it until all she was left with was a slim piece of fabric that skirted her buttocks. She tucked her blouse in until it was tight up against her chest; popped open a few extra buttons. The heels she wore could do with being higher but they would suffice

Coming in like this would have gotten her noticed too easily. But now she needed this new uniform if she were to gain access to the building's most important area.

The secretaries pool was basically an entire floor of the original building (additions had been made onto it since then, doubling its size) dedicated to little round tables, coffee and whispered talk. It was heaving when Jess entered it as an entire company's-worth of hairspray women grabbed their morning caffeine boost.

The noise of so many hushed conversations reminded her of the claustrophobia of an aeroplane so she hurriedly grabbed herself a coffee and sat down at one of the tables. She had no idea how long this would take; or even if it were to be successful. But if there was one place in the building where she was sure to find out as much about her target as she possibly could, it was here.

She allowed her attention to drift from conversation to conversation.

Most were trivial (families, lovers, good sex, bad sex) but after a while a much darker thread began to reveal itself. In places, bubbly laughter became lizard-like rasps and Jess imagined that if she could see their originators they would be wearing the faces of Komodo dragons. This darker thread showed it's nature in the form of, at first, bitchy comments and then as time passed, more vicious attacks on individuals.

Morning coffee break somehow transformed itself into mid-morning coffee break without any announcement. Because of the sheer numbers of these hairspray drones, Jess was able to remain in the one room without drawing attention to the fact that she wasn't leaving to work at any point. She merely switched tables every now and then as a conversation she was involved in trickled away and picked up the strand of a new one across the room. The speakers were replaced with fresh ones full of the very latest developments in the Higher-Uppers' lives and deaths. Jess could see that this could go on forever if it were given the chance.

Soon she was privy to the results of the previous day's bugging of several bosses offices - a routine affair, she knew. Some had video footage that they gleefully played on a widescreen projector-television that was conveniently set up in one corner of the room; one shot in the men's room from behind a mirror as workers popped zits and practised their charming smiles: another shot under an obese, balding man's desk as he unzipped his fly and humoured himself - and everyone now in the room watching.

The women (they were all women - not one man inhabited the room) were free to cackle at will. The guard at the door was hired by their own union and her instructions were strict enough to deny access to any non-secretary - up to a certain point of course.

As a fight broke out at the next table (blood; screams; the swoosh of a knife being pulled from folds of flesh) a short, dark-skinned woman with black rings under her eyes leaned forwards conspiratorially. There were five at this table, other than Jess. She sipped her coffee, now freezing cold, and tried not to register her disgust.

"Getting that mike in Servil's private bathroom was impressive, Norma" the short one said, letting her yellowed teeth show. "But I can beat that one".

"Like hell you can. It took me six weeks to sneak into that bastards office, another two to get the key for the john. Bastard keeps it locked 24 hours a day. What, does he think his bog's so interesting that someone's willing to break in just to have a look".

"You were". This from a gaunt woman, ageing nicely and with a faint ginger moustache.

"Not to look at the bog, though".

"Does he know you did it?" Ms. Gaunt again.

"Of course not". A pause. "So what do you think you can beat me with, Toby?"

"How about the only man who has more security than the Grand High-Mucky-Muck himself?"

There was a thoughtful silence. Jess could almost hear the women's brains ticking over. Then a smile broke on Ms. Gaunt's face. It somehow leapt through the air and infected everyone else at the table as well. Jess grinned so as not to look out of place.

"Not Palmer".

The dark woman nodded dramatically.

Palmer. Jacob Palmer.

6'2". Receding hairline. 35 years of age. One of the brightest analysts in the business. Wanted by most of the big company's within the city. But, most importantly, wanted by Fastrak Data Handlers, President Joseph C. Goldstein.

"Prove it".

Ms. Dark did. She showed them three colour digital photographs. None were very exciting but the fact that they were there at all was enough.

"But they've had him holed up there on 63 for almost a month now, ever since the bids started coming in".

Ms. Dark merely shrugged.

"You fucking slut, how'd you get in there?"

"How does anyone get in anywhere" she replied as one of the women at their table got up and left. "With a key".

"You have a key?"

Jess heard the question as she was leaving the table, having gotten what she needed. "Not anymore" she said to herself, and slid the swipe card into her bag.

She smiled at the guard on the door as she passed them and only vaguely heard Ms. Dark's strained voice - "Well it's here somewhere" - as the woman searched her empty pockets.

5.

The second time she had met with Barker and Goldstein had been three days after the first. This time in a book shop, with the smell of old ink in the air and not a coffee bean in sight.

"So what do you need us to do?" Barker had asked.

No pleasantries this time. She didn't know what had happened in the three days but whatever it was had crowbarred the wedge between the two men another few inches.

"We'll need a transfer body. Something to attach the head to".

"Just anyone?" Barker asked.

"No. A thick neck. But not too flabby or it'll be a pain in the ass to sever. Just as long as it's nice and sturdy".

"Want to volunteer, sir?"

Goldstein's smile was like a worm squirming from a well of mud. "I didn't realise we needed to … sacrifice someone".

"Well what did you think, we were just going to have a head sitting on the chair? Besides, it isn't a sacrifice. I can think of plenty people who don't deserve the air they breathe. It'll be a release. Isn't that right Ms. Chambers?"

Jess stared coolly at the younger man. There was something dark going on behind his eyes, something that made his pupils as bleak as watered-down oil.

"Do it ten minutes before I arrive, no sooner. If it bleeds too much the corpse'll be useless and we won't have the time to find a replacement".

"Ten minutes? We can do that".

"I don't like th…"

"Yeah, we can do that" Barker interrupted. If Jess hadn't been looking at the old man at the time, she wouldn't even have certain that Goldstein had spoken in the first place.

"I'll give you this just now" she said, and handed them a small vial filled with a viscous, clear liquid. "It thickens the blood and helps to gum up the wound. Give this to whoever you choose in a drink before you get the body. Got it?"

"Got it".

She briefly gave them the rest of the details needed for the whole shebang to work. Time. Materials. Other shit.

Then:

"You both sure about this? Cause tomorrow I'm going to walk into that building and do my job. After I leave you today there's no turning back".

She was looking at Barker when she said it.

"Hey don't look at me" the man said. "He's the boss. Right, sir?"

"We're certain" Goldstein said. His gaze flickered across the younger man.

"Guess that means full steam ahead" Barker announced. "Want to get some coffee now?"

"I don't drink the stuff" Jess replied slowly. The whole interaction reminded her of a polar bear stalking a seal beneath the surface of an ice sheet.

She just couldn't figure out who was the bear, who the seal - and who the ice.

6.

Jess made it to floor 55 without much hassle. The low rumble of the power generators that emanated through the entire building had diminished to a faint throb this high up; the air had become sweeter, more artificial. It took an extra little something to ascend the next 8 levels - namely an air vent to reach the outside of the building, the hunting knife to assist her climb up the soft, electro-shielded walls and the point of her elbow to break in the glass to a 63rd-floor bathroom.

She stepped carefully into the hall, having slicked her hair back with water and pulled it back into a tight pony tail, and glanced around. There was no one in sight but she could sense multiple presences, like gang members waiting to jump you from an alleyway. She stood by a T-junction in the corridor, reached into her bag and withdrew a small mirror, then held it out in front of her at a slight angle. It revealed two guards; again, bulldogs, their needle-teeth like mouthfuls of jewels.

There had been an increasing number of guards as she had ascended each level. So far she had managed to avoid them and their attention, either by route-changing or immersing herself amongst another group of workers. Her part of secretary had been chosen expertly. They were the only workers expected to be on every level of the Bridport building; modernity's grunts, gophers and dolls all rolled into one. No one had questioned her so far, but they would now.

No one was supposed to be on this floor. From the beginning of last week, as the offers had begun to become more serious, the floor had actually ceased existing. All elevators had been programmed to bypass the level; enough food to last a month had been shipped up beforehand; the bulldogs were on an unlimited contract to stay put until the company's competitors finally realised that her target was staying put.

Jess put the mirror back into her bag, took out her knife and pistol. She slipped the pistol into the waistband of her mini and pulled her blouse out over it, leaving the other half tucked in. Then she took off her jacket and sliced a neat line down one arm with the knife. Blood filled the wound quickly and soaked her blouse. She tore her skirt too up one side, and kicked off her heels. She let a few strands of hair fall out of the pony tail.

She checked her watch. One hour left.

Most of the workers had left. She had been in the building all day now, slowly working her way up, eavesdropping in bathroom cubicles and photocopy rooms as she gathered info on her target. The corridors were deathly silent. Air-conditioning played a soft tune on the metallic grates screwed into the floor. Around the corner, she heard the scraping of metal as one of the bulldogs, armed with a morningstar and an axe, ran the weapons along each other.

She took a deep breath, thought of the money, then leapt around the corner; bloodied and torn.

7.

She was in one of the guards' arms before they even realised she was there.

"Help me" she croaked. "There's … a man. A man. He attacked me".

The bulldog had slipped his meat-packed arms under hers and was attempting to lift her to her feet. Jess allowed herself to turn to jelly and slide back down to the floor.

The other guard was already storming to the end of the corridor, sixteen-inch axe in hand. "No one there".

"He's … I got away from him. He killed my boss and .. and now …" Her words turned to quiet whispers and she spat up some blood from her pre-bitten tongue.

The second guard, dark skinned with bleach blonde hair, returned to her side. He laid down his weapon and took her hand in his. His eyes strayed to her legs, splayed and distinctly revealed by the tears. He was still half-looking at them when he asked, "Who did this to you, Miss?"

"The lift shaft! He's coming up the lift shaft!" Jess screamed, firmly clenching her handbag. "Help me! Save me!"

"I'll save you" the first, long-haired guard said. "I'll save you Miss".

Jess could almost smell the testosterone in the air.

"Come on" Long-Hair said and began to take off. Jess grabbed the loose fabric of his trousers.

"Don't leave me here" she pleaded.

"We'll just be a moment, Miss. We're trained guards - this won't take long".

"But what if he gets past you or, or … I don't know! What if he gets to me? I'm unarmed. He said he was coming up here".

"To this level? He said that specifically?" Dark-skin. With a gleam in his eye. He turned to his partner, then back to Jess. "Don't worry, we've been expecting this".

He turned and had only taken two paces when he fell heavily to the floor, blood seeping from two bullet wounds in his back. The second guard was quick to respond, but Jess had already pulled off three shots into his chest by the time his pupils attained focus on her. Before their hyper-metabolisms could kick in, she grabbed the morningstar from Long-Hair and swung it down hard onto his skull, which accepted the weapon gratefully in a grip of squirting grey matter. She shattered the hand of the first guard as he reached for his own gun and it took a moment to retrieve the 'stars spikes from the flooring before she could finish him off.

The whole thing took about thirty seconds.

Twice as long as she had wanted it too.

She checked her watch and saw that time was closing in, then calmly walked to the last door in the corridor. Closed-circuit cameras whirred all around her and five floors below she knew a team of security agents would be making their way up to stop her getting into the office of Jacob Palmer.

Which is what she did, thanks to the swipe card and, once more, the bulldog's morningstar.

8.

The unfortunately named Jerry Duck had worked at Fastrak for a little over nine years, and soon he would be up for the basic pension scheme if he signed a contract to say he would work for the company for at least another ten years. Jerry was prepared to do that. His job was menial, his tasks boring but how much more could you seriously expect from life? No more, was Jerry's answer.

So when he was called up to the office of no less than Joseph Goldstein, his heart began to triphammer like it never had before. His ageing shoes creaked on the immaculate flooring that surrounded Goldstein's immense desk. Sweat beaded under his arms and in the small of his back

He'd only seen his immediate boss on three occasions in all the time he had been there, never mind the head of the company - each time it had been a different person, and each time it had been to introduce themselves because they were new. For all he knew, Joseph Goldstein had died and gone to the great print room in the sky years ago.

This was not good.

"Do you know why you're here, Jerry? I can call you Jerry can't I?" the younger man standing by Goldstein said.

"No. I mean yes. I mean … you can call me Jerry. But no, I don't know why I'm here. Is it about the pension scheme?"

"Let's just get this over with, Barker" Goldstein murmured.

"Get what over …"

"No, it's not about the pension scheme, Jerry" Barker cut him off. "This is about your performance in the company. Here, drink this".

Jerry took the proffered whiskey and, under the intense stare of Barker, decided he was meant to drink it there and then. He thought it best not to mention that he was allergic to alcohol so threw the shot back in one go. It stung his throat and his eyes were watering as he croaked;

"I do my best, sir. I always have".

"I know you do Jerry. It's just … your best really isn't all that good is it?"

For God's sake don't drag this out any longer than need be Goldstein mouthed to his feet and downed his own drink.

"I … I don't understand".

Barker left Goldstein's side and walked by Jerry, eyes to the ground. He stopped behind him.

"You Christian, Jerry?" Barker asked, knowing full-well the man was devout. He had taken his time in picking a candidate.

"Yes sir. All my life".

"And you believe all that Christ-sacrificing-himself-for-our-sins stuff?

Barker's tone made Jerry pause before answering. "Well … yes".

"Would you sacrifice yourself for your children and wife, Jerry?"

A familiar, empty pain throbbed in Jerry Duck. "I don't have a wife. Or children".

"But if you did".

"If I did?"

"If you did, would you sacrifice yourself for them?"

"Of course".

"Good enough for me, Jerry" Barker said.

Then Jerry fell to the floor just as a pair of bulldog guards were doing six miles away - except instead of bullets taking him there, it was the blunt end of a small hammer.

Barker and Goldstein stared at the unconscious worker together in silence.

Then, as he slapped the instrument into the palm of his hand, Barker said, "Nice guy".

9.

Jess stepped on the shards of wood into Palmer's office.

He was in the process of leaping up from his desk but froze when he saw her, glimpsing the futility of escape at the same time as glimpsing the morningstar swaying melodically in her hand.

Behind him, the windows had been sprayed with a freeze-gel that instantly seal any holes made in it. There was only one entrance to the room (the one his soon-to-be assassin now stood in), the second exit having been secured with plate metal sheets on both sides of the frame. All forms of communication had been cut off save an LAN Intranet connection to the building's main computer.

The only problem with locking yourself in a hole to keep others out was that you were simultaneously locking yourself in.

Jacob sat back down in his chair, trying to remain calm as Jess approached him.

Splinters cracked under her barefooted tread. Small droplets of her blood spilled from her arm to the imported carpet below. She laid a small stack of stapled papers in front of him.

"This is Fastrack's final offer" she explained as Jacob wearily scanned it. She watched him flip a few sheets, knowing that he was not reading the terms but scrabbling mentally for a way out.

"I can't leave" he answered without looking up. "They won't let me".

"My clients are no longer asking. Now lets get this over with. Do you formally accept this proposal?"

She watched his eyelids flicker, eyes darting mercilessly beneath.

"I … can't".

Palmer's desk exploded as the morningstar was launched into it, spiking the rejected offer and embedding itself in the floor. The man was thrown backwards against the windows and slid down the wall as Jess fought to free her weapon. It was wedged tight.

She struggled with it, cursing softly under her breath control control until she glimpsed, out of the corner of her eye, Palmer raising a double-barrelled shotgun at her. He racked the barrel, announcing the self-defence training that had been forced upon him the past few weeks.

Jess could see clearly that he knew how to use it. She rolled away, abandoning the morningstar and reaching for her bag, dropped at the door when she had entered as Palmer fired the first shot into the wall by her head. Small chunks of plastered ricocheted off the floor; one struck her on the head as she found the handle of her knife.

Spinning away, another blast just missed her leg and the knife was now in her hand as she swivelled onto her knees and glimpsed Palmer, shotgun raised once more, and the barrel staring her down. She tried to evade the round as it left the gun's chamber but Palmer had been taught well and before she knew what was happening her wrist had been torn in half and her knife was in three pieces, the power of the blow slamming her to the ground.

Palmer was racking the gun once more, sweating every drop of fluid in him into his Gaultier suit as he listened for the sound of a battalion of bulldogs charging up the hallway. He felt no anger towards this woman - only fear- and watched in amazement as she got to her feet before him, obviously in great pain but not slowing down.

She leapt at him, his finger slipping wetly on the trigger, and together they collided with an oaken bookcase that emptied its contents onto them as they fell back. Jess had her injured hand around his neck, her good one across the top of his head, her breathing heavy and hard as she wrenched the gun from his white-knuckled hands.

Palmer bit down on a tendon exposed by the bullet wound, clambering away as Jess screamed in pain, then grabbed the gun back from her and struck her as hard as he could across the forehead. Without another thought, he went to the office's door and looked out. There was still no sign of any guards - they'd put up so many safeguards around him that even the bulldogs were having difficulty getting past them.

He hurried back to his computer, on it's side but still intact, and frantically tried to mail an SOS to anyone he could. Behind him Jess was getting back up, now bleeding profusely from multiple wounds and as he hit 'send' she drove a piece of wood down through his shoulder, the injury spewing blood out under him, then plunged it in again and again. His screams were choked by the blood rushing into his lungs as the makeshift stake pierced the soft flesh of his knees and displaced his knee caps one by one. The final blow was through his heart and was imbued with such force that it cracked three ribs and the wood clean in two.

10.

Barker poked at the soft spot he had created in the back of Jerry Duck's head. "Like a sponge" he announced and looked up at Goldstein.

The old man was staring out the window, the horizon filled with glittering edifices that shone blackly in the night sky. The moonlight gleamed on building corners but the body itself was obscured; the stars were obscured.

The whole frigging world is obscured he thought to himself.

Barker stood and wiped off his hands. He caught Goldstein looking at his watch once more.

"There's plenty time" he told him, grinning. "Just relax".

Don't tell me to relax you little weasel.

"I am relaxed".

"Well you don't look it. Here, have another drink".

Goldstein took the glass to avoid any further antagonism, though Barker suddenly seemed to be a snake and it wasn't whiskey he was offering but an apple.

"Is it time yet?"

"Still 15 minutes, Goldstein" Barker smiled. No 'Mr' prefix this time.

"But by the time …"

"You heard what she said. Too soon and the brain cells die. Then what use will he be to us?"

"I don't like this. It's gone too far. There are other analysts".

"Yeah that's it, Goldstein - back down. Jesus you're weak. You're no good, old man".

"Don't screw with me son. I built this company…"

"You built shit. This place would have died years ago if it hadn't been for me". Barker was slowly, subtly circling Goldstein now like a shark. "Times have changed. The rules have changed".

"Only because people like you change them".

"That's right. Because people like me change them. If the rules don't suit - change them. That's what I do, Goldstein".

He was behind the old man now but Goldstein refused to give in to his intimidation. The whiskey glass was shaking in his hand. He quickly emptied it so that Barker wouldn't notice.

He choked the drink back; it clinged to his throat, congealing his saliva.

Congealing his saliva.

He turned too late - he realised too late - he had become an old fool at some moment that he couldn't remember and he hadn't even seen it coming. Hadn't known that there was more to the gleam in Barker's eye and his overwhelming insistence on going ahead with hiring the Headhunter than mere ambition.

Except that was what it was.

Pure, naked, raw ambition.

Now he saw. Now he saw.

Yet still too late.

11.

Jess had to move fast now but her weapon of choice lay in fourteen tiny pieces on the ground in front of her. The shotgun Palmer had wielded must have been artificially adjusted just as her handgun had, leaving nothing but splinters of finely crafted metal and an exposed wrist bone in its wake.

She began searching for something else to use for the removal.

The debris from her entrance offered nothing - the only fragment that could have helped was lodged in Palmer's chest cavity like an explorer's flagpole buried in an arctic ice sheet. She looked through the destroyed desk's drawers to see what other protection the man had been given but there was nothing. Bulldogs liked to keep things simple.

There was a mighty thud on the wall outside.

Speak of the devil Jess thought as she caught a look out of the window. Across to the left, a pack of guards had begun to set up a cable from the opposite window, one end secured at their side, the other now clamped into the concrete window surround before her. She knew they would have a can of Chromate spray to dissipate the security shielding they had placed on the windows - as did she.

At the same time she found an old-fashioned metal ruler in one of the drawers the first of the bulldogs, teeth shining, began to crawl along the wire. The implement wasn't ideal but it would do the job.

Jess hurried across to Palmer's body, sucked in a deep breath, then began sawing at his neck with the ruler.

12.

With the bulldogs just over halfway across the wire, Jacob Palmer's head had rolled onto the carpet spurting defiantly. The cut was jagged and uneven but it had been the best that she could do under the circumstances.

Jess picked up the head by the hair at it's crown and sprayed the Chromate she'd brought onto the window. The sealant dripped lazily off the glass under the chemical's burning attack and Jess blew the window out with her gun, recovered from the room's entrance.

The bulldogs froze when they saw her.

She had them now.

The wire they crawled along swayed gently in the breeze then quickly began to scurry towards her when she reached up for the socket wedged into the wall. She placed the nozzle of the gun next to the wire and fired, then watched as, almost in slow motion, the guards swung backwards towards the opposite wall, some falling instantly, others holding on until they were smashed into the concrete siding.

But Jess wasn't around to see their hulking forms explode like jelly-filled carrier bags - she'd already leapt from the window and was on her way down, down.

Her 'chute opened just above the 25th level and carried her safely to the ground in front of the building. The crowds, the armies, had reformed, the streets now filled with the night shifts making their way to Mecca and it was only too easy for her to lose herself amongst them. They were all far too focused on BEING PUNCTUAL to take any notice of a free-falling, blood-splattered woman standing amongst them.

She re-affirmed her grip on Palmer's decapitated head then stepped to the kerb and flagged down a taxi.

"Tough day at the office?" the cabby asked kindly over his shoulder.

"Just the usual" Jess replied. Her wrist wound glistened under the lightbulb fixed into the roof of the cab.

"You want something to put that in?" the cabby asked, nodding at Palmer's head. "It's dripping".

"Sure. That would be great. Thanks".

The cabby reached across to the passenger seat's leg space and produced a striking yellow bucket stained with unmentionable flecks of something or other.

"I keep it here for puke," he explained, "but I think its big enough for your head there".

Jess took the proffered bucket and dropped Palmer's head into it. It fit nicely.

"Thanks".

"No problem" the cabby said, turning back to face the road. "Now - where to?"

13.

Troy Barker looked up as Jess entered the office and smiled.

"What happened?" she asked, pausing to regard the scene before her.

Barker stood by a basin at the entrance to the en suite bathroom, washing his hands in a stream of hot water. A thin pink fluid sluiced into the bowl.

In the corner of the office nearest the man was what could most accurately described as a stack of bloodied meat, sitting like giant lumpy pancakes topped with crimson maple syrup. Other than that, the room was silent and undisturbed, though Jess noticed a small stain on the carpet by the huge desk that looked as if it had been recently mopped up.

Barker finished drying his hands on an executive towel and re-entered the office. He had taken off his suit jacket; dark leather braces vertically segmented his torso, his tie still neatly pinned to his shirt's hem.

"Guess it was more difficult than I expected" he said, suddenly looking very much like an iguana. "I don't do this very often".

"You get used to it" Jess said because she needed some words, any words to try and distract attention from the suspicious gaze she lay upon him. "Where's Goldstein?".

"Business trip. Just got the call an hour ago. He asked me to pass on his gratitude to you. The money will be in your account by midnight".

"He does that often, does he? Last minute business trips?"

"Unfortunately for him, yes. He's an old man - it tires him easily".

"But luckily he has you to cover things for him back here, right?"

The iguana became a fox. "Right".

Jess moved past Barker to the body, sticking to her principle that the business world was just too dangerous for her to mess too deeply in.

"You cut too soon" she said, and it was only then, when she became aware of his disobedience, that she became annoyed at the man.

"Dammit, you cut too soon".

She pulled the decapitated corpse forward, pieces of flesh sliding from it's neck. She didn't think to ask where the head was. She needed all her concentration to try and finish the procedure.

"But you can still do it, right?"

It was a challenge that spurred her on and made all thoughts of how long Barker had been planning this deceit vanish from her mind.

"I'll do what I can. But I told you - ten minutes. I can't be certain if the Newbie will be anything more than a vegetable with legs".

"I know you'll do what you can".

And you know that the head was severed far too early to prevent any kind of brain damage. You were counting on it.

14.

Months later, Troy Barker shook hands firmly with the German Data Conglomerate leaders, congratulating them on closing such a profitable deal and wishing them the best for the future.

They waved to the CEO, the man who had sat silently at the end of the table for the entire meeting, and he waved back.

Once the door was closed and everyone else had shuffled out, Barker turned to his boss, grinning. The room was quiet, all street noises cut off by the soundproofing in the windows and door frames.

He sat back in his seat, to the right of the CEO, Gerold Frankson.

"You did it again, Frankie. You just keep going from strength to strength, don't you? Yes you do".

He reached across with a napkin left over from that afternoon's executive buffet and caught a thread of saliva escaping from the corner of Frankson's mouth. The slight slackness on the left side of the man's face was accounted for in Barker's moving tale of how Frankson, this man from nowhere, has survived six strokes. He found that outright embellishment somehow made the tales he told more believable.

The neckbrace was going to be a little hard to justify in the months to come, considering Frankson had suffered 'whiplash' just before he arrived at the company in April and it was now October so shouldn't he have recovered by now? But Barker had become extremely adept at telling stories - coming up with one more would prove no problem. Twice during the meeting he had noticed the CEO's head wobble disconcertingly and made a mental note to check the metal braces holding the appendage on afterwards.

Once thing he doubted he could explain was why his boss's head had just fallen off - and why there was so little blood.