PROTECTED. Marcus Calvert
the front of her left shoe. She went after Mitchell’s right shin with a low roundhouse kick. To her surprise, Mitchell intercepted her kick with a right heel kick of his own.
Even off-balance, the femme fatale threw a left knife-hand chop at Mitchell’s throat. He blocked her death blow with his right left, then stomped his right heel down upon the toes of her left foot as he drove a solid head butt into her face. The back of Ms. Junimoto’s head slammed into the elevator wall with a loud thud. Blood flowed from her broken nose as she scowled at him. With a primal yell, she clawed at his face with her right hand. Mitchell blocked it with his briefcase. Her razor-sharp metal fingernails sliced through the fine Italian leather hide of his briefcase – only to connect with the shock rig he had installed for just such an emergency. A fraction of a second later, 12,000 volts punched through her cherry-red fingernails.
Ms. Junimoto hit the floor of the elevator, quite unconscious and convulsing.
Mitchell reached into his suit jacket, pulled out his stylish silver pen, and set it for magic marker. The pen widened and asked him (in a feminine voice) which color he preferred. Mitchell asked for white. The pen complied as he knelt over Ms. Junimoto’s luscious ass and simply wrote: KICKED BY MITCHELL. He so loved his own sense of humor. The elevator reached the top floor.
The doors opened and Mitchell found himself in a reception area with two opposite-facing desks, which flanked a long hallway. The empty one on the right had Ms. Junimoto’s nameplate on it. The one of the left was occupied by a giant bruiser of an executive secretary with one regular (green) eye and a (silvery) cyber one. He wore an all-black suit, black shirt, and white bow tie.
Mitchell glanced at his desk’s nameplate, which simply read “Igor.” Igor rose to his full seven feet of height as he looked over at Ms. Junimoto. With a thick Romanian accent, Igor asked Mitchell if she was dead or alive. As he stepped out of the elevator, Mitchell amicably grinned and replied with the corporate motto: “We only kill people when we have to … or for large sums of money.”
Igor’s cyber-eye twitched twice before he barreled toward Mitchell. The death vendor wished he had a gun as he tossed the briefcase aside, loosened his tie, and met the big man’s charge. Mitchell rushed forward and laid a brutal front kick to Igor’s left knee, in mid-charge. Then the death vendor nimbly skipped to the left as Igor barreled past. The “assistant’s” off-balanced charge was hard enough to put a dent into a nearby metal wall.
Unconcerned about his cyber-knee’s status, Igor whirled around - just in time for Mitchell’s left roundhouse kick to connect with Igor’s right jugular. The vicious blow should’ve put him down. Instead, Igor’s right hand lashed out with surprising speed. He grabbed Mitchell by the necktie, stood up, and lifted the wriggling death vendor two feet off the floor.
Mitchell managed to dig his fingers under the makeshift noose around his neck. But in doing so, both of his hands were pinned between the necktie and his windpipe. Barely able to breathe, Mitchell looked down at Igor’s scowling face. The giant leisurely curled the fingers of his left hand into a truly large fist, brought it back, and aimed for a reddening Mitchell’s sternum.
Igor figured that one punch would more than suffice -
Mitchell’s necktie beeped twice before sprouting dozens of tiny, needle-thin barbs through Igor’s hand. No larger than a bee’s stinger, each barb was laced with a lethal cocktail of fast-acting neurotoxins. The big man winced for a moment … then suddenly released his grip and staggered backwards, caught in a wave of delirium. Mitchell gasped for air as he stepped back and loosened his tie.
Igor fell into his desk with enough weight to tip it over. Mitchell looked on as the dying giant slumped to the marble-tiled floor. White foam began to ooze from Igor’s mouth. The death vendor whipped out his pen again, set it for anti-toxin, and injected Igor along the left jugular. As much as he’d love to let the giant die, it wouldn’t set the proper tone.
Sixty seconds later, the poisoned barbs retracted back into Mitchell’s necktie. The death vendor put his pen away and straightened out his suit. Then he grabbed his briefcase and strolled toward the closed double doors at the end of the hall, which opened at his approach. He found himself in the plush office of Edgar Pierson and Seamus McIntyre. The pair of trillionaire corporate giants started their publishing empire out of a trailer park near Old Miami, some twenty-five years ago.
Pierson was a tall, handsome man in his mid-50’s with a black, custom-fit Oprah-Armani suit. McIntyre wore a similar style of suit – only it was beige and had a plaid-patterned Scottish sash draped over his right shoulder with the colors of his clan. Their desks sat on opposite ends of the large, round room with a 360-degree view of Neo-Philadelphia. Neither executive bothered to stand. After Mitchell handled introductions and politely refused refreshments, he apologized to Mr. Pierson and Mr. McIntyre for disabling their executive assistants.
Pierson lit an authentic Michigan cigar and chuckled. If a death vendor couldn’t fight his/her way past his receptionist, Pierson explained, then the poor bastard had no business brokering kills. McIntyre complemented Mitchell on his dirty-minded tactics. Then he went on to confess that Mitchell had been the first vendor – of any kind – to personally make it to their office in almost three years.
A black leather guest chair rose from the center of the room.
Mitchell sat down, relieved to have made a suitable first impression. Now, he had to resolve their problem and secure their business. McIntyre explained that their last death vendor firm – Butchery-To-Go – had shut down, due to a labor strike of all things. If Rent-A-Killer could fill in during this crisis, they could expect a lot more business from Pierson/McIntyre – perhaps all of it. Mitchell fought the urge to do back flips and howl with glee. Instead, he opened his briefcase, set it on the floor, and pulled out a wand-shaped remote control.
Mitchell then asked them about the target.
Pierson reached into his suit jacket and tossed him a holo-cube with assurances that it contained every scrap of available intel on the target: one Ora Quinn-Ross. Mitchell had heard of her. She was a renowned author of children’s books, whose services had recently been acquired by Hughes/Cly/Tushubki, a rival corporation. Due to a coordination error, Pierson/McIntyre’s negotiators offered Quinn-Ross a huge advance on a thirteen-novel book deal before the final contracts were signed.
Hughes/Cly/Tushubki heard about this and offered her even more money (once she signed with them, of course). Thus, the author shamelessly walked away with two book advances and a whole lot of money. In these cutthroat times, such a move equaled a public relations coup in the publishing industry. Hughes/Cly/Tushubki’s stock increased by five percent since the story broke. Pierson/McIntyre, on the other hand, had become an overnight laughingstock. Mitchell understood why Ora Quinn-Ross needed to be made an example of.
It took Mitchell mere seconds to come up with a half-dozen relatively-plausible kill packages, all of which would be guaranteed to grant Pierson/McIntyre full deniability. But when Mitchell mentioned this, McIntyre pounded his fist on his (real) oak desk and shouted that she needed to be punished … subtlety be damned! He wanted Ora Quinn-Ross to be humiliated, killed in a ridiculous fashion, and her literary legacy reduced to the value of a urinal puck. Pierson agreed, albeit with less passion. He explained that they owned enough police officers, federal agents, news stations, and judges to ignore such minor details as conspiracy to commit murder.
Mitchell scratched his chin and pondered the situation.
There were some rather “exotic” kill packages that his firm offered. But only certified lunatics used them (a fact that the death vendor decided to keep to himself). With the press of a button, the holocamera in Mitchell’s briefcase kicked in. The death vendor walked them through the exotic packages, each summarized by detailed holograms of past victims:
#1 The Giddie-Yap: The victim is tied to a horse, via lasso, and then dragged along a gravel road until dead. Broken glass and lemon juice can be added to said gravel road for a slightly-additional charge.
McIntyre was a bit interested in it and verbally logged it as a “maybe.” Pierson shook his head and mumbled