The Play Gathers Faith

A qualified wage slave didn't ask why.

"Yes, sir." Mercer put away the documents, turned, and headed for the door. He moved quickly, and as he left, he didn't forget to pull the door shut gently behind him.

Ian stood up, walked to the window, and drew back the curtains.

Sunlight poured in and fell across his face. He narrowed his eyes slightly.

On one of the floors of the taller building outside the window, that camera was still there. The person behind the lens was still filming, the focus fixed on his face.

"How brazen."

Ian sighed softly.

The elevator stopped.

Top floor.

The doors opened.

Five people stepped out of the elevator. The one at the front was the leader. He walked ahead of the others, holding a tablet in his hand that displayed a fake delivery order.

Their footsteps were light, but Ian could hear them, hear them very clearly—the sound of soles pressing against the floor, boots stepping on rubber mats, leather gloves rubbing against metal door handles.

The group stopped outside the office door. The door was unlocked. The leading man hesitated for a moment, then turned the handle. The door opened.

Ian stood before the window with his back to them.

Sunlight outlined him in gold. His bare feet stood on the carpet, his toes slightly spread. The five people stood in the doorway, watching his back, unmoving.

"Come in," Ian said.

The leading man didn't move. His right hand slipped into the pocket of his work clothes and found the pistol. It wasn't large, nine-millimeter caliber, with the suppressor already attached. He drew the gun and aimed it at the back of Ian's head. The four people behind him moved as well—some drew guns, some drew knives, and one pulled a stun baton