Gene Editing, Granting Power

In the hotel lobby.

The receptionist saw a blood-covered man carrying a gun come through the revolving door. All color drained from her face.

Her mouth opened to scream, but her throat seemed to seize up. No sound came out.

The security guards, well paid by Russell, took their jobs seriously. They rushed out from a corner with their hands on their stun guns, but their steps faltered.

They saw the gun. They also saw the look on the man's face.

It wasn't a robber's greed or a terrorist's fanaticism. It was the grim resolve of someone who had nothing left to lose.

"Sir, this is now Mr. Russell's private property. No one may enter with a gun without an invitation."

A guard blocked the man's path. He felt he owed Mr. Russell that much for his paycheck.

More importantly, he didn't believe the man would dare fire a shot under Lord Russell's nose.

Jim didn't try to force his way through. He stopped in front of the guard's outstretched arm.

He raised his head and stared straight at him. The guard squirmed under his gaze but held his ground.

"Sir, you can't—" The manager had received word and came running down the stairs. Her suit was immaculate and her heels clicked against the floor, but sweat covered her forehead.

She stepped in front of Jim with her arms spread, looking like a sharply dressed superheroine making a heroic stand.

"You can't come in. This is a private residence."

Neither of them looked ready to budge, and the man from the video, Russell, hadn't appeared.

Jim frowned and slowly raised his gun, aiming it at her.

"Take me to God's Whip."

"G-God's Whip." The manager's voice caught in her throat. She fought down her fear.

"You must mean Mr. Russell.