Stephen Knight - White Tiger

It’s a shame I can’t shoot these guys and get away with it.

On the way, he practiced his usual surveillance detection routines, using storefront windows and the like as mirrors, looking for any possible tails. He also walked in a circle twice, navigating two blocks that took him well out of his way but afforded him the opportunity to examine the path he had covered. No one was following him. As far as he could tell, the rest of the humanity in the city of San Francisco merely regarded him as another businessman on his way to work downtown…if they regarded him at all.

As he walked, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. He had no text messages nor voicemails, and their absence made him feel almost poignantly lonely. He wondered how Ryoko was doing, and wished he hadn’t agreed to honor her request for privacy.

Despite the circuitous SDRs, Manning arrived at 101 California Street ten minutes early. He finished the dregs of his Starbucks and tossed the empty cup into a nearby trashcan. He pulled his wallet from his pants pocket and removed his conceal carry and driver’s licenses, then pushed his way into the building’s ornate, seven story lobby with several other similarly-dressed men and women. He made his way to the front desk, holding the licenses out before him. 101 California had some history; it had been the site of a mass murder in the early 1990s, when a disgruntled businessman had executed eight other workers. In response to that firearms and the like were absolutely illegal on the premises. Manning planned on declaring his weapon as soon as it was prudent; he wanted no mistakes.

“Can I help you, sir?” asked one of the security guards behind the desk, a skinny black kid in his early twenties.

“Jerome Manning. I’m here for a nine o’clock appointment with Lin Industries on the 45th floor.” Manning handed over the licenses. “I’m a licensed security contractor, and I am armed. These are my credentials.”

The guard took the licenses and examined them. Manning’s declaration had also caught the attention of another security guard. This one was also black, but older and much, much larger. He walked around the desk and approached Manning slowly from the left side.

Manning looked at him quickly.

“Let’s take it easy, boss.”

“Weapons aren’t allowed on the premises sir,” the guard said. “You have to surrender it or leave.”

“No problem. How do you want to do this?”

The skinny kid behind the desk pulled out a plastic bin and placed it before Manning.

“Empty your pockets in this, including the gun,” he said. “You can’t carry it with you up to 45th floor.”

Manning nodded and opened his coat, showing the guards the Smith amp; Wesson. The guard behind the desk looked at it, then nodded in return and pointed to the plastic bin again.

“Unload it and make sure the safety’s on, then put it in here.”

Manning removed the pistol. He ejected the magazine and cycled out the round in the chamber, which he then pressed back into the magazine. He placed them in the bin. He also tossed in the baton, cell phone, and his keys as well.

“That’s it,” he said.

The big guard stepped back and indicated the metal detector off to one side. He seemed much more relaxed now that Manning had voluntarily surrendered his firearm.

“I’ll need to ask you to go through the metal detector. Who is it that you’re here to see?”

“James Lin.”

The big security guard hiked his brows momentarily.

“The big fish himself. Okay man, step through the detector and then we’ll call up and get you a pass.”

Manning made it through the metal detector without any difficulties, but the big security guard used a wand on him anyway, checking for any hidden items which might have avoided the detector’s magnetic sensors. He was thorough but swift.

“Sorry about this,” the man said, motioning for Manning to lift his arms at the shoulders and hold them steady. The wand remained mostly silent, chirping only once when the man brushed it against Manning’s belt buckle.

“You’re clear,” the guard said, switching off the wand and motioning toward the desk. The skinny kid was already on the phone, presumably with someone from Lin Industries.

“I’m glad. I thought you were going to ask me for a date if we kept that up.”

The security guard smiled sourly.

“I know this is San Francisco and all, but for some of us there’s a limit to the brotherly love I’m willing to show, you know?”

“Happy to hear it,” Manning responded casually.

Manning’s appointment was confirmed, and he was issued a temporary identification. He was instructed to wear it in plain sight clipped to the lapel of his coat or jacket at all times, and that he could recover his pistol and baton when he left the premises. His cell phone was returned to him, and the big guard directed him to one of the elevator bays.

“You can catch forty-five by taking one of these elevators here. Once you’re in the elevator bay, someone will buzz you in to the floor itself,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Manning rode the elevator up to the 45th floor, stopping a few times as other people disembarked. One woman, a fat lady with pasty white skin and poorly applied makeup, brushed by him as she exited. Her perfume was thick and cloying, and Manning hoped that it didn’t stick to his coat. Just to be certain, he removed it and draped it over one arm as he exited the elevator himself on the 45th floor.

Another guard, this one wearing a dark blue blazer with the logo of Lin Industries USA on the breast, buzzed him in through the glass doors that led to the office space itself. A matronly-looking Hispanic woman seated behind a broad desk peered at him over her bifocals.

“How can I help you, sir?” she asked, her voice one of professional but distant disdain.

“Jerome Manning. I have a nine o’clock appointment.”

The woman checked her computer screen and her watch.

“You’re a few minutes late.”

“Security held me up.” Manning checked his own watch; it read 8:59am. He elected to let the unwarranted criticism pass.

The woman didn’t comment. She directed him to sign the visitor’s ledger.

“Follow Wilson here. Wilson, conference room two, please.”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Manning?”

The guard motioned Manning to follow, which he did. He led Manning down a carpeted hallway and after a moment, left him in a small conference room dominated by a cherry wood table and black leather chairs.

“You can wait here,” the guard told him.

“Thanks.”

The guard nodded and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Manning sighed and slid into one of the expensive leather chairs. He set his coat across the seatback next to him, and leaned back, arms crossed over his chest.

Ten minutes later, during which Manning had entertained himself solely by looking out the window at the goings-on of San Francisco’s business district, the door opened. A tall, almost incredibly wide man stepped inside. He was dressed in a blue suit, and his head looked unusually small when contrasted to the girth of his body and breadth of his shoulders. He had a huge gut, but Manning could tell it wasn’t from a soft living. The thickness of the man’s neck and upper arms attested to that. He held a day planner in one beefy hand.

“Mr. Manning?” The accent was definitely Slavic, if not Russian.

Manning rose to his feet.

“Yes, I’m Manning. I can only presume you’re not James Lin.”

The big man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He didn’t smile.

“Your presumption is correct. I’m Alexsey Baluyevsky, Mr. Lin’s security chief. Please be seated.” Without offering to shake hands, Baluyevsky pulled out the chair opposite Manning and lowered his bulk into it. Manning sat back down without comment.