Crossfire

Prologue

Stepping out of his private, Mercedes-Benz Pullman, Maxwell Salinger breathed in the sharp, cool air of the city. It was late winter in Manhattan and the snow that had been pushed to the sides of the road was a dirty ashen colour, more sludge than ice.

Jamming his hands inside the pockets of his grey woolen peacoat, Salinger made his way up the steps towards his building, the heels of his polished black loafers clicking against the concrete. Once through the revolving doors, he was met by a well-muscled man wearing a cap with the word 'Security' printed in bold white letters. "Identification plea—" the man paused, realizing his mistake, "Oh Mr Salinger, sorry sir, I didn't expect you... please carry on through." Salinger gave him a tight smile and proceeded to the elevators, ignoring the stares from the rest of the staff, although it didn't hurt his famously large ego. Placing his keycard against the scanner of the lift, he pushed the button for the top floor.

"Morning Charlotte", Salinger greeted his secretary as the elevator doors opened.

"Good morning sir," she replied. He frowned, there was something different about her today, "Did you do something with your hair?"

"No? Oh well I suppose it's tied up," Charlotte's usually very professional and straight, copper-coloured hair was uncharacteristically unkempt. In fact, to Salinger, she seemed quite worn out, with dark circles under her eyes. He made a mental note to give her more time off. "Ah right, of course," he made to turn towards his office before Charlotte said, "There's a Mr Patel on the phone for you."

Salinger stopped, "Right...thank you, put him on line four," his mouth dry, he began slowly walking down the hall whilst a million thoughts raced through his mind. Shit, he thought, how could he know?

Salinger knew this was coming regardless, you don't cut one of the largest arms dealer in Europe out of a deal and expect to get away with it indefinitely. Still, he had reasoned that there wasn't much money couldn't solve and had consequently hired a professional to do what was needed to cover his tracks and ensure that Patel wouldn't catch on. This had obviously been unsuccessful.

Entering his office, Salinger closed the brushed oak door behind him and took a minute to clear his head. The room was state of the art, with floor to ceiling glass windows, a mahogany conference table and the air had the rich smell of new leather. He reclined into his seat behind the desk facing the window and rubbed his eyes, thinking of the best way to handle the inevitable conversation ahead of him. Taking a deep breath, he punched the number four and picked up the phone.

"Mr Patel, what can I do for you?" Salinger attempted to sound as casual as possible.

    "Did you think I wouldn't find out?" Patel's voice was ice, cool and level, his thick Italian accent could be heard over the line.

    "I thought the terms of the contract were clear from the outset?" Salinger knew this man was not to be toyed with, but he wasn't about to openly confirm Patel's accusations either.

"Stronzo! You may be a rich man but your money will not protect you forever. You can forget about Geneva."

Salinger cursed silently, stood up, pressed the button for speaker and began pacing in front of the window. The Geneva deal was essential, he had several smugglers all over Switzerland ready to deliver to some very wealthy buyers. Patel had him on that one, but what the Italian arms dealer didn't realize was how much money he was to make off of it. "You think I care about a few million? That is nothing to me. Money is power, and as long as I still breathe I will continue to use it to my advantage. I'll give you forty-eight hours until we renegotiate," and before Patel could counter, Salinger hung up and sat back down in his chair, letting out a sigh of frustration.

It happened in an instant. Salinger didn't even have time to process the sound of the bullet as it whistled neatly through the glass of the window and embedded itself just above his right eyebrow. The metal had ripped straight through in clinical fashion and a thick stream of blood oozed from the puncture wound, staining the white collar of his shirt, scarlet. The billionaire's eyes were still open, but were unseeing, the once vibrant blue irises now the same dove-grey as the winter sky.