Corporate Manslaughter prologue He sat on the sandy shore, waves breaking a few feet from the tips of his toes, and knew, then, how people could just disappear. The brim of his hat kept the sun out of his eyes, but he could feel the warmth on his bare arms and legs. He focused, briefly, on the variation in temperature across his body: the warm, dark khaki shorts; the cool, loose white shirt; and the steel of the handgun at the small of his back, almost matching his body heat. His sandals sat where he'd stepped out of them, at the foot of the rough stone steps leading from the bar to the beach. It was still early in the day, so most of the tourists were still in bed, sleeping off the night before. Only a few had been drifting around the small town as he'd walked towards the shoreline; too few to conceal the pair sat outside a small coffee shop who clearly had no interest in snacks or souvenirs. No real couple would sit like they did, so far apart, silent, watching. No real tourists would be on their third cup of coffee at 8.15am. He sighed and, for the third time in the ten minutes he'd been sitting on the sand, took off the hat to run a hand through his hair and to check that the memory card was still tucked into the band. Just as he settled it back over his ears, he heard the noise he'd been waiting for. "Stand up." It was a woman, presumably the one he'd seen sat outside the cafe. He obeyed, slowly, still facing away from the voice. "Turn around." Again, he followed the instructions, keeping his hands away from his body. He noticed three things. Firstly, that the bartender had disappeared from his station. Secondly, that it was indeed the caffeinated couple who'd followed him to the sand. Thirdly, that his deception had worked; they stood back from the steps, cautiously assuming that the too-neatly discarded sandals concealed some kind of booby trap, but had been distracted from the incongruous fact that the candle on only one of the tables on the decking, that closest to them, was lit. Nobody moved for about a thirty seconds. The couple seemed happy to continue to appraise the situation, hands still empty despite the weapons they doubtless carried. He forced himself to relax, shifting his weight between his feet and removing his hat again; left-handed, this time. The misdirection worked, allowing him to slip the silver automatic out of his waistband and bring it around his hip, barrel now pointing through the hat's straw crown. "Hands where we can see them, buddy." It was the man this time, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, hand now close to his hip. At this distance, he knew as well as they did, he could only take one of them before the other put him down. Their orders were probably to take him alive, but still; who wants to get shot in the leg? "Sorry, old bean," he said, affecting the exaggerated Englishness some had found disarming. "How about a drink?" Before either of them had time to react, the wine bottle shattered, its stubby candle falling only a short distance before igniting a spray of flammable, sugary liquor. He dropped the hat, a half-inch hole smoking in the top, and his left hand joined his right on the gun's grip. The man's jacket was bearing the brunt of the flames, so he concentrated first on the woman, who had quickly crouched and was extracting a matte black pistol from its holster. He fired twice, aiming for her centre of mass, the momentum of the bullets pushing her down onto the wooden planks. He was moving forward, slowed only slightly by the sand, as he switched his aim to the man, who was still trying to simultaneously beat the flames out of his sleeve and draw his own gun, succeeding at neither when a neat hole under his right eye ended his #life. The woman was trying to pick herself back up as he mounted the steps, struggling to bring her gun to bear. He trapped her arm with his foot, forcing her to release the weapon, which he kicked along the decking. She collapsed, then, fearing the same fate as her former partner, but he turned from her, slipping back into his sandals and striding over to the battered hat. Satisfied that the memory card still nestled inside, he returned it to his head. "I should have asked for more," he said, ruefully, to nobody in particular, as he took a last look at the water. He shook his head; "so much more." --- The bartender had clearly thought he was on some kind of mission when asked for a whole bottle of Sambuca. "A little early for that, isn't it?" the man had asked, but he was still willing to take the money.