The name of the dead man was Maximilian Bradley. Not that he knew he was dead yet. The blinking green name stood out on the black screen like a neon sign over a dive bar. Underneath it was a number with too many zeroes at the end of it. Geist had heard of Bradley, of course. Who hadn’t? He sipped the honey-coloured liquor from his glass and contemplated. This was a chance to make history. Of course, if his name showed up anywhere in the history books it would be curtains for him.
Max Bradley. Formerly CEO at Hydratech, and purveyor of the biggest redemption story in business. Going from a billionaire industrial arms manufacturer to a billionaire eco-techno pitch man over the last few years would no doubt have left the man with enemies. None of that bothered Geist. As one of the world’s richest men, he would be protected as if his very breath was capable of breathing life into raw clay like gods of old. That didn’t bother Geist either. He was busy thinking about all those zeroes.
Geist slowly reached out and hit “ACCEPT” on the contract. Whatever the security surrounding Bradley had to offer, for that many zeroes he would find a way around it. He had another drink. What would he even do with that kind of money? He looked around the house. It was modest, a rickety single-storey that packed all the essentials of life into two rooms and an outhouse. The low ceilings were peeling, the floorboards coarse and gappy. Geist wasn’t poor, quite the opposite in fact. What he was, was completely focussed. He allowed himself three indugences, and these were:
1: His drinks.
2: His music.
3: His bed.
He had been in the middle of combining 1 and 2 on the way to 3 when the contract alert had come through the ancient computer system he kept ticking over most evenings. One of his favourite bands had released a new record which he had had imported from the States as soon as it released there, and he was putting it through its paces both forwards and backwards to check for hidden messages.
He got up and went over to the phone, which sat in a cradle in the wall. Geist didn’t have a mobile phone unless he absolutely needed one, and even then he would spend about twenty dollars on a prepaid one and then discard it immediately after the job. He picked it up and dialled an old friend, asked her if she could dig up any information about the immediate whereabouts of Max Bradley. He heard a little gasp on the other end of the line, a sharp burst of static, and laughed easily.
“I know. Big name. I need to speak with him urgently.” This was their code, in case Geist was under observation. It wouldn’t hold up if, say, he was explicitly linked to the killing, but it might protect the other if one of them went down. He said goodbye, hung up the phone, and rinsed out his glass in the sink. It was a beautiful blue night outside, the moonlight playing through the trees and casting swaying shadows.
All of a sudden, there was an urgent beep from the computer. His client was requesting a correspondence. This was technically normal, but Geist preferred not to be micromanaged by some sweaty coke-nosed corporate suit when he was doing his job. Once he had lost a substantial payday when a CEO’s failed-upwards, chain-smoking, red-eyed son had hovered a little to close to his back on the job – metaphorically speaking, that is – and he had blown up at him – literally speaking. Since then he usually specifically requested minimal contact.
He accepted the call. A wireframe head popped up on the screen, with the word “Client” underneath it.
“Am I speaking to the man recommended to me as Geist?” said a distorted voice. It could have been anybody, any gender, any age. The anonymity filter made it impossible to determine. The client could be a rival of Bradley’s, a jilted lover, or a very resourceful and emotionally unstable eight-year-old. The wireframe head – bald, undistinctive – bobbed along with the words. Geist nodded, which would show up on the client’s screen on his own wireframe head.
“Good,” said the client. “You are willing to accept my offer?”
“I am,” said Geist, and his voice would come out of the client’s terminal sounding exactly like the client’s did to him. “Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
A brief, electronic noise. The client was laughing. “Quite.”
“What’s with the chatter? I’d prefer to be planning my… business trip,” Geist said. He loved old spy movies, anything with serious men speaking in code. “Bradley is sure to take an interest in your proposal.”
“Ah, yes,” said the client. “About that.”
The circling green dot that traced the wireframe head suddenly split into two, like a bacterium preparing to colonise an organism. It began tracing another head, identical to the first.
“What the hell?” said Geist.
“Geist, meet Hardin. The introductions are a formality of course, given your propensity for anonymity.”
“I work alone,” Geist admonished.
“Oh, that was entirely my intention, Geist. So does Hardin. You understand, I need this mission to be an unqualified success. I need to be sure that Bradley dies, and fast. Whichever one of you executes the contract first will receive the payout, in full. Whichever one of you fails will get nothing.
”This is very irregular,” Hardin said coldly, wireframe head forming the words with hollow green lips. “Grounds for contract termination, in fact.”
“Is it really?” said the client. “Will you be reporting me?”
“Let’s not be hasty,” said Geist hastily. The wireframe head of Hardin bobbed. “I agree with Geist. I’m willing to agree to the terms of the contract if they are.”
“It’s a generous offer,” said the client.
“We’ll take it,” Geist said. The client nodded, and then the green wireframe winked out of existence. Hardin stayed on the call.
“I’ve heard of your work,” they said.
“Likewise.”
“Of course, nothing to stop us from both profiting from this. That much money, dividing it by two almost makes no difference. Could both walk away rich.”
“That’s true,” said Geist. “If you don’t think you can hack it on your own.”
“I was thinking of you,” said Hardin.
“In that case, you can shove your offer-”
Hardin had hung up. The rest of the insult died in Geist’s throat. There was a beep from the computer. A new message.

FROM: HARDIN (ID000332045)
MESSAGE: to the death, then.

Geist always flew commercial. His friend had told him about a convention in London that Max Bradley would be attending, coming back to the city he was born in after nearly a decade away. He was scheduled to give the keynote address. The whole thing was built around him, and mostly paid for by him. Geist checked in at the airport with one of his passports and a single carry-on bag with his laptop and a single change of clothes inside it. The rest of his necessaries he would buy in London, while he established his base of operations.
For the flight, he had downloaded everything he could find on Bradley – Interviews, speeches to college students, TED talks. He liked to get to know his subjects as closely as possible. You never knew when they’d slip up and give you the rope to hang them with (literally, in one case of an actor that was now a time-worn anecdote in Geist’s community). He was watching with some interest while Bradley espoused his Holistic Economic Theory and not understanding any of it when the attendant brought his in-flight meal. Against all odds, the man seemed to be sincere.
Getting off the plane, Geist’s next stop was his hotel room. As he never compromised on number 3, he always blew a considerable amount of money on hotel rooms. But with that money came comfort and privacy. He hung up the Do Not Disturb sign on his door as soon as he entered, and quickly unpacked. It was too late to visit the convention centre now, and he was feeling a familiar itch.
The hotel had a well-appointed bar, which was a pleasant surprise. He ordered his favourite, and was surprised to find they had a whole bottle. He said “Let’s start with just the one,” giving the bartender an easy smile that had taken years to get right. A woman had laughed at that, sitting further down the bar. Geist looked across at her. Blonde. Pretty enough. He nodded to her and took a drink. He was working. Not healthy to mix business with pleasure. He’d find her after the job was done, maybe. Someone like her.
Hand on his shoulder. “Hey man, you like her?” said a voice that Geist didn’t recognise. Immediately, he was trying to identify it. Could it be the voice he had heard disguised the night he had spoken to Hardin? He cursed inwardly. He’d been honey-trapped. The guy was going through some rote jealous-boyfriend spiel, so tired even he seemed to be bored with it.
This was going to take concentration. He turned to face the man, noted his friend on Geist’s left side. No lasting damage. They had to walk away from this, or his business trip was over and Hardin would win just the same as if he had killed Geist cold. That meant no breaks, no head shots, nothing debilitating. Wounded pride.
He kicked the man backwards, staggering and falling back over a low table between two couches. His friend threw a wild jab which Geist deflected, delivering a swift chop to the man’s wrist. He howled. Can’t look too perfect, or people will ask questions. He let Boyfriend hit him once, then hit back, knocking him to his hands and knees. Friend swung with his free hand, dropping his guard, which Geist took advantage of to jab him in the solar plexus. Friend gasped and, wheezing, staggered away. The whole thing had lasted half a minute.
Geist grabbed Boyfriend. “Hardin send you?” he hissed. Boyfriend was a better actor than he’d seemed, or else the name meant nothing to him. “I didn’t touch your girl, man. Go home,” he said aloud, realising he would get nothing from this guy.
He turned back to the bar and finished his drink. “Sorry about that,” he said to the bartender. “That your man?” he said to the woman. She shook her head.
“I’m not from ’round here,” she said in a drawling accent. “Skipping town tomorrow.”
Well, Geist thought. He still had a while before the convention. He had time.
He ordered another drink.