Floor Nine

“Going up?” Devin asked a leather-jacketed, long-haired young man as they entered the elevator.

A nod, that was all. Devin tugged his suit hem smooth then edged his way toward the control panel. As he pressed the top arrow, he took care never to let his fellow passenger out of his sight. The guy looked like he belonged in a street gang, somewhere.

With a quiet whoosh and a bit of a lurch, the machine began its ascent. Devin felt more than heard the pulses as it rose. Floor one. Floor two. His eyes darted to the gang kid who was planted against the opposite wall, hands sunk in his pockets and booted feet crossed with a sort of insolent nonchalance that rubbed like grit under Devin's starched collar. Devin gripped his ridiculously light briefcase firmly and went back to counting floors.

Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. That made floor seven - or was it eight? He looked at the display over the door. Nine.

The gang kid coughed. He had a rough cough, like Devin's grandfather had before he died, except he'd been nearly eighty and a lifelong smoker. Devin caught the scent of cigarettes now. They couldn't have been in the elevator for more than half a minute and already it was permeating the place. His nostrils twitched of their own accord but he was careful not to let his physical irritation show otherwise. Never let a guy like that onto the fact that they were affecting you, his grandfather'd always said. It meant he won.

Gang kids had no business beating executives. Not on Devin's watch.

Watch. Damn. What time was it? He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. It was gone. Why was it gone?

He was about to dig into his briefcase when he realized two things. One, the phone was gone because he couldn't afford it anymore. Two, the elevator wasn't going anywhere.

“Looks like we're stuck,” the gang kid was saying. He had left his post and was examining the emergency instructions with the attention a big investor gives the stock market. Just before he could push a red button that was supposed to alert the proper authorities, the lights went out.

In the dark, there was a brief scuffle, a plunge, a muffled thud; then quiet.

Devin clutched the wallet tight in abruptly clammy hands. It was heavy. He held it to his nose; breathed deep the scent of cigarettes and cocaine - they said all money carried traces of it.

“Please remain calm,” an automated voice intoned, startling him. “Mechanical Assistance will soon correct the situation.”

Devin grinned and slipped the wallet into his pocket. Using the sole of his oxford, he shoved the body into the corner. With the lights out, no one would notice until he was well away.

The elevator dropped with a gut-clenching suddenness. Then it began to ascend again. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse... Floor thirteen.

Beneath his feet, the car shuddered and was still. The door slid open. Devin squared his shoulders and strode into the electrically illuminated hallway of company headquarters.