Dalton Marillon didn’t see it coming. He was in the middle of his daily bike ride, sitting up in his saddle, watching the clouds rolling across the ceiling above, catching his breath.

Biking was Dalton’s favorite form of exercise and he did it every day, usually right after work, when the park was relatively empty. (Dalton’s was the day shift of three, so his work was done at four, when most of the city was still watching the clock, waiting for five.) He lifted weights, too, to keep muscle definition, of course, but only twice a week, and only after the bike ride.

And this was no leisurely ride. Dalton felt his exercise should be demanding, since he sat a desk for the majority of his shift, and biking the way he did certainly fit that bill. A form of Burst Interval Cardio, Dalton would push himself as fast as he could go for 4 laps around his floor’s park, and then coast for a lap, to let his heart rate calm, before pushing again for 4 more.

He had finished the 2nd of 4 sets, was coasting, sitting upright, not even steering. His head tipped back, feeling his sweat evaporate in - and drawing deep breaths of - the unseasonably cool breeze programmed by the park for the evening, Dalton was feeling good. Happy. The park usually tried to match conditions outside (within reason, of course: no sense storming or even raining indoors), and the temperature and humidity in the park were unusual but welcome after the blistering weather of the last week. In fact, Dalton remarked on it to himself, making a mental note to tell his wife at dinner. Maybe they’d come back for a stroll later.

It was the last thing he thought before his chin collided with a bat-wielded tree branch (the same one that had, for years, been overhanging the path at the second turn, where Dalton was now, as it turned out; the same one whose absence Dalton had happily noticed during his first lap that day). His brain stopped functioning.

The bike traveled on for more than 5 feet before tipping into the bushes. Dalton did not. Neither did the branch, dropped beside him to complete the vignette and cause the desired conclusion. He was found by a jogger a minute later.

####

Joshua Billings didn’t see it, either. And shame on him for it. He was a Security Service Agent, after all. He should have been more cautious.

In his defense, he believed his charge was, at that moment, with the close team awaiting approval to come up in the Zig Lift, the elevator that travels non-stop from the ground floor of the Michaelson tower to the 500th, which is the bottom floor of the Ziggurat sat atop the building (hence the lift’s name). Billings and his partner, Neil Corghan, on the other hand, were the advance team and were exiting on 500 from the Half Lift, the elevator that stopped only once more than the Zig, at 250.

That, and the fact that the doctor for whom the pair were advancing was hardly a high-profile target. His job title warranted a detail, but there had never been a primary strike, or even an attempt, on him. Agent Billings had been on the detail for just over a year. He, with Agent Corghan, had run advance for the doctor’s return home nearly every night, securing space in front of the Zig Lift doors before comming approval for movement to the close team, then taking up positions front and rear as the detail rush-walked the doctor up the central stairs and to his door. In that whole time, there had never been a primary incident. Not even in the years before Billings had joined the detail.

In some way, then, it is understandable why Joshua Billings was less than situationally aware in that moment. The whole team had become complacent, really. Even the overly disciplined Agent in Charge, Richard Tanner, already had the doctor coming up in the Zig in anticipation of approval when Billings, finishing his point regarding the latest actress scandal he and Corghan were discussing on the ride, stepped off the lift backwards, arms out to accentuate his shrug, offering a clear shot to his unvested armpit.

Not that it mattered. The assailant was well-trained, obviously enhanced, given her power, and knew how to take advantage of a situation. The blade was held horizontal and swung upward at a precise angle, slipping through the agent’s skin just 4 millimeters above the top of his collar, then between his 3rd and 4th spinous processes, and, after slicing through the ligaments and spinal cord, lodging in his 3rd vertebra.

Billings’ gasp caught and his eyes blanked even while his face still marked surprise. Corghan took only a microsecond to register what had happened before attacking as he yelled “Strike!” into his comm, taking the assailant away and down. Without her support, Billings crumpled, the handle still protruding from his spine. Another assailant fell on Corghan, knife flashing, but missed his target and the blade skipped off his vest, slashing a deep but survivable gash in his low back. From where he lay, Billings looked like he watched the whole thing, but his eyes no longer saw.

####

Doctor Amelia James most assuredly did. She had been in her local lift, on her way home, when it stopped on an unpressed floor and the doors slid open.

“I’m sorry,” said the elevator, “there has been an incident. For your safety, please exit the lift.”

“Shit,” she replied as she unbuckled and stood up. Her fellow passengers voiced similar responses, though several were more colorful. They all filed out into the lobby of what the sign said was floor 491: three floors from her home. Most of the 30 or so people from her elevator joined the stream from another lift further down, going to the coffee shop or the bar to wait it out. Elevator stoppages were an uncommon but not unheard of occurrence in a building with so many high profile people living in its top, and most people had learned to make the most of it when it did happen. A small number were lingering by the south stairwell door. Amelia joined them.

“I only have two floors, too,” said a slight, young man in a very stylish suit as Amelia arrived. She figured him for a building drone. Or retail, still at home with Mom and Dad. He looked barely out of sixth form.

“We’re two floors,” offered a guy in a ball cap wearing dirty jeans and scuffed work boots, which Amelia immediately pegged as an affectation, since no one who needed to get that dirty at work would live this high up. He stood in a group of twelve or so in front of the door. The young suit joined.

“I’m up just one,” said a woman with impractically long fingernails as she corralled her shopping bags at her ankles. “I have to go, right? I mean, it’s just one floor.” The local lobbies didn’t have the wide, central stair that the main lobbies did.

“I’m going, too,” piped a young girl with a backpack as she approached. Amelia thought she was wearing entirely too much makeup. Obviously still in secondary school.

“Absolutely not, young lady,” said the young suit guy, in a very authoritarian tone. “I’m sure your parents would not approve.”

“And what about yours?” the girl retorted. Amelia hid a smile. Ballcap tried to stifle a guffaw and failed.

“I’ll have you know that this is my apartment I’m going to. Mine,” Young Suit replied, surprising everyone in the group. “I earned it,” he finished. Definitely a building drone. Or the bank. Retail wouldn’t put anyone this high unless they owned the store.

“We don’t have time for this,” said a haggard, older man in an equally haggard suit who’d missed a couple of haircuts. “If we’re going, we should do it. Everyone knows about the stoppage by now. They’ll be coming.”

“I’m just one floor. I’m doing it,” the school girl said, her eyes and posture daring the young suit to deny her again.

“I’ll go, too” added Amelia. “It’s only three for me.”

“But there aren’t any others going three, are there?” the young suit pointed out. A quick scan seemed to prove it.

“I’ll be fine,” Amelia reassured. “I’ve taken a floor by myself before. And it’s not like we’re in a corner well.” At the incredulous look, she added, “If it makes you feel better, you can listen for me to open the door.”

“I’m up three, too,” chimed a male voice behind Amelia. She turned to find a handsome, athletic-looking, well-suited man with a messenger bag strapped across his chest. “I wasn’t going to go if no one else was going that high,” he added.

“Still, it’s just the two of you,” Young Suit added.

“I asked at the bar for others, but they all ignored me,” said the handsome man.

“We’ll be fine,” Amelia assured.

“Yeah. We’ll be fine,” parroted Handsome.

“He looks like he can watch out for the both of them,” added Ballcap.

“Well, I’m still listening,” said Young Suit as the group began filing into the stairwell.

“Thank you. Really. That’s very nice of you,” Amelia offered.

Amelia did not open the door.

Handsome had chivalrously taken the lead as they left 493, since he would be the first to meet anyone rushing down at them or on the landing above. The climb was uneventful and he’d just taken the last step when he suddenly turned back to her. She feared for a moment that, indeed, there was an assailant hiding there, but the man clamped his hand over her mouth and nose and slid a needle into her arm. She heard a worried “Hello?” from below, and Handsome silently opened the door wide, held it a moment and then let it close, before she lost consciousness.

Next Chapter: Chapter 2