Chapter 1:

      "I love my job.
      "I mean, really, c'mon, think about this for a minute. What other profession allows you to lie, cheat, steal and kill, and get paid for it? The only other one that comes close is Politician.
      "What, am I a politician? Don't ever call me that again. No my friend, I am a mercenary, a hired gun, a hero-for-hire. Don't give me that confused look, yes I said hero-for-hire. Y'see, people's views of heroes differ. You're not quite grasping this are you? Okay, I'll give you a for instance. Sir Francis Drake, you know who I'm talking about, right? Quit shaking dammit and answer me. You do? Wonderful, now I don't have to explain it to you.
      "Alright, my buddy Frank. The Spanish all despised him, but to the British he was a hero and they idolized him.
      "You see...the distinction, the line if you will, between criminal and hero is blurred by perception. Take right now for example, what I'm about to do could and is considered a criminal act in all 50 states, but, in the process, I'm becoming a hero to one of the companies your getting ready to take over."
      So that's what I said to this guy, right? Right about then he gets that "Oh dear lord why me?" look on his face that I know and love so much. I couldn't blame the guy. It's not every day that someone with slicked back hair, and expensive looking suit, and sunglasses says he's going to do something illegal to you. I felt bad for him for about a split second before my sense went off. My sense? It's kind of an early warning system in my head. I get this buzzing feeling before something bad happens. It's saved my ass several times.
      So anyways, my sense went off about a second before I realized that the little shit had tripped the silent alarm. As his bodyguards entered the room I stood up, taking a throwing knife out of its ankle holster as I did so, whipped around and chucked the knife at one of them. The point stuck right in the gun barrel, and I blinked. I could never do that again as long as I lived. I got over it and hopped over the little shit's desk, popping one of my 9mm pistols out of its custom forearm holster as I did so. I took my position behind the guy, with my arm around his neck and my gun to his temple.
      "Drop 'em or he's dead!" I screamed.
      Once the guns had hit the floor, I fired three shots into window behind me, it didn't shatter, but it did weaken enough for what I wanted to do.
      I said, "Hasta La Vista, Suckers!" then jumped backwards out the window, with the executive in tow, starting a 60-story drop to the pavement. The whole time I'm falling, all I can think is "Robbie my man, don't miss your cue" and the ugly stain on the sidewalk that would result if he did.

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