The elevator doors parted with an overly joyful chime. Flocks of businessmen in suit and tie mobbed the lobby, almost as thick as the protesters chanting outside the building. Unlike the protestors, the gathering was a coincidence of singular agenda: lunchtime.

“Look at all this,” said Cutter.

Celia looked at him with a puzzled expression.

“Any one of these stiffs have reason to cause static with S&O. The higher up the chain, the more reason they have.”

“So…” She drew out the question in a childlike manner and rocked back on her heels. “Where do we begin?”

“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?”

“I do not understand how a question could have monetary value.”

“It can’t,” said Cutter without offering further explanation.

Despite the time of day, Cutter found the sheer volume of executives and businessmen clambering through the lobby alarming. A man accidentally took a lopsided step into one of the shallow sand pits, royally screwing up someone’s Zen. Rules of the road were ignored, as those on a serious time crunch navigated the twisting Japanese garden, around asymmetric koi ponds, and barreling through the crowd with little regard for those around them.

This had to be a fire hazard. Cutter couldn’t imagine that the congested foot traffic was normal.

He took Celia by the hand and guided her through the chaos.

At S&O’s main entrance, the mob of protesters were pressed up against the glass, preventing people from leaving. Perhaps this had been their masterplan all along. Idle chanting was nothing compared to keeping hungry workers from meal time. That would definitely get their point across, one way or another.

An excursion of men in business suits braved the jeers and shouts, and pushed through the wall of protestors into the wild outdoors. Several more rallied their comrades at the sliding glass doors. The more timid had given up and watched calamity ensue safely behind tempered glass.

Tensions escalated, until the shouts from inside the building matched those of the roaring crowd outside of it.

The protestors inched ever forward, as the businessmen inside formed a human-spear lancing their way through the sliding doors, piercing the crowd. A small battalion of security guards reinforced the base of the human tunnel, making sure people were able to move in and out, despite the protesters best efforts to block them.

And for a moment, the push was working.

The mob outside waned.

That was Cutter’s first hint that something was off.

It shouldn’t have been so easy to push through. Cutter had taken special note of the crowd on his way in, and they had enough fervor to fuel a protest for at least forty-eight hours on general overwhelming smugness alone.

The bulk of the protestors parted, but not of their own volition. Instead, an elite platoon of several choice protestors wearing muscle shirts and bandannas carved out a runway. Three men, in similar attire, carried a mailbox and hurled it through the sliding entrance doors. It skidded across the faux-marble floor, scattering envelopes and letters throughout the lobby, coming to rest in one of the shallow sand pits.

“Should we do something about this?” asked Celia.

“Probably.”

The bulk of the crowd churned, keeping a safe distance from the small group in muscle shirts and bandannas. Even some of the more progressive involved with the protest hadn’t anticipated vigilantism. Others, who not only anticipated it, but were hoping for it, cheered them on.

Celia was looking up at him, half expectantly. “Are we going to?”

“I really don’t think so.”

Her expression did nothing to veil her thoughts. The innocent bewilderment of a child coming into direct conflict with the notions of equally childish idealism. To help others. To serve and protect.

There were other factors at play that Cutter did not have time to divulge.

Especially, when dealing with something as complicated, and potentially life threatening as mob rule.

Several security guards pushed into the crowd and chased the men in bandannas. A smaller grouping of security tended to the overturned mailbox and those employees hurt or inconvenienced by the assault. One woman, in particular, a lanky Asian woman with slight features, wearing a ruffled white blouse paired with a conservative black skirt, laid into the nearest guard. He was busy digging the mailbox out of the sand pit, yet she treated him as if he had somehow caused of the disturbance.

An overly joyful chime drew Cutter’s attention. Ollander exited an elevator with an entourage of no fewer than two dozen men and women. Most looked like associates, business types. Suits and ties, conservative pantsuits, and tasteful blouses. A handful talked his ear off. Likely about quarterly reports and sales, but they could have been discussing the perfect color palette for his office, or which dark wood was a better compliment to his complexion, mahogany or koa, for all Cutter knew.

At the rear of the congregation, two larger men hung back. Another two kept pace at his flanks. Unquestionably Ollander’s security detail. They wore identical cheap black suits, with nearly identical bulges at the left breast pocket.

This appeared to be Ollander’s normal lunchtime routine. His once daily public showing to his workers. Look at what a man of the people I can be, while he casually shuffled off behind an impenetrable wall of security and executives.

Cutter returned his attention to the protestors.

Aside from the small contingent of vigilantes in bandannas, the crowd wasn’t overtly threatening. Yes, they were successfully preventing workers from their meal, but short of empty bellies there didn’t seem to be any real menace.

In fact, the minor disturbance—real action, as Cutter considered it—had caused those more interested in indiscriminatly yelling their beliefs at passersby to recede from the hard and fast line they had been holding earlier in the day. This had given local news media personalities and their accessories (namely cameramen) the opportunity to barge their way into the building.

If it wasn’t for the daytime colors of their wardrobe, and the cameramen attached to their hip, the reporters would have slipped in unnoticed among the sea of S&O workers in semi-formal attire. The reporters fanned out through the lobby, ruining any chance that their presence remained covert. The half dozen reporters apparently went to the same school of journalism, as they all had the same opening move; thrusting a microphone under the chins of whoever happened to be closest. It was less a search for the most informative person they could find, and more a footrace for the most attractive, interesting, or quotable subject that could make their network’s identical coverage of the protest stand out from their competitor’s identical coverage.

Luckily for Cutter, the smidge of organized chaos from the small vigilante group had acted as a sedative to the frenzied mob. Sure, it had riled up a bit of uncertainty, but all things considered, it was a relief.

Dealing with a half dozen idiots was much better than dealing with an entire mob of them.

The police would show up sooner or later to shut down their shit-show—not him, of course. Below his pay grade. And interest, as well. He had more pressing issues at hand. Or perhaps he should say, higher profile, not exactly more pressing.

Christian Von Medvey had paid a premium for the department’s services. And indirectly, his.

He casually watched the show of everyday mindless destruction of corporate property, and mused over possible suspects in the Von Medvey case.

There was a lot of animosity towards S&O.

And a massive push for synthetic rights.

If only the protestors knew that the old man himself, the ‘O’ in Sanders & Ollander agreed with them—what would they do then?

Would they even know what to do with themselves?

It was the board keeping synthetic rights down.

And it wasn’t like the board’s decision was short-sighted or rooted in some undercurrent of prejudice. Their decision made sense, the same way the precinct couldn’t call vandalism murder.

Sanders & Ollander was a business, selling a product. If you gave a product that you buy and sell, that you build and manufacture, the same rights as a human being, you walk an ethics razorwire without a net. An argument that winds up somewhere between slavery and playing God.

It was a wonder how upset people could get over issues of grey when they thought their black and white solution was correct. Especially when they felt they were being ignored. There was no telling what they would do, hidden in the anonymity of the mob.

A shrill voice belted out, echoing off the high ceilings. About half those trapped inside turned. Given the volume and echo of the scream, Cutter was slightly surprised that not everyone turned. Apparently, businessmen could be just as cynical as he was. He guessed they had more pressing matters on their minds, like maximizing global profits or an impromptu nooner with a secretary.

The lanky Asian woman in her conservative pant-skirt and ruffled white blouse pointed at a security guard straining under the weight of the mailbox. “He assaulted me.”

“Ma’am,” the guard said through gritted teeth. The cords in his neck were drawn tight from the weight he was carrying. “If you don’t mind. Move!”

Poor bastard.

But the white collar inconvenience wasn’t what caught his eye. His vision racked to an object in the distance beyond the bickering duo.

It was on the painted green table under the gazebo awning. Presumably, the table had been set up for workers wanting a snack break, or to provide a relaxing place to hang for a brief minute or two. Cutter doubted anyone would be caught dead on their breaks in the company lobby. But that was an altogether different issue.

The issue he was staring at now was the briefcase that had been left unoccupied on the table in the middle of the gazebo. In the middle of the Japanese garden. In the middle of S&O’s lobby. A lobby overflowing with hungry workers and employees, irate over the delay.

No, they weren’t delayed.

They were trapped.

“Everyone out!” shouted Cutter. He pointed toward the sliding glass door and pushed a crowd of gawkers in the same direction. “Now!”

The shockwave tossed Cutter against the glass doors. Flame splashed his arm.