Witness(es): Max Johnson
Max was in the wrong place at the right time once too many. Now he he's an international target and under protection... He just doesn't know it yet.
The file slaps the desk in front of me.
My head is aching from the buzz of coffee and the all-nighter.
Not my best mood.
I lift my head slowly from my hand to reduce the envitable blood rush. As the blood changes pace, the first thing I notice is the slim waist line and the fitted shirt. Well cut, probably tailored. The material falls away from the slender neck and the thin gold chain is bright against the semi tanned neck, disappearing into the folds of silken material. I meet her eyes. Handsome face but not one of a classic beauty.
'How can I help you?' I say levelly.
'Mr Johnson?' she ignores my question.
'Yes, how can I help you?'
She turns from the desk and starts to walk; her heels tapping the floor, hips swaying, head straight. I am mesmirised - it is like watching a model on the catwalk. I only notice when she reaches the door.
'You've left the file.' I call. She pauses but does not turn back.
The door shuts behind her with the sound of hollow weight.