My boss's face goes slack.

The emotion leaving his eyes like a breaker has blown somewhere in his mind.

His unseeing eyes stay fixed on mine.

We're standing next to the large picture window in his massive, fourth floor office.

Looking out over the forest of tanks, vessels, pipes, and towers that comprise Burleson

Chemical's production facilities.

My boss, Jerry Vickery, holds two glass tumblers with brown liquor in them.

I know something is wrong, as soon as I see the life go out of Vickery's face.

But I don't have time to mull it over right now.

Is if on cue.

I hear a commotion from the other side of the office door.

They're coming from me.

Vickery's corner office has a balcony, judging by the sound coming from the other side of

his office door.

It's the only way to go.

I move past Vickery to the French doors that lead to the balcony, opening them up as

the inner office door slam open.

A glance over my shoulder reveals a half dozen police officers rushing into the room.

One of them, a woman, I think I recognize, doesn't matter, no time for that now.

All the upper management offices on the top floor have balconies, although none of them

are as big as Vickery's.

Each balcony is separated from the one next by two-foot steel eye beams.

...