From Filth & Mud Read Online Free Page B

than the medical examiner’s professional opinion and lack of physical evidence to point to anything nefarious, Mr. Baker’s death was pretty cut and dry. Maybe he’d drunk too many energy drinks or popped a lot of party drugs in the past? His type was always into that kind of party drug scene, and too much partying sometimes caught up with you early. The medical examiner gave the body another glance, scrawled some intentionally illegible notes, and left the room. Her assistants would put the body away and handle the arrangements with whatever family members would come inquiring. It was Monday afternoon, and she was on to happy hour. Just a few days left until her retirement. She’d learned through all of these years to just write the simple, obvious causes of death. It helped the families move on. It was better this way. It was better for everyone. Questions brought misery. And so, nobody bothered to test for neurotoxins, let alone test for a particularly nasty one that had been used by professional assassins throughout the Cold War and that was seeing a recent resurgence in popularity. There was no reason to, at least not any that Miles Baker, or anyone else was aware of, but at least for Miles, that question no longer mattered. 
     

CHAPTER 4
     
     
    Paul Eckert was not the type to lounge around, not even in those moments when he arguably could. Anyone in his position, as CEO of BioSyn, one of the fastest growing, private, biotech companies in the world, would have taken the time to kick up his heels for a moment and appreciate his nearly unmatched, executive-office view of the gorgeous Manhattan skyline. Not Eckert. He never looked up in admiration. He always looked down. The lessons were there. He had always learned from looking down on people. From his vantage point, he could see them scurry, darting from corner to corner, point to point, except of course, for the fat ones. They only moved as fast as the tide of people about them could disturb their inertia. These floaters sucked what little energy there was around them, but they eventually fell with a thud, giving back the inertia that they had consumed their entire lives.
     
    Eckert consciously touched the bridge of his nose, twice broken, and traced down to orbital bones, smashed too many times to count. He massaged his once cauliflowered ears; he’d had them surgically repaired. His current face perfectly hid the story of his past. As he leered down at the throngs, he recalled the first time his nose was broken. A fist from a fat fuck had done the damage. He could still taste the blood, so warm, thick, and salty, like gagging on spoiled molasses. He had stumbled to his knees, regained his wits momentarily, in time to see the fat fuck’s big boot crash into his face. That was also when his orbital bone was shattered for the first time. He was beaten senseless. Eckert smirked at the recollection. He lay in the street that day a bloody, pathetic mess. He would not get back up. There would be no comeback.
     
    As he lay on the pavement, in broad daylight, convulsing, he learned the most important life lesson. The truth is that people never get up. There are no miraculous feats of will that propel you to rise to your feet. There is only weakness, weakness of the person pounding away at your motionless body as the dull thuds of boots fade into nothingness. You are at their mercy. If they pause, if they tire, if they are weak, they allow you to live. You thank their weakness when you regain consciousness, alone, battered, broken, forever changed, perpetually in fear of your own mortality, fleeting as it is. You can no longer ignore the truth that there is no plan. Nothing is ever okay. There is just one truth, you live or you die by your own hand or you suffer at the hands of others. His hands had granted him life without weakness from that day on.
     
     
    - - - - - - -
     
     
    While its corporate headquarters occupied prime Manhattan real estate, BioSyn’s