Killfile by Christopher Farnsworth

paying attention to him now, though. Their focus is back on Preston.
    â€œOf course, I wouldn’t expect any of you to take a risk without a reward,” he says. “That’s the whole point of what we do. So the last man standing, when all the smoke has cleared, he gets one hundred thousand dollars. Not in equity. Not in options. I’m talking one hundred K, cash, to whoever wins.”
    He lets that sink in for a beat. Then he smiles.
    â€œWho’s ready to start shooting?”
    The crowd lets out an animalistic roar. I feel the consensus wash over them like a wave. This is all part of the game, they decide. Only a loser would complain about the rules.
    â€œWeapons and gear are out front,” Preston tells the others. “You get a fifteen-minute start, and then it’s every man for himself.”
    The OmniVores knock back their drinks and stampede for the exit. Preston wades into the crowd, gives high fives and fist bumps to his chosen favorites. He takes the key chain out again.
    I step back to where Kelsey is waiting, drink in hand, close to the wall. The OmniVore crew streams past us toward the door. The tide of bodies is bringing Preston slowly in our direction.
    His eyes lock on to Kelsey and there’s a spike of lust as he recognizes her.
    â€œKelsey,” he says happily, voice booming, walking past two other guys to get to her. “So glad you could make it.”
    She offers her hand, he takes it and pulls her closer, going for a kiss and hug. She manages to deflect both with a turn that’s almost like a Krav Maga move.
    â€œEli,” she says. “Thanks for the invite. I know Everett really appreciates it.”
    â€œWell, I’d hoped I would get to see him in person.” His voice is still way too loud. He looks at me. “You must be the new errand boy, then.”
    With that, he turns to me and steps just to the edge of my personal space. It’s a frat-boy/Business 101 intimidation tactic, and it’s all I can do not to laugh.
    Now that Preston is close enough, I realize why he’s been shouting since he entered. It wasn’t just to reach us in the back. He has foam plugs stuffed in his ears, the same kind they hand out on gun ranges to protect your hearing. He was ready to shoot someone before he even stepped into the room.
    He puts out his hand. “Eli Preston,” he says.
    â€œJohn Smith,” I say, and take it.
    He hits the key chain and smiles. “Fuckyou! Gotohell!”
    Then I see it. In his memory: A dingy closet of a store in a mall, almost always empty, every surface covered in thick dust, cheap crap on the shelves that no one ever bought. The looming, sullen figure of his grandfather, who rarely smiled. The other kids who didn’t have to work for their money, who came into the store and mocked him. The computer in the back office, a lifeline to a whole other world.
    Looks like Preston knows a thing or two about being excluded. And resentment.
    He hits the button again. “Gotohell! Gotohell!” His bodyguards are at his shoulder the whole time, watching me, making sure I don’t get too angry at the joke.
    Up close, I notice something off about them. I expected a coupleof bored former cops, hanging around to satisfy Preston’s ego. Private security is usually nothing more than a status symbol, another way for rich people to keep score. Despite some of the Occupy Wall Street rhetoric, bullet wounds are an occupational hazard for a dealer working a corner, not executives moving credit default swaps.
    But Preston’s guys are the real thing. They’ve got a profile I recognize: cold, constant awareness, ready to hurt someone without hesitation or remorse. They’re so fresh from the wars that they still have the faint echoes of gunfire in their heads.
    Preston didn’t hire them from any rent-a-cop shop. They’re PMCs—private military contractors, the kind I used to see babysitting