I sit in the quiet cool of the air-conditioned board room, waiting for the axe to fall. Around me, the others, awkward in their suits and ties. It could be any of us. It will be only one of us.
The Chairman sits in silence, looking at the papers in front of him, once in a while glancing up at us. He looks bored. The bastard.
Beside him, the man we call The Executioner when he's not in earshot. The right hand. That's how it goes: The Chairman picks a head, the Executioner swings the axe. My tie's too tight. I fight the urge to tear at it.
Johnson's on one side of me, stinking of the sweat that's rolling off him. He got screwed on the Barcelona deal, and everyone knows it.
Torres on my other side, slouching in his plush leather chair, wearing a half-smile and looking like he doesn't give two shits. Like the Chairman. He's got the look down pat. But it takes more than that to be the best of the best, you sack of crap.