Ficlets

Herbert’s plan was ingenious, but after watching enough CSI : Miami, he accounted for even Horatio Caine’s level of scrutiny.

Secure in his precautions, Herbert rode the elevator to floor 66. “One digit short of its true inhabitant,” he muttered.

The elevator doors opened to a solid oak hallway, lined by portraits of scowling chairmen past. Herbert carted his delivery towards a massive desk, two security guards and a secretary.

“Package for Mr. Intaglio. Sign here.”

Seconds later, a time-activated servo embedded in the cardboard lining shot a 2-inch plastic column towards the floor, sending what sounded like delicate china crashing to earth.

“Christ!”

As CEO fearing plebeians moved around the box like scurrying red ants, no one noticed the tiny, dark metallic orbs Herbert dropped onto the secretary’s laptop keyboard.

“Ah, nanotechnology…” thought Herbert.

The security cameras would catch nothing, their closed circuits unaware of the first cog carefully placed inside the hallway of financial titans.