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James Bund woke at six when the alarm bells rang. He let them clang for a full minute. Then he blindly grabbed for the alarm clock. Deliberately, blindly, using his innermost animal reserves of unconscious power,  he beat the clock to death against the headboard.

He lay still.  The morning sun crept along the carpet through the jalousie windows.

Then Bund dragged himself half upright and coughed. He crawled across the .25 Beretta with the skeleton butt. Lying on his gun, Bund vomited onto his shoes. He retched and fell back into bed. He pulled a pillow over his face and groaned.

The phone by the bed rang. It was the direct line to headquarters. Bund shot his hand to the receiver. He raised it enough to clear the cradle. He dropped it home. He shoved the phone off the table and groaned.

That was the first day.