You know you are going to drop him. He doesn't know that, of course. He thinks you might, but that's not the same as knowing it's going to happen. The hotel is one of the highest in the city, and it should do the job. The view is magnificent, sunset painted in tangerine and pomegranate purple, but neither you or he is going to enjoy it. In your core, you are calm. You know what you are doing is necessary, even if it might not be right. It is your job, and your job is for the good of everyone.
That's not why you're going to drop him, though.
You've got the man firmly by the shoulder and the belt, and he's clinging to your arms as he tries to keep his footing on the edge. "I need that password, Mr. Freedman," you say. In your ears your voice is slightly lower than it sounds to others who would recognize it, but still calm and steady. He's not giving you the information you need. He's trying bribes and pleading, and he's forgetting where he is.
You pretend to relax your grip and he falls back an inch into forty stories of open air. He screams, but you've got him solid. His shoes scuff on the concrete. He's babbling. "The password," you repeat.
He gives it. He's crying. The tears in his eyes make him look almost human, but you know he is not. You need the password for the restricted financial file that is your mission, but working undercover for Freedman you discovered some of his more disgusting habits. You've never seen anything as disgusting as the images on his computer, and you're going to make sure no child is ever hurt like that again for this man.
You pull him forward. You hand him the mobile to make sure the password works. He's shaking, but he types it in. You take it back, look down at the file. Password confirmed. You look up at him. He's staggering with relief, the tears on his cheeks wet. He half-turns to look down at the sickening drop. Your calm stretches forever in either direction.