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No need for an HR department for werewolves like this guy. Honest and thick-skinned. Born before 1993. He doesn’t complain that the factory break room only has microwaves. And some of those were also born before 1993.
“Oh, yes, that asshole,” I snap. There’s no way I don’t have a snitch keeping tabs on me. I know it. “And a spy on my payroll.”
Fuck Face Craig has to have someone on the inside, right? Someone who’s leaking information that the petulant skidmark is using to sabotage me. To rob me.
“Well, you’re not gonna like what I’m about to say,” Merle says.
He’s hiding a smile under his full, chestnut-colored mustache. It takes everything in me to pretend I can’t see it. I know how he feels about the college grads and suits he works with, the ones who think they’re better than he is because an official piece of paper says they’re good at something.
“None of my blue-collar crew get anywhere near you to be a snitch.” While Merle never went to college, he underplays the 25 years he spent on the Chicago police force before moving to the private sector. He's both humble and focused on his business.
“That sounds like a hunch, not a proven fact.” I don’t realize I’m saying this through clenched teeth until I’m finished. Fuck, I’m pissed. ‘Kick someone’s ass and go to jail’ pissed. ‘Show up at their house and smash their car windows out’ pissed.
“People who dry clean half their closet are never trustworthy,” Merle advises, shaking his head like he’s got a whole mess of stories floating around in there, all ready to prove him right if I want examples. “Trust me.”
I rub my temples rather than punch one of the factory’s nearest support beams. There’s one to my left I could put a serious dent in right about now.
“Trust got me into this clusterfuck in the first place,” I reply, wracking my brain for the likeliest culprit.
Valentina, my VP and second in command, used to work for Fuck Face, though I’m not ruling out anyone just yet. Especially since my marketing manager, Gage, still hasn’t given me a decent excuse for our latest media leaks.
“Yeah, but that’s how most fusterclucks happen,” Merle says, shrugging his burly shoulders at my furrowed brow.
“Fusterclucks?”
Merle pulls out a stick of gum, unwraps it, then takes a bite. “I’ve got grandkids. Had to cut back on the swear words or lose Sunday dinner privileges at Leslie’s. Me and the missus.”
Another good reason to stay single and childless, I think. “Yeah, but how do fusterclucks get solved?” I ask instead.
I wonder if a private detective might be worth looking into. Maybe a team of them. I wouldn’t mind shelling out a small fortune to prove a point. Revenge is a powerful motivator for the average monster, but we orcs are a particularly determined race.
“Depends. But there’s no way you’re not getting your hands dirty if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Merle says.
“Don’t act like you think Fuck Face Craig is actually going down for this,” I tell him.
I might as well tell the truth and save my lies for the office. Those are the worker bees I should be pointing fingers at.
“Just be more clever than you are illegal,” Merle advises. “My only advice.”
“Only the Flex Trackers are gone.” Now feels like a good time to change the subject, so I inform him of what he already knows. Like he’s blind or forgot we have our own fitness watch. “Fuck Face Craig is probably selling them on the dark web as we speak.”
“None of the guys say they remember anything after dinner was delivered.” Kevin, Merle’s second, clops up holding a bottle of water in his hairy hand.
“What did the doctor say?” I assume the satyr finally got a hold of the hospital, plus took everyone’s advice and got some liquids in himself.
Two of their guys on the night crew had an allergic reaction to whatever was in the dinner delivery that knocked them out. Or so the running theory goes.
“They’ll be fine. Just a really strong elixir,” Kevin replies. “Tobin just texted and the doctor says Sean and Mur are going to be fine. Itchy and puffy, but fine.”
I release the breath I’ve been holding in, happy Tobin elected to ride with the ambulance to the hospital. At least the two itchy and puffy orcs won’t be crippled.
He ate the least amount of spiked carbonara and was savvy enough to call me and then the police. The uniforms that responded have already called for a detective, though I’m not holding my breath whoever the city sends to investigate will find something useful.
* * *
“Tarek, it’s not a probability. It’s a promise.”
I don’t like what I’m hearing, though I know fellow tech developer Reese Fellows is echoing my own thoughts, just out loud. The Cyber Thief, or Siphon, as I’ve heard them described, has infiltrated, copied, and sold the product details of three tech companies in the past year. Now four, counting Reese Fellows’ Tech.
