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I wouldn’t know what that feels like, nor would I know whathavinga father feels like. Kane knows both, and my bitterness at what he has and what I didn’t builds the longer I search his files.
Jay’s accounts are more protected than Kane’s, which is kind of surprising. I always assumed the oldest was the smarter one, the business-minded, while the youngest is the hotdog. Their online presence would indicate that much. But maybe Jay’s skill is putting on one front, while inside, he’s a machine with a computer-like brain. Or maybe he knows someone with a computer-like brain.
Whatever it is, I’ll be watching both closely, and I won’t let Jay’s constant need to grin lull me into a sense of safety.
I have a company to run back home, an empire to maintain, walls to hold up to keep the trojans away, and no one besides Annaliese knows I’m not there. My assistant might look a little… I guess high-maintenance andsimple. But she knows how to do her job, she knows how to guard my back in business, she has a spine no one would suspect, and a streak of loyalty that comforts me while I’m away from my office. She continues doing her thing in my absence, sending me hourly updates, and I pass half a week in a small town, living in a hotel, living out of bags, and watching certain residents like my life depends on it.
My lifedoesdepend on it.
Wednesday comes and goes, and when my email dings at 11:58pm with the drawings from the door engineer, I stare at my screen and grin. That motherfucker worked around the clock to make sure he delivered. I check the drawings the minute they arrive, I make sure they at least look correct, though I can’t know for sure unless I re-calculate the whole job from scratch, and when it passes my inspection, I forward them to another engineer – because I do nothing without double-checking the numbers.
I send the final payment to Tasker, ask my other guy to take a look and make sure it’s all perfect, and then I send an email to my clients in Hong Kong to let them know their project is on time and almost ready for delivery.
My entire job can be done electronically, and because of how fucking perfect my own tech is, I can watch the Bishops and the cops, keep an extra eye on Libby, and watch the gym and little Frankston all at the same time.
I do all of my work while sipping my morning coffee, half paying attention to the news on the TV across the room. This town is so small, it barely rates ten minutes of news, so the broadcasters split their thirty-minute segment into local and national. The locals get the first ten minutes – the Girl Scouts are at it again, the local swim team made the state finals, the high school dance is coming, and the fighters are running a big brother program to help troubled youth. But when the anchor makes way to national news, the Griffin Industries logo flashes on screen, and the guy who took a swing at my intellect last week cries about the shares he spent his life savings on plummeting in value.
“How’d he know?” he whines. “How could he have known prices would collapse?”
“Because I research who I work with, you dumb fuck.” Shaking my head, I lift my coffee and take a sip. I cast my mind back to when I bought stocks a year ago, to when the company was doing things for the tech world that impressed me. Their drive was intriguing, their ideas futuristic. But I don’t take anything for granted, and not a single dollar – whether one or one million – is chump change in my eyes, which means I keep my eye on my interests. Those fuckers have been communicating with shady people the last month. Emails have crossed the globe, and discussions have been had about wars that might be sparked because of who controlled certain assets.
This wouldn’t be a war between companies, but countries. And what does every war need to push ahead? Money.
I took mine and jumped ship; I refuse to have my name tied with theirs when they’re so set on destroying shit. I’d hoped that by jumping, I was doing my part in slowing the war they wanted to start. Now the fuckwit on TV is out his life savings, a tech giant that was dabbling in explosives has fizzled out, a war has been prevented, and I still have nine million dollars more than I had when I met those people.
Not a bad day’s work, really.
Finishing my coffee, I take the cup to the counter and stop in front of a full-length mirror. I look… expensive, I guess, but without trying to. Which is the exact look I need. Designer jeans, polo shirt, high-market hiking boots, a little jewelry, but nothing gaudy, combed hair, and on my way out the door, I snag a coat and pull it on to fight the chill in the air.
Olly sits across town from here, watching Libby on her last dayshift before her weekend begins and her week of nights sneaks up, so I slide into my car and pull out of the hotel parking lot.
It’s Friday, nine in the morning; today is the day I go home to the prodigal brothers.
They won’t know who I am, but I’ll be close enough I could take them out in a heartbeat. I could, but I won’t, because unlike the blood that runs through my veins, I’m not a murderer. I consider myself more of a cleanup crew; if they’re like him, they die. If they’re like Libby, they live.
But where Libby’s accounts are clean, I remind myself that theirs are not. Money doesn’t lie, and at this very moment, I have questions about where their cash came from.
Questions that they must answer.
This town is far smaller than the city I call home, so not only does it take just minutes to get from one side to the other, but I can swing past the police station too, just for the sake of being near her.
I need a cover story. A reason for walking into Checkmate Security. And though I should be concentrating on my mission at hand, I find myself focusing on Libby instead.
I want to get closer, I want to touch her, I want to have a real conversation, instead of her screaming at me. I want an opportunity to ask about my red sweater; why does she have it? And why, after so long, does she have itoutand not stuffed away in a box at the back of her closet?
But to talk to her about my sweater means telling her about Gunner.
I pull into a parking space outside Checkmate, knowing they have this place wired up with security. My heart swells knowing their system is manufactured and owned by Griffin Industries.
I can control everything they have. I can shut it down, I can fry it, I can watch it from a remote location. I didn’t know at the time these units were being boxed and sold that they were going to Bishops, but it took only moments once I knew to look, to run a search and have names pop up.
Today, I go to them as Theo Griffin, and pray no one sees how similar our jawlines are.
Pushing out of the car and slamming the door, I beep the locks closed and head toward the front doors. I know there’s a garage out back; I know that’s where most of them park and enter their workplace. I know this place has Griffin sensors, so they already know I’m here. Half of this town is wired for sound –not even remotely legal. Dropping my hands into my pockets and willing my heart to slow, I step through the front doors, though I stop at the sound of laughter coming from further inside the building.
Raucous laughter, girly squeals, a heavy thump, and more laughter. My heart yearns for something it doesn’t know, but my eyes stop on a pair that hungrily eat me up.
“Well hello, handsome.” The woman that sits behind a V-shaped reception desk weighs three hundred pounds, easily. Though I’m certain a third of that is in her tits, and when she stands and comes around the long desk, another third is in her ass. Her hair is sleek and straight, with hot pink streaks that match her talon-like nails, which matches her glossy lipstick, whichdoesn’tmatch her leopard print bodysuit. “Holy Lord up in Heaven. Dreams really do come true. What’s your name, sugar?”
