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Dylan is prickly, abrasive—an acquired taste. He’s pudgy and short with thin blond hair, a wide face, and slightly bulging blue eyes that express constant aggravation with the world around him. He’s wearing his warm-weather uniform: a blue seersucker suit with a white dress shirt and a tiny red bow tie.
“Tell me you’re working on something,” Dylan says.
“I am.”
“Tell me it’s earth-shattering, amazing, and most importantly will give us incredible clicks on our home page.”
“How does two out of three sound?” Tom asks.
Dylan turns like a junkyard dog hearing someone climb over a chain-link fence. “That wasn’t a goddamn joke, Cornwall,” he snaps. “I wasn’t asking you to make a joke. I was as serious as a heart attack. I’ve got my entire savings, stock portfolio, and two mortgages tied up in Criterion. Do you?”
Tom feels a flash of anger, knowing he has confronted worse men than Dylan—the scar tissue on his forearm is a daily reminder—and despite his boss, he does love working for Criterion.
But he doesn’t like bullies.
“If you’ve got a problem, tell me,” Tom says. “Otherwise, don’t treat me like a Columbia J-School intern.”
Dylan stares and seems to back down a bit, then says, “All right. Good point. The thing is, Tom, our news stream has been thin this past week.”
Tom says, “The story about the California governor didn’t do it?”
Dylan says, “A politician with a sex scandal? That’s not really news. Call that a standing head, a recurring story. Just rearrange the names, party affiliation, sex, or species, and it’s a constant. No, I need a story with some meat, some strength—something only you can produce.”
Tom considers that and says, “I am working on something.”
Dylan smiles. “M’man. What is it?”
“No details right now,” Tom slowly says. “But if it goes the way I think it will, the story will be huge.”
“Guaranteed?”
Tom shakes his head. “Can’t guarantee, but I’ll know better in a day. Maybe two.”
Dylan gets up. “All right. Do what you need, run up any expenses that are necessary, but I’m relying on you to come up with something that will make the world and my investors sit up and take notice.”
“I’ll do my best,” Tom says, not liking being forced into a trap like this.
“Tom,” he snaps again. “Get your ass back to work. And show me your best.”
Dylan strides across the plaza, and Tom takes his napkins and quietly crushes up the rest of his lunch. It seems like his anger is brightening the burn tissue on his forearm as he stands up and walks off as well, the twin reflecting pools a couple of blocks away but very much on his mind.
Get out of New York,Yuri had warned him.
No.
He is going to work this story, right here, no matter what.
Chapter22
HITTING SOMEONEfrom behind isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies. Especially if your target is an experienced ex-SAS trooper attuned to his surroundings. But I have the advantage of being in better shape, coming at him by surprise, and being one pissed-off team leader.
I slam into Jeremy and drop him to the smelly wet ground of the alley. Because I want to make my message explicit, I draw my Ka-Bar knife and press it against his right carotid artery.
“Jeremy,” I harshly whisper, “you’re doing a rotten job improving Anglo-American relations.”
He grunts and moves under me, and I push the knife in just a bit harder. I hope I’m drawing blood, because that’s the only way I’m going to get his attention.
“You’re screwing with me,” I go on, “and I only allow one man in my life to do that.”
