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Guess what? It ain’t a boiler room back here. We descend some stairs to a basement door leading to who knows where. Sentinel’s offices are on the fifth floor, so the descent below ground has my hackles up in a big way.
A long concrete tunnel resembling a bunker leads up another set of stairs, where we approach the door of a rusty freight elevator. The men with me say nothing, and my stomach flips over when the rusty door slides open, and we step inside a sleek, ultra-modern chamber with no buttons, only cameras, and a fingerprint I.D. touchpad. Where the fuck are we going?
I soon figure it out when the elevator shoots upward to an unknown floor and the door slides open.
This has to be the office of the big boss.
Shit.
But if I’m fired, why go to all this trouble? The rare fuckups at Sentinel typically get their passcodes revoked overnight, and a bank box appears on their doorsteps with any personal belongings they may have left in their cubicles.
My escorts gesture for me to exit the elevator ahead of them, which does not put me at ease. Neither does the decor of this strange office that looks like something a movie super villain would design. It’s not in the style consistent with the rest of Sentinel’s minimalist offices. I can’t decide if the vibe is Gru fromDespicable Meor Syndrome fromThe Incredibles. A huge, weirdly quiet waterfall feature covers the entire wall opposite the modern floor-to-ceiling windows. Everywhere else is black marble upon black marble. The built-in bookshelves that line the wall behind the desk have more screens and devices than books. I’ve only met the big boss once before, when she popped in for a minute during one of seven hours-long interviews before Sentinel offered me a job.
With its moody vibe, this flashy office is not something I would have guessed for the head of a company that aims to instill trust in clients. The big boss herself stands at a bar cart in the corner with an assistant.
“Oh!” the assistant chirps. “You’re here.”
The big boss pivots to face me.
I nod politely. “Ms. Dunne.”
“Mr. MacGregor.”
The boss gives me an assessing look. This is not a firing, nor does she want to shoot the shit.
The assistant moves forward, handing me a cut-glass tumbler of seltzer with fruit.
“Thanks?” I say. “How did you know….”
Ms. Dunne gestures for me to follow her, dismissing her guards at the same time.
The drink is a nice gesture, but it gives me the creeps that she knows I have a habit of taking seltzer with fruit in it. My personal trainer is trying to get me to drink more water, and this shit is the least disagreeable way.
“Unlike most employers, I watch footage of my employees, and not just when I have a concern. Have a seat, Gunther.” Ms. Dunne gestures to an uncomfortable-looking banquette along the wall catty-corner to her desk, but I do as I’m told and wait for her to talk again. The two more cushy designer chairs across from her desk are empty, and I get the feeling we’re waiting for someone more important than me to fill at least one of them.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked you here.”
Wow. She is really embracing the supervillain clichés.
“That would be an understatement,” I say with a humble smile. “I haven’t had my card denied before, so it made me wonder.”
Ms. Dunne nods. “I have a special assignment for you, and I didn’t want you traipsing all the way to your desk. No need to start gossip about you being called up to the boss’s office.” Ms. Dunne gives me what I suppose is her version of a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I looked into your background myself, and I’m quite impressed. Tell me, Gunther. Do you like internet security?”
I’m an honest guy, so I tell her the truth. “Not really.”
“That’s what I thought. You’re a man of action. You don’t retire from the Navy as a captain only to become a cubicle monkey. Or as a graveyard shift security guard. Especially not after what you accomplished in Iraq.”
I really wish she hadn’t vaguely brought up “what I accomplished” in the Navy. As far as I’m concerned, it’s ancient history, and I’m not interested in playing that card to get ahead at Sentinel.
“No, ma’am.”
Her assessing gaze seems to relax. “I brought you here because I have a very important client who needs to clean up a family matter. Have you heard about the animal rights group that keeps breaking into Expert Chemical?”
Oh. That’s why she picked me, because I used to work there.
“PETA?”
That group disrupted a job fair at a satellite campus a few weeks back. That company gave me a decent start when I didn’t know what to do with myself after the Navy, but they were all creepy as fuck. And I probably walked away with a low sperm count from whatever I was exposed to over there.
