Ruthless

by Myers, Kelly

  “Sure,” she rolls her eyes while we scout for a table. “This neighborhood’s bustling with trendy talent. A photoshoot, you idiot.”

  “Right,” I furrow my eyebrows. “because scenic vistas surround the majestic corporate towers from every angle.”

  She spots an empty table and rushes over. I follow.

  “Sasha Nide has this new campaign coming up with a sporting brand I can’t yet name,” she gloats. “But let’s just say it touches on the hectic lives of the rich and fabulous who work out anywhere. Home gyms, office gyms, a run around the park…”

  I put down my bag and sit. “Ah, that’s never been done before.”

  “Hey, I’m not her agent. The girl’s taking social media by storm, and I’m merely here to get a scoop on it before anyone else does. Can’t you be excited for me?”

  “Okay, watch this…” I pause and press my palms together. “I may see Michael tonight. Can you be excited for me?”

  “Wow, for a ‘may’? I’ll dance topless on that counter over there.”

  Just in time for her statement, a waiter with a pair of funky glasses approaches to give us menus. “Please don’t.”

  I bite my lower lip and stifle a snicker, looking away.

  “Two of the grilled wiener sandwiches, please,” she shoots him, a look brazen enough to turn his face red.

  As soon as he goes away, I burst out laughing. “I wasn’t even gonna order that!”

  “You’re seeing Mr. Vanilla tonight. You gotta get something. My treat.”

  “You’re nasty.”

  “You seem to enjoy that since we’ve been friends for twenty years now.”

  “Shit, has it been that long?”

  My phone rings in my tote, and I dip in my arm to grab it. The words ‘Private Number’ flicker on the screen, and my eyebrows wrinkle.

  “Speaking of the devil?” Zoe asks.

  “Mm—Not unless the devil is now stalking me. I gotta take this.” I swipe to answer. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Cormack,” The distorted automated voice isn’t asking—it’s declaring. “Your little stunt on the Dystopia piece—while appreciated—shouldn’t cause you to believe that you’re getting anywhere with this.”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “A friend. And I assure you that this alleged project is a waste of your time. It’s simply not a mirage worth following.”

  “If you think that calling my story ‘a mirage’ will discourage me, you’re sorely mistaken. I’m not a rookie. I know the truth when I hear it, and you’re not telling it.”

  “Great. Then, verify this fact for me: Derek Peele of Seventy-One Stellor Street, apartment Thirty-Four-C is the leading journalist on this piece. Correct?”

  I see red. “Who the hell do you—”

  And he hangs up.

  Astounded, I lift up my head to see Zoe’s eyes fixed on me with a disturbed expression on her face. Our hot dogs are on the table, and the loud noises overwhelm my senses.

  “Who the fuck was that?” she whispers.

  I shake my head, tossing the phone back into my purse. “Nobody. That’s what nobodies do. Yak bullshit with nothing tangible to show for it.”

  “Is this about the Derek pickle?”

  “Something like that,” I grab my sandwich and take a tasteless bite. I can’t believe that those bastards had the nerve to threaten me. Who on Earth do they think they are?

  This can’t be Palanick’s team. A man like him wouldn’t risk his name and legacy like that over a lousy corporate deal. They must be from the government—yes. Those people get their hands dirty and have almost no reputation to uphold.

  “What are you gonna do?” Zoe’s question draws my attention to the fact that I have been mindlessly devouring my meal without uttering a word.

  “Well,” I mumble as I chew, wiping mustard from the corner of my mouth with a napkin. I swallow before I continue. “I’ll just have to report this to Duvall. It’s procedure.”

  She sighs. “It was exciting until you said ‘procedure,’” she jokes as she lifts an eyebrow. “What is it with you that drains the thrill out of everything?”

  I scoff and pop a fry into my mouth.

  “Your parents are absolute angels,” she continues. “and the rest of your family’s perfectly normal. Who hurt you?”

  “Maybe that’s why?” I humor her logic with a head tilt.

  “What—Growing up with sane people rendered you a robot? Where’s the old Dina, the one I knew in high school and college?”

  “Oh, you mean the one who thought she was going to put on a bullet-proof vest and a camouflage helmet and report from a bunker somewhere?”

  “Did you smother her in her sleep with your memory foam pillow?”

  “The world didn’t exactly need my help,” I mock with a mix of bitterness and resignation.

  “Shameful.”

  “Says the woman who dreamed of turning Paris and Milan catwalks upside down with her designs.”

  “That dream is expired, sister,” she takes a sip of her diet cola. “This is the modern world… where digital advocacy keeps the Earth spinning.”

  “At least one of us is proud of the status quo,” I thrust the last bite of the sandwich into my mouth, washing it down with the last of my soda as I toss the napkin onto the table. “I gotta get back to the office.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Walking back toward the building, I catch myself glancing around, scanning the main road, side streets and alleys. I wonder if I’m being followed. If a black van is going to materialize out of thin air and snatch me. I know that if the government is good at one thing, it’s making information vanish along with those who possess it.

  I’m not scared, Mr. Ford.

  I repeat the statement over and over in my head, going over what I need to do and where I need to keep my data in case something happens to Derek or me.

  Inside the gazette building, I rush into the elevator and hit the button leading up to my boss’ floor. My eyes scan over my colleagues, carefree with their post-lunch smiles and to-do lists on their phones. Eric from Politics, he must face these conundrums on a daily basis. Fiona from Sports probably doesn’t. And Mika from Lifestyle, he’s in a whole other world—just like Zoe.

  Bursting into Armin’s office, I don’t even knock. “They called me, too.”

  “Who?” he lifts up his eyes from the notebook where he jots down his memos.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Quentin Ford’s people.”

  Tossing the pen onto the desk, he adjusts his glasses. “Why?”

  “Because Gabriel Palanick is not a petty man, that’s why. Terrorizing the press is a government’s game. Besides, their stakes are higher. If their project fails, their plans fail. Palanick can easily take this to Russia or China, and they’ll be more than happy to do business with him.”

  “You speak as if you know him,” a smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth.

  “I didn’t just get this job, Armin,” I sit down. “A man like him only cares about profit. His agenda is purely financial, while the government craves more and more control over the public sector.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got your ducks in a row. What do you need me for?”

  “I’m simply following the process.”

  “You’re just informing me.”

  “You have to know, in case something happens to Peele or me.”

  “So, you still think that he should run his follow-up feature?”

  “Absolutely,” I shake my head in determination. “Them going as far as to try and scare us… it means we’re on the right path here.”

  “And your secondary files?”

  “In a safe place.”

  “And his source?”

  “I won’t bully him into giving it away. I trust Derek, and if he says that his source is good, then they’re good.”

  He exhales deeply, taking off his glasses and calmly placing them on the notebook. “Do it, but be careful.”

&
nbsp; “Always am,” I stand up with an adamant smile.

  Later that evening, I go to my cousin Julia’s daughter’s fifth birthday. As soon as I park, I dial Michael’s number.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he cheerfully answers, and I hear traffic in the background.

  “Hey, doc. You left work.”

  “I said I was gonna try to make it, and I’m keeping my promise.”

  “Is the location clear?”

  “Yeah, I’m about fifteen minutes away.”

  “Great. I’m going in.”

  “See you in a bit.”

  “Drive safe.”

  Getting out of the car, I look around at the peaceful street and make my way over to the trunk. I open it and take out the present I bought—an enchanted fairy craft kit. As I lock the car, I look around again. A car passes by, and I instinctively hold my breath. When it keeps on going and disappears into the horizon, I shake my head and let out a nervous laugh.

  “Jesus, Dina. You’re becoming paranoid.”

  I cross the street and ring the doorbell, fixing my hair and smoothing over my dress.

  “You made it!” Julia’s eyes light up as soon as she sees me. As we hug, her husband Spencer and their daughter Lily emerge from inside.

  “Hey, babe,” Spencer hugs me in turn, grinning. “Where’s your date?”

  “On his way,” I shoot him a knowing look. He’s been wanting to meet Michael since the first time he heard about him. Being a doctor as well, he thinks it would be an opportunity to bond with a boyfriend of mine for a change.

  “Wow!” Lily’s eyes widen as I hand her the wrapped box, and she shakes it. “It rattles!” she squeals. “Thank you, Aunt Dina!”

  “Happy birthday, baby,” I ruffle her curly hair and kiss her on the cheek. “Go back to your friends.”

  She runs away as she tears the wrapping paper away, tossing it and creating a trail on her way to the backyard.

  “Don’t you just long for one of those little monsters for yourself?” Spencer chuckles. “Punch?” he offers.

  “Got something stronger?” I titter, glancing at Julia.

  “There’s tequila in the kitchen,” she winks, pulling me by the hand.

  Her husband goes back to the guests.

  “Don’t listen to him,” she pulls the bottle and grabs a tall cocktail glass. “Children are a handful.”

  “You know,” I sigh, leaning with my back against the counter. “It’s at the bottom of my priorities list.”

  “Still?” she skillfully pours the right portions of mixers.

  “Has the world changed at all?”

  “No, but we have. We’ve grown… gained a more realistic view of things?”

  “The more realistic it gets, the darker it becomes.”

  She had already poured a shot’s worth of liquor, but looking me in the eyes, she takes the bottle and pours some more. “Looks like you could use a double.”

  “Amen, sister,” I chuckle, taking the glass as she drops in a straw.

  Lifting an eyebrow, she rests an elbow on the counter. “Does Michael share those views?”

  “Be serious,” I scoff, taking a sip. “I’ve known him a total of three months. You really think we’d be talking kids already?”

  “Spencer told me he wanted two children by our third date,” she shrugs. “But not all doctors are created equal.”

  “And not all cousins, either,” I narrow my eyes, teasing.

  “Sometimes I do worry,” she walks out, and I follow. “But then I remind myself that I can’t control everything in life.”

  We step out into the backyard before the doorbell rings. I quickly hand her my drink. “Hold this. It’s probably Michael.”

  I go to open the door, and I’m right.

  “Hey,” he chuckles, kissing me on the lips. “You smell like tequila already.”

  “Long day,” I eye the wrapped gift in his hand. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have.”

  “This isn’t for you,” he jokes, stepping in. “Every child deserves a birthday present.”

  Giving him a grateful look, I kiss him again. “You’re so sweet.”

  9

  Gabriel

  I’m on the treadmill when my phone starts buzzing. I quickly glance over to see Ford’s name. What the hell does want at half-past-six in the morning?

  “Quentin,” I solemnly answer, slightly slowing down my running.

  “I gather you haven’t seen the link I sent you.”

  “You gather correctly.”

  “Then do it,” he sternly orders.

  “Jeez, buy me dinner first,” I chuckle, my finger swiping to view what he sent. The page loads, and there it is, a third article by Derek Peele and Dina Cormick. I skim through it to catchphrases like. “twenty years ago, when Ford spearheaded the operations for…”. “accused of fabricating…” and “the accusations were denied in court.”

  “What do you have to say for yourself, Palanick?” he viciously asks.

  “Hold on,” I continue to read.

  “Drop the act, Gabriel,” he shouts. “I’m not one of your oblivious clients—”

  “I don’t do business with such folk, so tread very carefully with your next words,” I warn, stopping to a halt and stepping down from the running belt.

  “I should’ve seen this coming,” he hisses. “You couldn’t handle the gazette, so instead, you offered me up as a scapegoat.”

  “Did you forget to take your meds this morning, Quentin?” I scoff.

  “If you think you can discredit me and make the public question my integrity, you are in way over your head, Gabriel. You clearly have no idea who you’re messing with.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Because had I known exactly who I’m dealing with, I would’ve chosen a worthier partner. And moreover… you need to calm the fuck down because we’re on the same team here.”

  “Then how can you explain this atrocity?”

  “It’s Dina Cormick’s work, I’m telling you. She’s a little dense, and perhaps the message needs to be clearer. I’ll handle this.”

  “I’m sick of hearing you say that.”

  “And what’s your other plan? Care to share?”

  Silence is all that reaches my ears. “I thought so. Now, listen. I’ll handle this, and this article will be rendered useless in a few days.”

  He grunts. “A few days is too damn long.”

  “If you wanna come up with a better approach, be my guest,” I corner him again.

  “Clean up this mess, Gabriel, or so help me God, you won’t land another deal with The Office again.”

  Gritting my jaws, I take a deep breath and nod. “Sure thing, Ford. Thank you for the opportunity.”

  The call ends, and I sit down on the gym floor, cross-legged with my elbows resting on my knees. I scroll back up and read the article thoroughly this time.

  Ramone must have scared them enough for them to refrain from mentioning Palanick Holding or anything remotely relevant to my company in their article. It is all about Quentin Ford and his three decades serving for various branches in The Office. His questionable policies and peculiar approaches to problem-solving. An old case against him from which his name was cleared in a few months. His entire professional history in a long, detailed feature.

  Unable to deny how impressed I am, I chuckle and shake my head in awe of their bravery. Derek and Dina must have nothing to lose, then.

  But I do…

  If this project collapses, I don’t know what I will do. I’ve spent the last ten years on this. Falling down and dusting myself off, trying again. I can’t let them destroy my vision without a fight.

  Derek is clearly a hard worker who wants his name seen and heard—but it’s his boss who allows this to go on. By keeping her name on the articles, she’s sending me a clear and blatant message that she won’t back down.

  But let’s see if she can say this to my face.

  Swiping to call Ramone, I hear the line ring and ring to no avail. He m
ust still be sleeping. I put down the phone and hoist myself off, landing on the hard cold floor. As I close my eyes, I think about the possibility of rolling out my project without Ford’s help. It would be difficult, but not impossible. But then again, what will the point be if I get access to data the authorities can’t use? The lack of governmental backing will render my efforts unauthorized and illegal.

  Dina Cormack, why won’t you just let it go? Are you that fame-hungry that you’d risk so much to gain visibility? You’re beautiful enough to make it as an online influencer or vlogger.

  So, why are you on my case?

  Ah… you’re one of those intellectuals who doesn’t only want to be known. You want to be recognized as the notorious journalist who brought the Palanick Empire to its knees.

  Well, I won’t let you.

  Fury burns inside of me, coursing through my veins. It’s like acid corroding the tiny vessels that feed my body and mind, diffusing through my flesh and surfacing onto my skin.

  Scorching.

  My phone vibrates with a call from Albert, and I instantly answer.

  “Morning, Gabriel.”

  “Good morning. I saw it.”

  “Oh.”

  “What can you do?”

  “Well, this time, it’s actually nothing. Our name is nowhere in it. They’re only targeting—

  “Our principal partner.”

  “You think they know about China?”

  “Perhaps it’s on article four.”

  “They won’t be lenient about this.”

  “And who says we’ll be?”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, but I’ll keep you posted.”

  We hang up, and I call Amanda, who—unlike the rest—normally wakes up as early as I do.

  “Hey,” I hear, clanking and ruckus.

  “Breakfast time?”

  “You know it,” she chuckles.

  “I received the IT report about security breaches on our premises. It says nothing.”

  “Then it’s not internal.”

  “Caught wind of anything?”

  “You know I’d tell you if I did.”

  “I know.” I’m beyond grateful for Amanda’s sincerity. It’s a rare commodity these days. “But I might need your help soon.”