by Stephen Frey
“I’ve got something they want.”
“You’re probably right. In your world people want money more than revenge.”
As the elevator rose, Gillette’s mind flashed back to the image of the pistol aimed at him from outside the window. Of how, for a split second, he’d thought he was dead. How, when he’d heard the gun go off, he’d expected a flash of excruciating pain, then nothing. Then he’d realized that the shot had come from the gun of one of the two men Stiles had trailing them in another vehicle, that the assassin had been hit.
For a brief moment afterward, he had lain sprawled on the seat, wondering if it was all worth it. Wondering if Faith and Stiles were right, if it was time to enjoy life a little. Maybe having an empire wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
“Hopefully the cops will get something out of the guy when he wakes up after surgery.”
“If they do,” Stiles answered, “they’re miracle workers.”
“Why?”
“He died in the ambulance.”
“Oh.” Death. So close. He could almost feel it.
The first two attacks had shaken Gillette, but hadn’t made him consider getting out, or actually think about death. But now it was clear that whoever was behind the attacks wasn’t going to stop until he was dead—or they were. And this time he’d stared right down the barrel of the gun.
“Maybe they can ID him and still find out something. Link him to whoever’s behind this.”
“Don’t count on that, either,” Stiles said dismissively. “My guess is they’ll find out he was some random thug who got half the cash before and would have gotten the other half after.”
“Your cup’s running over with optimism.”
“Comes with the turf.”
The elevator slowed as it approached the thirty-second floor: Everest Capital.
“Quentin,” Gillette spoke up as the doors parted. “I . . .” He dropped his voice. “I appreciate what you did in the car.” He stopped outside the elevator. Far enough away from the Everest receptionist that she couldn’t hear. “You put yourself between me and a bullet.”
“Reflex,” Stiles said firmly. “Nothing else.”
“Still, I—”
“That’s what you get from me, Christian. Execution.” Stiles hesitated. “Look, somebody wants you dead, and that won’t be the last time they try. Whoever they are,” he added after a beat.
“How are we going to find out who they are?” Gillette asked, following Stiles as he headed toward the receptionist. “The cops haven’t been able to.”
As of yesterday afternoon, the New York City Police Department had no leads on who had blown up the limousine, and the New Jersey State Police were still coming up empty on the attack in Hightstown. The car the shooter had been driving in New Jersey—the one that had stopped directly ahead of Gillette’s at the traffic light—had been left at the scene, but it was stolen.
“I’m working on it,” Stiles answered. “Oh, by the way, I’ve implemented a new policy here at Everest.” He acknowledged another of his men who was standing inside the lobby doorway. “And the guy waiting in your office won’t be very happy about it. Also, from now on, I need to be informed at least thirty minutes in advance any time you plan to change locations. No exceptions. Got it?”
“What if I have to go to the head and I can’t wait that long?”
“Christian.”
Gillette held up one hand. “All right.”
Stiles shook his head. “You aren’t taking this seriously enough. A guy just tried to kill you. I can’t believe you—”
“Quentin,” said Gillette firmly, “I’m taking it very seriously. I’m just trying not to let it get to me.” He patted Stiles on the shoulder. “And, again, thanks for what you did out there. You say it was reflex, but I don’t care. It took a lot of guts.”
Stiles shrugged. “I can’t have one of my clients killed. Bad for business. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t be able to get yourself out of the way in time.”
“Why?”
Stiles grinned. “You white guys are too slow.”
“Hey, any time you want to race, you let me know, pal,” Gillette retorted, chuckling as he turned toward his office.
“What happened to you?” Debbie asked as Gillette approached.
“What do you mean?”
She was staring at him intently. “You look like somebody just tried to run you down.”
“Is Tom in my office?”
“Don’t avoid my question.”
“Deb.”
She stuck her tongue out. “Yeah, and he’s irritated about something.”
“What?”
She shrugged “How would I know?”
“That’s helpful,” Gillette muttered, reaching for the doorknob.
“Sorreeee,” she shot back. “Hey, what is wrong with you?”
He grimaced. “Nothing. Sorry.” He motioned toward the office. “No calls while I’m with Tom. Okay?”
“Okay.”
As Gillette opened the door, he glanced over his shoulder. Stiles was speaking to the man posted at the lobby doorway. “Except Quentin,” he called to Debbie. “If he needs me, interrupt immediately.”
“All right.”
“Hello, Tom.” Gillette held out his hand as he walked toward the other man.
McGuire was relaxing in one of the chairs in the corner. He stood up as Gillette made it to where he was sitting. “Hello, Christian.”
They shook hands and sat down across from each other, the coffee table between them. Gillette saw instantly what Debbie meant. There was something eating at McGuire. “What’s the problem, Tom?”
McGuire’s eyes shot to Gillette’s “What do you mean?”
“You’re pissed off at something. I can tell. Usually it’s like you’re in the middle of a poker game. I wouldn’t be able to read your expression if my life depended on it.”
“You’d be pissed, too,” McGuire snapped.
“Why?”
“I had to give up my gun to that prick by the lobby doorway,” McGuire fumed, his face turning red. “What the hell’s going on around here?”
The new policy Stiles had referred to. It had to be. Everyone would be searched at the Everest door from now on. No exceptions. “I’ve put Quentin Stiles in charge of my personal security. What he says goes.” Gillette had never even known McGuire carried a gun. “It has to be this way.” Stiles had probably implemented the policy just for McGuire. Just to piss him off. But so be it.
“And you took my people off the assignment. From what I understand, Stiles is totally in charge of your security now.”
Stiles had made that request yesterday, and Gillette had agreed. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“I don’t understand,” McGuire complained. “What’s the problem? Don’t you trust me?”
“Calm down, Tom.”
“Calm down? I’ve got a lot of satisfied customers who’ll tell you we’ve done a tremendous job protecting them. But the guy who owns my business fires me. Now, you tell me. Should I feel good about that?”
“Tom, I—”
“How much diligence did you do on Stiles before you hired him?” McGuire pushed. “How do you know if he’s any good?”
“Oh, he’s good.”
“How do you know?”
“I was attacked again a few minutes ago, and he saved my life.”
McGuire turned his head to the side, as if he’d been struck by something. “What?”
“Yeah, right out on Park Avenue.”
“What happened?”
“A guy ran his car into mine, then jumped out and tried to shoot me. But one of Stiles’s men nailed the guy. They had it covered.”
“Jesus,” McGuire said softly. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right. But I still don’t understand why my people were taken off the job.” His voice had gotten strong again.
“Too many fingers in the pie, Tom. Simple as that. Stiles wanted his guys on it and nobody else’s. I do
n’t know much about personal security, but it made sense to me from an organizational standpoint. Consolidation of leadership and all that. I okayed it.”
“What happened to the guy who tried to shoot you?”
“He’s dead.”
“Good. Whoever’s behind all this needs to understand that you’re protected by people who know what the hell they’re doing.” McGuire looked down. “I’m glad Stiles’s people are doing a good job.”
“Thanks.” Gillette stood up and moved to his desk. “You’re here today to talk about buying the company.” He clicked the computer mouse several times as he moved it around on the pad. “Right?”
“Yes, I—”
“Give me one second, Tom.” Gillette punched in the Dominion Savings & Loan ticker and recoiled at what he saw. Dominion’s stock price was off six dollars in overnight trading. Off almost 15 percent from yesterday’s close. “Christ,” he whispered.
“Something wrong?”
“No, nothing.” Gillette moved back to the chair and sat down, wondering what was going on with Dominion. Focus, he told himself. On the task at hand. “So let’s talk. Earlier this week you offered me 300 million for McGuire & Company.”
“Which, according to my backer, is a fair price.”
“Of course he’d say that,” Gillette replied calmly. “He’s on the buy side.”
“Whatever. Look, he’s pretty connected to Wall Street, and he tells me there’ve been investment bankers sniffing around Everest offering to take McGuire & Company public. Tells me you guys are close to signing an agreement with one of the Wall Street firms. He says if you do that, I won’t have a chance to buy the company.”
Gillette shook his head, irritated that the news had gotten out. Probably some young punk associate who couldn’t keep his mouth shut had leaked it. “That’s right,” he admitted.
“What are they telling you they can get for it?”
“Five hundred million.” Typically, Gillette would have kept his cards close to his chest, but McGuire needed to understand how big the difference in offers was. “Two hundred million more than you’ll pay. That’s a huge gap. One I can’t ignore. I have a responsibility to my limited partners to listen to these guys. I’d have a lot of unhappy investors if they found out I had passed on $200 million.”
“You’re telling me the investors wouldn’t be happy if you doubled their money? Which is what $300 million does.”
“Not if I left two hundred on the table.”
“They wouldn’t have to know.”
“Somebody would find out, Tom. Somebody would have a contact at one of the investment banks we’re talking to. Just like your backer does. Then all of our partners would know, and I’d be out of a job.”
“Yeah, well, your investors can kiss my ass,” McGuire snapped. “They don’t see how hard it is to run this company. They don’t see the crap Vince and I deal with. The tough decisions we make on a daily basis. The risks we take. They don’t see any of that. They don’t deal with the stress.”
“And they’re happy not to,” Gillette replied. “They just want to make as much money as they can, and they don’t give a damn about your stress. That’s why they have us hire you. To deal with all that.”
McGuire took a deep breath, trying to keep his cool. “I don’t know a lot about IPOs, but doesn’t the process take a while? Isn’t there a lot of back and forth with the SEC?”
“Usually,” Gillette agreed.
“And isn’t that market unpredictable? One day, IPOs are everywhere. The next, the door shuts and nothing goes public for a year.”
“That can happen.”
“Well, the deal I’m offering you will be quick, clean, and ironclad. We could have it done in thirty days. And you won’t have people trying to find out if you wear boxers or briefs. We already know everything.”
Now that Stiles had taken over his personal security, there was no reason to bargain. “Tom, you should think about how the sweat equity shares we gave you when we bought the company would be worth tens of millions in an IPO,” Gillette advised strongly. “And I’ll make sure the investment bankers don’t lock up your shares. I’ll make sure you get cash.”
“But our backer is willing to give Vince and me half the company if you agree to sell it to him,” McGuire countered. “For no money.”
McGuire had mentioned that in the limousine, but Gillette wasn’t buying it. Giving managers half the company for no money down was outrageous. Ten to 15 percent allocated over three to four years was normal—what Everest usually did. And he’d heard of very experienced executives getting as much as 25 percent, if performance warranted it. But never fifty. That kind of allocation made it nearly impossible for the investors to earn an acceptable return. So, if it was true, there was something strange going on. “Would you get any cash in his deal?”
“Some.”
“But not much, right?”
“Enough. Plus, he’s willing to double our salaries,” McGuire continued quickly. “And, if we keep growing the company, our shares could be worth hundreds of millions a few years down the road.”
“How much is enough, Tom?” As Gillette said the words, he realized how ironic they sounded coming from him. He was worth seventy million and he was working eighty-hour weeks—and dealing with assassins. But he needed to put McGuire in a box, so he pressed. “Isn’t ten million guaranteed today pretty damn good?”
“No, it isn’t. After taxes it would be under five, and that wouldn’t be enough for a life’s work. Stupid as it sounds, five million doesn’t go very far these days. I want more. This is my best shot at really cashing in. There won’t be another opportunity like this.” McGuire spoke faster the more animated he became. “I’m going to turn it back on you. Isn’t $300 million enough? Why do you have to be a pig and go for five?”
“It’s my duty to my limited partners.”
“Well, I have the same duty to myself.”
“I can’t accept a $200 million discount, Tom. It’s that simple.”
“After all Vince and I have done,” McGuire muttered. “After the way we’ve slaved over the last three years for you and the rest of your damn partners here at Everest. That’s how your going to treat us?”
“It all comes down to the best deal. You know that.”
McGuire rose from his chair, glaring down at Gillette. “Screw you and your best deal, Christian,” he hissed, turning and stalking from the office.
Gillette watched him go. Happy he’d hired Quentin Stiles.
“I heard about what happened this morning on Park Avenue,” Cohen said, sitting down in front of Gillette’s desk. “You all right?”
“Fine,” Gillette answered. “Thanks to Stiles.” He checked Dominion’s stock price quickly. It had dropped another two dollars in early trading. He clicked on the “Company News” option, but there were no stories explaining the price drop. “His guys saved my ass.”
“Really?”
“They’re very good.”
“I’m glad. Obviously.”
“Yeah, McGuire was pissed that I called his guys off the job, but it was the right move.”
“I saw Tom walking out a few minutes ago. He didn’t look very happy.”
“He wasn’t. But when you saw him, I don’t think he was ticked about Stiles taking over.”
“What was it then?” Cohen asked curiously.
“Tom and Vince want to buy McGuire & Company back from us.”
Cohen straightened up in his chair. “Wow. That’s interesting. Did he mention price?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred million.”
“But the investment bankers are talking five hundred.” Cohen had been in on the IPO discussions with the investment bankers. “And we’re close to signing the deal.”
“Which is why Tom’s so pissed. He thinks I ought to ignore the I-bankers and take his $300 million offer.”
“We couldn’t do that. The limited pa
rtners would crucify us.”
“Which is exactly what I told him. But, of course, he wouldn’t listen.” Gillette smiled thinly. “He got pretty angry about the whole thing at the end of our meeting.”
Cohen took a deep breath. “Maybe it’s a good thing you did take his guys off your security detail.”
Gillette glanced up from the computer screen. “Ben Cohen,” he said quietly. It was the first time he could ever remember Cohen saying something like that. Implying that someone’s intent might be evil. “I’m proud of you.”
A self-conscious smile played across Cohen’s face. “Why?”
“Maybe someday you could take over one of our companies after all. You’re finally starting to analyze motivation, not just numbers.”
“What do you mean?”
“You think McGuire might be lax with my security because he’s bitter that I won’t sell him the company, right?”
“Yeah.” Cohen hesitated. “You know, I’ve never really had faith in Tom and Vince.”
“Why not?”
Cohen pushed out his lower lip. “I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s because the whole time we’ve been involved with them, I’ve thought they were angling toward this goal. You know, buying the company back from us on the cheap. For a while I was worried they might hold down profits so they could buy it more cheaply, but I don’t think they’ve done that. Not that I can tell, anyway. Probably because you’ve ridden their asses about performance from the day we acquired the company.” Cohen gave Gillette a respectful nod. “I don’t think Donovan ever fully appreciated what a great job you’ve done with that company.”
Gillette stared at Cohen for a moment. “Thanks.”
“I know Tom respects the hell out of you, Christian,” Cohen continued. “He doesn’t like you, but he respects you. I overheard him say that to Donovan once.”
Starting with the day he’d graduated from Princeton, Gillette’s father had urged him over and over never to completely trust anyone in business, but maybe Cohen had just earned it. Maybe he was the exception. They’d known each other for ten years, and Cohen had always been loyal, even after being passed over for chairman. He’d been deeply disappointed, but he’d been able to control his emotions and still be supportive and helpful. Unlike Faraday and Mason, who’d been openly resentful.
