by K NILSSON
“Come on over here.” I flashed her a big smile.
I’d forgiven her the minute I sent her home last week. An apology, a hug, and it was finished, always moving forward that way.
“Fill me in on the results of your meeting tomorrow as soon as it’s over,” I ordered.
“Then what?” she asked.
“The information may impact our plan. If not, you will follow the plan to the letter,” I instructed. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” she said.
“Show me your hands,” I commanded.
In the past, she’d crossed her fingers behind her back to negate the promise. She held them out, turning them face up, then down, and repeated, “I promise.”
I asked for proof of sincerity because Devyn thinks plans are outlines and she can work inside them. The plans are parameters. She can improvise however she wants when she works with them. But when she goes rogue, things get cocked-up. Impressing on her the prize of following the plan unless she runs it by me raises my hackles. Her objections resort to arguments and ends up with the tail wagging the dog—and I'm the dog. To her credit, she had a knack for spinning a dangerous situation on a dime.
“If you get caught, fired or worse, you'll jeopardize Kai's rescue,” I complained.
“Was it hard getting me hired?” she asked, getting ahead of herself.
"They haven't hired you, yet. Getting you into the White House would have been easier. Don’t make me regret it, okay? Remember the Bends mission?”
"Don't go there," she warned, insulted I'd brought up the case.
I rolled my eyes. Hers dropped to the floor. I refrained from mentioning how her impulsive behavior almost caused that case to go tits up.
"Yeah. That was stupid," she said, reading my mind.
"Everyone makes mistakes, sugar," I said.
Not missing a beat, Devyn replied, “Whenever I do something right, you don’t remember, when I do something wrong, you never forget.”
She looked at the time and said, “I need to leave now if I want to avoid traffic.”
Everyone who knows LA works around the traffic issue.
“I’ll call you when I know something about the job.”
It was the end of the day when Stormsoft’s Human Resources department left a message for Devyn to call in the morning.
Chapter Fifteen
Ben
Pacific Palisades
Byron Rathmore had industry specialists to stop his company's losses. He hired market analysts to pinpoint competitors. The acquisitions team were the best in the industry, successful in takeovers of companies like Tech-Key. But the acquisition attempt had gotten out of control, and they failed. Analysts loaded the system with too much data. It didn't have enough capacity to run the analytical software. He needed new blood, a qualified staff member with skills to help his current analyst, help him organize and manage the technical details effectively.
Laying the groundwork for Devyn's new identity helped her get through the first round of interviews. Whoever performed the check on Devyn was thorough. Regarding her personal life, I buried information Devyn the systems analyst candidate tried to hide: a flaw, giving the new employer something to "have" on her.
"What dark secret did you bury, Ben?"
Covering my grin with a cough, I said, "What's the fun in knowing? The element of surprise will help you."
"Spin on a dime, exercise that talent you have,” I said.
Her face bloomed with red splotches. "Are you serious?"
"No, I'm not. I wouldn't do that to you," I joked.
Devyn's eyes narrowed. "What did you plant?"
"Did you read Rathmore's whole dossier?"
"Yes," she said.
"Preparedness is everything. Knowing more about Rathmore and his kink will help. He likes women submissive."
"Ha!" she scoffed. "I'm not submissive, and I won't be a slave."
“You could be a toy,” I suggested.
Her expression was murderous.
Fuck. This assignment could go sideways.
"At least practice submission. How hard is that?" I offered.
I smirked at the thought of Devyn acting submissive.
"Submission? Really?"
I was enjoying this.
"I know submission means to yield, consent, and in the most extreme, be slavish," she spat.
Devyn was exasperating, but I was firm in my decision.
"Read between the lines, Devyn; the choice is yours. They should give you a safe-word… especially from him."
I moved around the office, sorted through mail, put coffee cups in the dishwasher, shuffled papers, and turned off my computer. All the while, Devyn followed behind me, wringing her hands, whining and griping. Her light-up sneakers illuminated the floor.
"Don't you have to be a natural submissive? I believe you do. One can't learn it, right? Are there any videos on submission made by professionals?”
"Professionals?" I asked, remembering Devyn uses video as a vehicle for learning.
"There are videos for everything…"
She talked a mile a minute, mostly to herself. There was an undercurrent of fear, the fear of failure. When I stopped short, she bumped into me.
Role-playing to convince a primary is hard work, especially when the role is alien to her. But I will do my best to see she gets exposure to BDSM and kink if she goes through with the assignment.
"What's it going to be, Devyn?"
She shrugged.
"Words, Devyn."
"Shit! Okay," she’d agreed, her hands fisting at her sides.
"Not good enough," I said.
"OKAY! I'll do whatever it takes. I promise."
"Focus those rolling eyes on the thoughts running through your head," I said.
Her lips curved up into a smile. "So... what tidbit of information circulated?"
"Rumors... hints you are kinky."
"WHAT?"
"It ticked the boxes at the top of the list."
"Rat Bastard," she muttered under her breath.
Devyn scratched her head and rubbed the goose-bumped skin, contemplating the consequences of her decision with trepidation.
"Many people associated with Rathmore have disappeared. I don't want that to happen to you. If you have any doubts, don't go through with this."
She shook her head. I gave her an out but otherwise didn’t encourage or discourage her further.
There was a familiar stubborn set to her jaw. Fear kept her focused. I continued straightening up my office, putting empty water bottles in the recycling bin, and storing condiments in the fridge. My eyebrows drew together as I caught sight of her eyes. They were distant.
“Devyn do not lose yourself in this mission,” I whispered.
She looked at me. "I have nothing to lose. I've lost everything already, Ben."
I winced.
Devyn tried to dismiss her fears with a wave. "Forget I said anything. You’re such a worrywart."
I shrugged my shoulders and reached into the desk drawer and handed her a card:
Dr. Jane
Mobile: LetMehelpu (538) 634-3578
E-mail: [email protected]
"Talk to her first."
Sometimes I question my insanity. Occasionally, it replies.
Chapter Sixteen
Devyn
Los Angeles
At 10 am, I stood in front of the receptionist’s desk in the offices of Snell, Smith, and Bell carrying a briefcase. I was pulling down the hem of the fitted sheath dress that crept up my thighs from crawling out of the car. The dress was accessorized with a strand of pearls. The makeup was understated. Candace taught me how to use neutral tones for everyday wear, no garish red lipstick, smoky eyes, or over-bronzed face allowed. My hair in a chignon, pale nails, and sensible heels.
The receptionist escorted me to the conference room, but before entering she held out her hand for my cell phone.
“I’ll hold it in my desk drawer for you, Ms
. Foster.”
A bespoke man seated at the head of the table stood to shake my hand, introducing himself as Oliver Bell.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bell,” I said, then nodded at each of the men around the table.
A thin man in a loose suit pulled out a chair for me, and I sat down.
Mr. Bell held his hand out toward the man at the end of the table who hadn't said a word. His eyes were dark and sunken, features sharp, and his mood, dour.
“I’m Nathan Miller.”
"Hi," I said.
He looked worried; I hope it was for his employee.
“Nice to make your acquaintance,” I said.
There were no offers of beverages, so I knew this meeting would be short.
"Why did you delay the announcement of KEY-BOLT?" I asked.
"Kai was the developer. The developer is the face of the product. His disappearance affected its credibility. It would imply he disapproved of the result, or that we stole it."
"But someone tried to buy out your company, didn't they? Byron Rathmore?"
Miller's face darkened.
"Why didn’t you sell it to him?"
Mr. Bell, his attorney, said, "Ms. Foster, this isn’t a deposition, nor a discovery. Mr. Miller is here to help find Kai Lin. Questions, why Tech-Key didn’t sell the company to Sigma Stormsoft, are irrelevant."
I nodded. I had my ways of getting answers, so I re-worded it.
"Mr. Miller, do you think Kai took the technology and left, maybe sold it to someone, took the money and disappeared?" I asked.
Nathan Miller paled. “Kai would never do that. He was loyal. Other companies tried to hire him away, offered him more money, even threw in a guaranteed green card, but he turned them all down. We had discussions about how it would be a bad idea to sell the company, including the Key-Bolt technology.”
“Why? What were his reservations about it?”
Before his attorneys could stop Miller from answering, he said, “Byron would do anything for money, including auctioning off this technology on the darknet.”
“Why would he sell it on the darknet?”
“I don’t know Ms. Foster.”
“Why didn’t you report Kai Lin missing to the police?” I asked.
His Adam's apple bobbed. "I was waiting for a ransom demand. I've heard nothing."
I leaned forward on my elbows. "You suspect foul play?" I asked.
Miller paled. "I don’t know if Kai was kidnapped or if something worse happened to him."
"You trusted him," I said.
“Kai would steal nothing. He wants his green card for his family. Anything that reeks of criminal activity would end all the years of sacrifice and dedication.”
Suddenly, everyone’s watch sounded an alarm at the same time; it was a timer. The meeting was over.
My trusty video recording spy pen gave me the advantage of listening rather than relying on taking notes and missing something. I sent the file of the meeting to Ben.
Chapter Seventeen
Byron Rathmore
Culver City
The view from my office window never gets old. I own this building and the surrounding land. I had the landscape architects transform the rocky terrain to a park-like setting complete with picnic pavilions and a Japanese garden. This is the headquarters of Sigma Stormsoft, my legacy, my life.
"Mr. Rathmore, are you ready for lunch?" asked my assistant, Vera, who stood outside the office door.
She was batting her eyelashes like a little flirt. Her voice sweet, almost girlish, and very different from the sounds of distress from this morning when I pushed her off my lap and down on her knees. She barked once for every stripe I put on her bottom. She hated the belt. I put a posture collar on her and made her sit at my feet while I drank coffee and she drank me. Her day's not over yet. I am a despicable man. Now I realize Vera's been enjoying the morning games, and I don't like it.
Vera’s a female mini-me in some respects. She wears the same colors as me.
My attire doesn’t change much. I’m wearing a six-thousand-dollar Brioni navy suit, a white shirt, and company insignia cuffs. Ties are the only accessory I change. I’m wearing one with red in it. The shoes are handmade of the softest Italian leather.
Vera's a good assistant, more tolerable than the rest. She's picked up my cues faster than my previous assistants. Vera anticipates. The chef prepared my food earlier than scheduled and rather than let it get cold and have it served at the appointed time she let me know it had arrived. I was hungry; my stomach growled.
“Have the chef serve lunch.” I ordered.
A private chef was the one small luxury I allowed myself. He prepared foods from a dietary list offered by my nutritionist and makes sure it’s delicious.
The chef set the place in front of the window so I could lord over my property and everything on it. The wine glass tinked against the water glass. His hands trembled as he set the glasses at exact angles from the plate. He pulled a set of miniature salt and pepper shakers out of his pocket and placed them at twelve o'clock, the exact center of the place setting. Somehow, he finished laying the table. I'd seated myself. By the time, he placed a dome covered plate in front of me, I wanted to take the dome and clock him with it. But the smell of prime rib with mashed potatoes and broccoli soothed the hungry tiger inside. He held a bottle of Zinfandel for inspection and poured. With a wave of my hand, he left.
"Vera, quit hovering." I'd finished lunch and was wiping my mouth with the crisp linen when I saw her reflection in the window. I turned around to look at her.
She stared at the ground in front of me, her finger touching her collar. She was blushing from head to toe.
"What is it?" I asked, spying a folder she held in her hand.
"Public Relations sent this for your approval," she said, handing it over.
An annoying reporter had been vying for an interview for a software business magazine. It would be a positive move to improve my corporate raider public image.
My public relations manager prepared a business bio for the reporter along with responses to the questions. The interview was generic.
Q: What was your major in school, Mr. Rathmore?
BR: I graduated with a double major from UCLA, a bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering and an MBA in finance.
Q: What was your internship?
BR: An investment firm involved in mergers, acquisitions, and leveraged buyouts invited me to intern with them, then hired me after the internship was over.
Q: Did that job contribute to your success in any way?
BR: I’d say yes. I had a front-row seat on how to choose the right businesses to acquire. After a successful decade working side by side with the president, a series of unforeseen circumstances led to his demise, and I took over the firm.
Q: How did you come to be one of the leading technology companies in the US?
BR: The world of modern computers was in its infancy. I saw an opportunity, and I went for it by starting with small computer companies and working my way up the food chain. Along the way, I crossed paths with brilliant minds and devious hearts. Computer security was non-existent. That's how I got to where I am today.
Q: How do you see your future from this point?
BR: I’ll try to be humble about it, but I can’t. I’m on top of the world.
If I could have had the reporter in front of me, I’d tell her that I have many women at my disposal, politicians in my pocket, and still, I'm not happy.
That my journey to this point in life needed me to make fast and dangerous friends, people who have something on me, and me on them, the only way to survive when you're at the top.
My phone vibrated with a text:
Unger: Boss, I got industrial security specialist. They are hard to find. He is former special ops. If you want, I bring him. Your office. One hour.
Amusing; Unger texts like he talks.
Rathmore: What’s his name?
Unger: Maximillia
n Stone
I needed a pick-me-up. Unger was right, industrial security experts are hard to find. Must have crawled out from under a rock. Or did he?
“Vera, bring me a double shot of expresso.”
Chapter Eighteen
Max
Culver City
I saw my buddy Saint a few days ago; we worked out together and included a sparring session in my garage. I parked the Hulk in the carport, next to Saint’s prized classic car, a Buick Skylark. I want to say I kicked his ass, but that would be a lie.
“Dude,” he said, breathing heavily, “you suck. My baby sister could take you down.”
“You don’t have one,” I scowled, mentally berating myself for slacking off on protecting one of the most useful tools in my arsenal, my body.
“Okay... let’s spar every other week, okay? I’ll feed you for your trouble.”
“You got a deal,” he said.
My phone buzzed with an incoming call. I’d been waiting for Unger. He’d gotten a meeting with Byron Rathmore. I didn’t expect it to be today.
I answered the phone, “Stone.”
“Unger,” he said.
“What’s up, Unger?”
He grunted. I guess that’s part of his vocabulary.
“I pick you up at five today. Boss want to meet you,” he said.
“Pick me up in front of Shutters on the Beach. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“No,” he said. “Next time.”
I don’t think he trusts me. Frankly, I don’t trust him either.
James set up my new identity. He included a phony driver’s license and other credentials that needed new photos. My physical appearance underwent a makeover. I got a haircut that suited my role of a system security expert.
That makeover included a shave with a straight blade. That shave was the only way I’ll let something that sharp near my face. I doubt even Saint would recognize me now. James also created back stories for my new identity. The professional profile included work history and personal details like my workout habits.
