by Janet Dailey
He and Lee Slattery, the CEO, had chatted for an hour. Linc had his talking points memorized: He was a CEO himself with a strategic materials business. Overseas factories to keep manufacturing costs low and profits high. He was looking to buy SKC vests for a hundred-and-fifty-man security team.
Lee had been very friendly on the phone—the man was a serious talker who followed the news of the day, especially stories with a military slant. He had a tendency to name-drop, Linc noticed.
He’d dropped a few of his own—mostly agency names who would instantly vouch for him. But he had thought to mention Kelly. He couldn’t pretend he hung around with movie stars, but she was close enough. On the East Coast, she was famous.
Kenzie beat her for beauty, though.
The lookout had proved to be an excellent strategic move. He watched her trim frame walk away from him behind the chain-link fence of the shooting range. The dress looked like it was made out of handkerchiefs, pure white with lace points. The fluttery hem revealed just a little more than she probably intended, now that a breeze had kicked up.
Nice. Unbelievably nice.
In person, Lee Slattery matched his online image. He was the silver-fox type, dressed with impeccable taste.
Slattery extended his hand, shaking Linc’s with a firm grip. “Welcome. Pleasure to meet a friend of Kelly Johns. I’m a big fan of hers.”
And a few other blondes, Linc thought, surveying the framed photos on the wall. He didn’t see one of Kelly, with or without Slattery, but there were several of the CEO standing next to well-known actresses and TV personalities with highlighted hair and legs that didn’t quit. He reminded himself that Slattery was divorced and no one cared.
The photos of Slattery with various politicians were more telling. Linc was pretty sure that the jowly guy with his arm around Slattery’s shoulders was the head of a military appropriations committee. And he recognized a senator or two in the mix.
“So,” Slattery said affably, “I understand you’d like to tour our operation. Some of it is off-limits, you understand,” he added with a wink. “You would need a classified clearance and—well, you’re the new kid in town.”
“I’m working on that,” Linc said casually. Slattery was never going to know that Linc’s clearance was several levels above his own—but that was beside the point.
“Let me know how it goes. I may be able to help expedite it.” Slattery gave a meaningful nod at one of the photos, with a different politician.
Linc smiled. “Great. No rush, though.”
Slattery came around the desk and clapped him on the back. “You just say when and I’ll make a few calls.”
“Thanks. Much appreciated.”
The older man went to his office door and gestured for Linc to follow him. “Let me show you around. At the end you get to walk down my favorite street. I don’t do that for everyone.”
Linc managed a smile, not sure what Slattery was talking about. “I’m honored.”
They toured the main building first. It was new and smelled new.
Slabs of acoustic ceiling tile alternated with fluorescent fixtures. No windows, just walls that seemed to run for miles. The worker bees kept their heads down, their faces tinged with blue from the glowing screens in front of them. Men and women both.
Lee Slattery kept right on talking in a somewhat lower voice, proud of his hive.
From time to time, a high-level manager appeared from an office and greeted Slattery with some surprise. Linc guessed that he didn’t walk around too often. There was a lot of glad-handing and introductions to this sub-chief and that division head and a couple of veeps to finish up.
A man around his own age came and went around the edges of the group, but Lee didn’t bother to introduce him right away. Linc wondered who he was. His recent crash course in good suits told him that the man’s had cost more than his own.
Okay. An exec. But young to be on Slattery’s level.
He had a dark buzz cut that showed a fair amount of scalp and an athletic look. Not the weekend warrior type—kind of military. His eyes were dark too—oddly flat, almost black.
The man fixed his gaze on Lee Slattery. Linc noted his expression of contempt, wondering what that was all about.
The silver-haired CEO turned to the man as if he’d been tapped on the shoulder by him. “There you are, Vic. When did you get here?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
Slattery didn’t really listen to the answer, quickly handling the introductions in his usual breezy way. “Dana, this is my right-hand man and second-in-command, the one and only Victor Kehoe. We call him Vic.”
The contemptuous expression didn’t change—Slattery didn’t seem to notice or care—but Kehoe extended a hand to shake, gripping Linc’s with noticeable force.
“Dana Scott is in the market for our new bulletproofs,” Slattery added. “Someone at the agency sent him to us.”
Kehoe gave a curt nod, taking in the information. Linc guessed he’d just been added to a file marked Nobody Important.
It would be interesting to find out why Vic Kehoe disliked his boss. Linc made a mental note to cultivate Kehoe as a contact at SKC.
Slattery could be as crooked as he was smooth. The second-in-command was likely to have the goods on him.
But Kehoe wasn’t exactly warming up to him, though he condescended to make small talk for a minute or two. Linc let it go, focusing on being Dana Scott, foreign-based businessman with money to burn.
There was another greeting from another head of something before Linc could take in any more details. Vic Kehoe excused himself.
Leaving, Linc noticed, with a smaller entourage of his own, which broke off from Slattery’s gang and regrouped around him.
SKC was big on hierarchies. That fit. Plenty of ex-army people went through revolving doors to companies like this when they left the service or retired. That was where the money was.
Some fact-finding mission, he thought with disgust. He was never left alone for a second. He couldn’t ask random questions.
Did you work with Christine Corelli? What department?
She hadn’t been a cubicle cutie, but an assistant to someone fairly high up.
Doing ... exactly what, he still didn’t know.
It almost didn’t matter. SKC had to be raking in millions. The business of military supply generated enormous profits, no matter what soldiers might have to say about the quality of the goods.
According to his research, the company had been on a hiring spree since this new group of buildings had gone up. Slattery was saying something about his plans to expand. The area was relatively near DC but still uncrowded, ripe for development. Other companies were following SKC’s lead, gobbling up farmland and chewing up trees.
Linc half listened. He managed to start the miniature camera on his jacket button. He could just feel the infinitesimal buzz.
He took video only of the men. Linc would never remember them all, but he had to try and jog Kenzie’s memory.
The stalker could be any one of them. An ordinary guy. On the outside.
He wished he’d gotten footage of the men who’d left with Vic Kehoe, but it was too late now. Linc guessed that a lot of it was going to be blurred or partial anyway. The thing was tiny and he wasn’t a pro, unlike Gary Baum’s cameraman. He knew for sure he’d gotten several shots of shirt fronts bulging with middle-manager fat.
Someone, not Lee, finally walked him over to the X-Ultra department. Melvin Brody put down a sloppy sandwich to greet him. He invited Linc into his office for a spiel that could have been prerecorded on the merits of the new fiber in the vests.
Linc didn’t like the guy. His shirt had mayonnaise on it, but that wasn’t the reason. Brody was rude to the girl who’d replaced Christine. Kenzie had mentioned her. Brenda White. She kept her head down, too, involved with paperwork.
He happened to glance at the names in an appointment book on her desk, at first not recognizing the one at the top.
Dana Scott. That was him.
Brody took a call and said yes several times to whoever was on the other end. Linc waited, hands in the pockets of his fabulous suit, rocking back a little on the heels of his expensive shoes.
“Let’s go. The big boss says he has a treat for you.”
More corridors, more employees. Brody brought him to a different area, not where he’d started. Ground level. Industrial-looking. Steel beams and reinforced concrete.
He wondered if he was going to be handed a hard hat. But Slattery came out, still talking a mile a minute to an underling, who gave Linc a thankful look as he disappeared.
“Ready?” the older man asked.
“Sure.”
Slattery steered him around a double set of riveted beams toward a golf cart.
Linc half expected to see clubs in bags stashed in the back, but there weren’t any.
The cart was new, with roomy seats. He and Slattery headed off to their next destination, with Slattery at the wheel. Whistling, the CEO negotiated through a gigantic warehouse with practiced ease for several minutes. It seemed to be all one structure, and Linc wasn’t sure where it ended. Dangling from a ceiling of corrugated metal, wire-caged lights provided spots of illumination in corridors that were on the dark side.
There were catwalks way up high. And a structure that appeared to be a construction crane. Tall though it was, it still cleared the top of the enormous space. Linc glimpsed an occasional worker in coveralls here and there, checking shelved cardboard boxes with a handheld monitor, and guessed that the warehouse staff was mostly men, because they were all on the big side. The blue glow from the handheld monitors illuminated faces, but only for a few seconds at a time—and Lee Slattery was driving quickly.
He slowed and pulled the golf cart over near a wall, stopping in a pool of yellow light that made everything around them seem darker than before. He switched off the cart and turned to Linc. “Here we are.”
Linc got out, seeing the same shadowy corridors stretching away on all sides. Puzzled, he kept his expression neutral and said nothing as he watched Slattery walk over to a bank of electrical switches, flipping several in succession.
Linc’s eyes narrowed, momentarily blinded by what seemed to be brilliant outdoor sunshine. No shelves here. No workers either. He took in a dusty path that wound between high mud walls. Low houses built of the same material stood to one side of the path, opposite a ditch on the other that was filled with jumbled stones.
It was a good replica of a Middle Eastern village street, right down to the wadi—the dry watercourse filled with stones. Nice touch.
The path ended some distance away in a wall of jagged rock that vanished into gloom as he looked up, noticing the handholds built into it. A climbing wall. He brought his gaze down to the spindly trees arching over the walls, too stiff and green to be real. He blinked.
“We’re still inside,” Slattery chuckled. “And yes, it’s all fake. Like it? We use it for testing gear. And to demonstrate the goods, show off design upgrades, that kind of thing.”
“Very impressive.”
“Gotta stay ahead in this business,” Slattery said, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking a little in place. “The enemy keeps coming up with new IEDs—Improvised Explosive Devices, that is. I’m sure you’re familiar with the term.”
“Yes, I am. But tell me more.”
“Oh, there’s not much to it. We bring the client here, show him the path, a warehouse guy slings a bulletproof vest and groin cup over his coveralls and goes for a stroll. Then—kaboom! Mock explosion. No shrapnel, no harm done. The gear gets peppered with dye pellets. Memorable visual, don’t you think?”
“I bet it is.” Linc was wondering if he was about to see it happen. But he and Slattery were alone—Linc didn’t see or hear any of the warehouse workers.
“Beats the hell out of our competition. They use animated films and illustrated brochures. But we can stage our own little war games right here in the warehouse.”
“I’m impressed.”
“This is only one reason why we’re outselling them right and left. Clients get a huge kick out of it. My second-in-command, Vic Kehoe, came up with the idea and rigged the whole thing after the walls and path were done.”
“So what explodes?”
Lee Slattery waved vaguely. “I’m not sure. It’s really no big deal. You’d have to ask Vic. He’s the munitions man.”
His casual tone didn’t fit the setting. Fake though it was, the empty path was faintly menacing. Tiny particles of dust hung in the artificial light, stirred up by the golf cart’s sudden arrival—or someone who had stepped out of sight. Someone who could be watching them.
Linc felt the back of his neck prickle and turned his head around, seeing nothing in the other direction but endless, shadowy tiers of shelves, mostly empty.
He looked back at the path, remembering a similar setup but much larger, built for the army. He’d stayed there for six weeks, breathing in dust just like this along with the acrid smell of explosives.
Located in a remote part of the southwest, the mock village was a training center for bomb-disposal specialists. It was riddled with hidden devices—in doorways, in the crisscrossing streets, and inside false-front houses within walled compounds.
Linc had helped to engineer the electronics that controlled the exercises. The soldiers he’d worked with joked around a lot, but they all knew the training was deadly serious. Not like this playpen.
“Did I scare you?” Slattery’s question interrupted his thoughts.
Linc shook his head. “No. But the path looks authentic. Good work.”
Slattery smiled proudly. “You would know. And hey, I didn’t really mean it about taking a walk. I’m not sure if Vic has any booby traps set at the moment. Doesn’t look like it.”
He indicated the path and Linc noticed that there were no footprints in it. Or any other marks. Slattery chuckled again. “He’s good at covering his tracks.”
Talking further with Lee Slattery’s second-in-command oughta be interesting, Linc thought. The guy could be good at covering up a lot of things, including the threads that Linc had followed to Slattery Inc. So far, he had a feeling that the silver-haired CEO was in the game for the glory, not the money.
He’d read up on him, spending a scant hour on Google, and then going to an agency blacknet for in-depth corroboration that hadn’t been supplied by an SKC publicist.
Lee Slattery didn’t have to earn another dime as long as he lived, not with the fortune he’d inherited ten years ago. He’d signed on as CEO of SKC to have something to do—and rub shoulders with the brass.
Linc had run into the type several times in his own work for the military: successful men who had never served but liked people to think that they had. A toy soldier, displaying a flag that never waved in his paneled office.
Linc drove back along the George Washington Parkway. His favorite highway, if you could call it that. Built in the 1930s, it was too narrow and swooped into unexpected curves through parkland that had reverted to wilderness. You had to be alert. Especially at night, because there were no road lights on it. Low stone walls bridged certain sections over hidden gorges in the ridge. He caught glimpses of the river below, shimmering in twilight, flowing fast from the mighty falls several miles to the west.
The trees were losing their leaves rapidly, but there were a few diehards. One lifted a scarlet crown above the bare branches, defiantly red. It looked like a torch, standing sentinel over this remnant of wild land.
In another few minutes he would be in Arlington. He was meeting a friend from Langley for a beer and a platter of wings.
They had nothing serious to talk about, just a mutual interest in sports TV and maybe a game of pool. He needed to stop thinking.
SKC was somewhere out there, beyond the treetops of Rosslyn. The tall new buildings springing up were screwing up the rest of the view. He’d seen no reason to stay late. He didn’t want t
o get asked to have dinner with the customer Lee Slattery was dragging around and subjecting to an all-out snowjob.
Must be someone rich, he thought idly. Slattery didn’t turn on the charm otherwise.
He looked out at the skyline, surveying the new construction. It seemed to him that a building started up every week. The demand was there. Temporary types. His neighborhood was new and anonymous. He liked it that way.
He leaned on the penthouse railing, looking straight down at the clean sidewalks and puny trees.
A car sped down the street, weaving around others. There were always one or two cars that went too fast with drivers hidden behind tinted windows. He didn’t wonder why some didn’t get stopped, even when they ran a red. The cops knew who was who.
Cyclists in spandex rolled over the Key Bridge between rows of antique lampposts, just coming on. Many would turn left for their evening ride at the liquor store, now closed, where the university students used to get their kegs and drink themselves into oblivion. The cyclists maneuvered around pedestrians and joggers and dog owners. He scarcely noticed the men.
He preferred to look at women.
Walking together. Walking alone.
He watched them come and go. The weaker sex always attracted his attention, even from on high.
Up close, the look in their eyes when they first saw him was like an electrical charge. He needed it. Craved it.
They always made it so easy.
He was nice at first, especially at work. Women employees liked the little things. A sincere hello without getting the once-over. A note of appreciation for all the work they did that didn’t usually get noticed.
He didn’t bother with the older ones or bored wives looking for a fling. Younger was better, but not too young. He had no respect for men who hung around playgrounds. He prided himself on fighting fair.
He did like it when his prey fought hard.
