Vengeance: An Action-Adventure Novel (A Jon Steadman Thriller Book 3)

by Nellie Neeman

  Maybe the financial risk, but your methods are clearly questionable. What of those risks?

  Mr. Cromwell, I know you to be a most astute businessman. Are there any worthwhile ventures that don’t harbor risk?

  Silence.

  Please feel free to contact me with your decision at your earliest convenience. I hope we can do business.

  Peter logged out of the chatroom, wondering who else was privy to what they were writing. Risk. So much risk. But the reward was now in arm’s reach, something he couldn’t have fathomed an hour ago.

  By the time he left for lunch, his decision had been made.

  ***

  The moment Peter signed into the chatroom hidden spyware infiltrated his system. All his outgoing emails, chats and video conferences linked to his accounts would be monitored for keywords alerting Sherman to any breaches of confidence. All clients faced the same scrutiny. It was an insurance policy.

  Sherman sat behind the cluttered desk, musing over the intricacies of human nature. Several prospective clients had grappled with moral ambiguity. A wide majority found a way past their personal conundrums and proceeded without incident. No one had yet broken the NDA. Self-preservation always won out. Having the signature of leaders of industry on what many would view as a morally reprehensible endeavor was insurance enough to keep them quiet.

  ***

  Peter was awestruck by the length and detail of the spreadsheet Sherman sent him. Every one of his six hundred and twenty employees was listed, along with a basic description of their current role, age, and vital stats. The last column provided a number from one to five that corresponded to a key code. Anyone with a four or five was highlighted in red. Peter read the key. One was a healthy employee with no detrimental genetic markers. As the numbers increased, the likelihood of impending illness increased significantly. A number five corresponded with an eighty-five percent chance of catastrophic illness within the next twenty-four months requiring a minimum of 200k in annual medical expenses. All those designated with a red five were to be offered early retirement or fired within the next two weeks. All fours were given a month to clear out. Threes would be monitored closely for signs of increased medical visits and reassessed in six months. Peter was relieved to see both he and Pamela were twos. What had he gotten himself into?

  He could see how easy it was to forget that each line item was a human being with a family and an impending medical scare. It was daunting to think he was given this power to see behind the scenes at his employees’ most personal data before they knew it themselves. A man of no morals could easily develop a god complex.

  Peter did not think of himself as one of those people. If anything, he’d been accused more than once of being a bleeding heart to the detriment of his projects. The moral quandary played over in his head. If he didn’t follow through with Sherman’s strategy, everyone would be out of a job, not only the number fours and fives. He had a responsibility to those employees as well.

  ***

  Wall Street Journal

  Peter Cromwell, CEO of OBooks, the up-and-coming online bookstore has announced what he is calling a “changing of the guard.” Nearly 20% of OBooks’ workforce has been overhauled, usually a sure sign of financial distress, something the company leadership emphatically denies. CFO Pamela Jackson said, “We’re working to energize the future of our business. Generous compensation packages have been offered to the outgoing employees.” Laid-off workers disagree, as many are scrambling to find affordable health insurance before the company ceases their coverage.

  Insiders are expressing widespread confusion as top performers are being let go. “It makes no sense. They’re purging some of our best employees,” said one anonymous source. Board members are reportedly supporting the drastic measures, expressing trust in Cromwell, a man known for salvaging sinking businesses. Along with a temporary hiring freeze, some forecasters expect a sharp upturn in productivity and revenue. Only time will tell.

  Chapter 9

  FBI Headquarters

  New York City

  I’m a zombie, Jon thought as he looked at his reflection in the men’s room mirror. Blood-shot eyes, gray pallor. He hadn’t slept in nearly two days with the exception of a few interrupted hours on the flight back to New York. At least he and Lu—the name she asked him to call her—had made some progress.

  He splashed water on his face and stood up to see a pissed off Matthews looking back at him in the mirror. Since their last case together, the two men had reached a truce of mutual respect, but of late, Matthews appeared agitated and short-tempered.

  “So,” his boss drawled dramatically, dusting off his Texas twang. “How’s your family in LA?”

  “Improving. Thanks for your concern.”

  Matthews blew out a breath, not holding it in any longer. “I got you this job because of your past outstanding performance but you’ve been riding that wave for long enough, Steadman. You need to prove yourself worthy of this job. There are countless qualified people itching to take your place.”

  “Listen, Doug.” Screw the ‘sir.’ “We both know I earned the spot here. So why don’t you take it down a notch? I’ll do my job well, just cut it with the weekly threats.”

  Matthews looked like he wanted to deck him. Seething, he gritted his teeth. “This morning, there have been three new terrorist threats. Get on that and let me know what you come up with by the end of the day. And if you disappear on me again, I won’t give a second thought to kicking you out on your ass. Do you understand me?”

  Jon wiped his face off with a paper towel, balled it and threw it overhand into the bin. “Yes, sir,” he said as he walked out the door.

  ***

  Los Angeles

  Luanne stared at her meticulous handwritten notes. What ties all the layoffs together? It was like one of those riddles she loved as a child. There’s something here. I’m just not seeing it.

  So far, none of her calls to the relevant companies were answered. She received two emails from PR reps patronizing her and was waiting for a call back from a company called OBooks. Her intention was to start off amicably, but if necessary, was prepared to drop words like “class action lawsuit.”

  Within the last week, she had compiled a list of nine people in LA who had eerily similar stories about being fired shortly before a diagnosis. She had arranged for all of them to meet at the lounge of the Hotel Valencia at seven p.m.

  By seven-fifteen all the participants were there, several with their significant others. Everyone found seats by the reserved rectangular table in the hotel restaurant’s party room. The atmosphere was warm and inviting. Luanne opened a tab at the bar and told the bartender to let the alcohol flow. It would serve a valuable purpose—create a less formal, more relaxed vibe and get people talking. She hoped she wouldn’t be spending her entire paycheck on alcohol alone. The investment proved to be worth it. By the second round, her guests were comfortable, making friends with one another and swapping stories. Luanne stood at the head of the table and asked everyone to quiet down.

  “I’ve convened you all here today to see if what we have is not merely a few conspiracy theories, but an actual story that The Times can stand behind. If we can find a connection among all your accounts, we can run the piece.”

  “Even without proof?” called out a woman in her mid-fifties.

  “We’re not a court of law. Of course we’ll need to be careful about naming names as no one wants to get sued. All we will do is report the facts, which we will verify. Who was let go and when, and when each of you was subsequently diagnosed. Then we let the readers make up their minds.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement.

  Luanne turned to the woman who’d spoken up. “Mrs. McAdams, would you like to begin?”

  She was a rotund red-faced woman who clearly had imbibed more than enough before arriving here. “All right. I was a lab technician at a well-known pharmaceutical facility for nearly thirty years. Last month I was given notice. They told
me that new techs were coming in and were much more affordable with fresher ideas. I was stunned and hurt. I’ve kept up with my field and trained countless other techs over the years. My employee rating was an A plus. I later found out from a colleague that a forty-year-old had taken my place. Not a new graduate. Bunch of liars.” She sniffled. “I still can’t believe I don’t have a job to go to every morning.”

  “I’m sorry Mrs. McAdams, it must have been quite a shock.”

  The woman took a long drink from her glass.

  “Can you tell us about the diagnosis?”

  “As if things weren’t bad enough, I get a call from my doctor. I had a checkup maybe six weeks ago. My blood test came back with some issue, and they sent me for an MRI. Turns out they found a growth on my liver.” She could see several people eyeing her drink. Annoyed, she added, “I know, liver disease is a direct result of drinking. Well, I sure as hell am not going to stop now. That’s for sure.”

  Luanne asked, “Are you covered by insurance?”

  “That’s the biggest hit of all. The severance package was quite generous, but my insurance already stopped. The payout won’t cover even a month of treatment. I’m applying to Medicaid and praying for the best.”

  “Terrible. Let’s hope all this,” Luanne gestured to the group, “will lead to proper restitution. Thank you for sharing. Ms. Goldstein, your turn.”

  Susan Goldstein was a zaftig woman in her late twenties with a utilitarian haircut and neat clothes. She spoke in a low voice.

  “Hi, everyone. I worked for the last four years as the executive secretary at OBooks.”

  “What is that?” asked the man sitting next to her.

  “Pretty much what it sounds like. They’re a virtual book publisher and seller. Basically, they publish independent authors online.”

  “I don’t have the best education in the world—an associate’s degree from a community college. But I was good at my job. They told me so regularly and even gave me a raise a few months ago without my asking. Peter—that’s my boss—was great. He offered to give me extra time off when my father fell ill. Without counting it towards my sick days. Nice guy. But then last week, he called me into his office. The CFO was there. Peter told me as gently as one can in this sort of situation that they had to let a lot of people go because they were faced with dire financial circumstances. He was very apologetic. Looked sincerely distraught. I felt like I had to make him feel better. Anyway, they gave me a good severance and I’ve been looking for another job.”

  “What about a diagnosis?” Luanne asked.

  “Actually, I haven’t had one.”

  “Oh, so why did you respond to our post?”

  Everyone turned to look at her.

  She proceeded to explain that breast cancer was very prevalent in her family history and she was planning to have a preventative double mastectomy within the next year. She hadn’t told anyone but found it strange that her insurance would be cut off before she could have the procedure. She was scrambling now to find a new job and would probably need to defer the surgery.

  ***

  It took nearly an hour to listen to everyone’s tales. One thing became crystal clear. They had all been fired without justifiable cause and apart from Susan, each had been diagnosed shortly thereafter. Most didn’t have a spouse with family coverage.

  Ms. Goldstein raised her hand. “We all work for different companies in completely different fields. How can our cases be related?”

  Luanne said, “That is the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Honestly, I don’t know yet, but I am committed to figuring it out.”

  The group lingered until an alcoholic-infused melancholy blanketed the room. The first few people stood to leave.

  A middle-aged man with graying stubble approached Luanne, extending his hand. “Simon Davidson, good to meet you in person. Thanks for doing this. I don’t know if anything will come of it, but it feels good to know someone is seeking justice. God bless.” He gave her a warm handshake.

  All Luanne could think was this man had better get a lung transplant soon or he won’t be around to see what happens.

  ***

  John F. Kennedy Airport

  New York

  Terry escorted Gabe to his gate.

  When the passengers began boarding, Gabe pulled Terry close, whispering in her ear. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, my love.”

  “Quoting Shakespeare? How very romantic.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “I love you.”

  “That too.”

  They kissed deeply, and Terry, once a fully independent woman, wondered how she would manage an entire week without her guy.

  ***

  The cab ride into Manhattan took over an hour thanks to construction on the Long Island Expressway. By the time she checked in to her room, Terry was exhausted. She desperately needed sleep but napping now would wreak havoc on her circadian rhythm. Best to stay awake until the evening. She knew one way to ensure that. She dug her phone out of her purse and called Jon.

  “You’re in New York?” Jon asked. He sounded excited.

  “I just arrived.”

  “Welcome to the Big Apple. What brings you to town?”

  “A conference.” She left it at that. Yosef had made it clear that unless Jon signed on as liaison, not to share the true purpose of her visit.

  “Is Gabe with you?”

  Terry unpacked her bag, placing her cosmetics case in the bathroom. “He went on to Austin to see his parents.”

  “Oh, too bad. I mean I love his folks, but it would’ve been great to see him.”

  “How about a consolation prize? Maybe you and I could meet for dinner?”

  “Sure!” He suggested a couple of places and they settled on an artisanal burger place on the Upper West Side. “See you soon. And Terry?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m really glad you’re here.”

  Terry swallowed down a lump of guilt. “Me too.”

  ***

  “Something on your mind?” Jon asked, concerned. They’d spent an hour catching up over burgers and curly fries, but the vibe felt off.

  Terry fidgeted in her chair, causing the table to shake. “Why do you ask?”

  “You haven’t made eye contact with me all evening. Everything okay with Gabe?”

  “Everything’s amazing. It’s just . . .”

  A scrawny waiter barely out of his teens stopped by with the check, handing it to Jon. Terry reached for it. “I’m paying.”

  “All right. Thanks for the treat.” Jon waited for her to hand over a credit card. When the waiter stepped away, Jon said, “Will you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Yosef Kahn asked me to persuade you to reconsider the job offer with the Shin Bet.” Terry’s words came out in one breath.

  Jon leaned back. “Is that all? You had me seriously worried.”

  Terry looked Jon in the eye. “I don’t like playing people.”

  “I appreciate that . . . and you haven’t.”

  Terry sighed. “I’m sure Yosef intended for me to lure you in. I just can’t do it.”

  Jon patted her hand. “Don’t worry. There’s really nothing you could have said to change my mind. I’m otherwise committed.”

  “You mean to your New York office?”

  “Nah, Matthews would have been on board. He’d do anything to get me out of his hair. Sending me across the globe would be like an early X-mas present for him.”

  Terry laughed. “Then what commitment are you talking about?” A pause. “Oh, a woman!”

  Jon shook his head. “No. Definitely, no. My love life is currently a hot mess.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s Carrie’s little boy, Randy.”

  Terry raised a brow. “What about him?”

  Now it was Jon’s turn to break eye contact. “He needs a role model, you know?”

  Terry’s face softened. “I thought he has a father.”

  “He’s ne
ver around. And, well, Randy and I like hanging out together.”

  “That’s wonderful, Jon. You have a good neshama.” She must have noted his perplexed expression. “A good soul,” she translated.

  Jon shrugged.

  “Do you have a photo of him?” Terry said.

  Jon pulled out his phone, began scrolling, a broad grin on his face. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter 10

  Manhattan Psychotherapy Associates

  Lower Manhattan

  “Have a seat. How has your week been so far?”

  Jon sat in his favorite chair, the one that leaned back like his grandfather’s recliner had. He relaxed and faced the therapist, a fashionable woman in her late sixties. An iPad rested in her lap. “My boss just chewed me out in the bathroom. So pretty much status quo.”

  “Your relationship with Special Agent Matthews is one of the more unique ones I’ve come across.”

  Jon shrugged. “I guess.”

  “I was actually referring to your mental health.”

  “No freak attacks, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s good to hear. Have you been doing your exercises?”

  “When I have the time. I especially like the one where I have to put a war movie on in the background just to desensitize to gunfire. Makes for a fun evening.”

  The therapist ignored the sarcasm. “You’ve come a long way Jon, but you know that there are still things that can trigger your PTSD and if you’re not tuned in, it can take a heavy toll on you.”

  Jon didn’t reply.

  “Any more dreams of Ashleigh?”

  “I had another one this week. She was happy but we couldn’t get together.”

  The therapist typed something into her iPad. “Sounds to me like your subconscious is letting you heal. No more waking up in a cold sweat or reliving what you went through.”

  “Then, I’m progressing.”

  “Baby steps, Jon. The combination of regular therapy and your PRN meds is working well. I know patience isn’t your strong suit, but trust me when I say slow and steady wins this race. And will keep you on active duty.”