Friendly Fire

by Cari Z.

  “We can now,” Elliot emphasized, “but five years ago the technology was very much in its infancy, and the man on the cutting edge was Dr. Gunderson. A lot of the research and development that went into his product had been done while he was still an employee of Redback Industries, however, so they claimed intellectual property rights over his work. They had a device of their own in development to do the same thing, although it was nowhere near as far along, and they didn’t want the competition. He disputed their claim, so it went to mediation.”

  One man and his lawyer against a multibillion dollar corporation and an entire law firm. Elliot hadn’t envied Frank Gunderson, who’d been hemorrhaging money trying to continue his research and marketing efforts all while fighting off the sharks.

  “Frank publically stated that he would rather go bankrupt than settle and see his hard work thrown away,” Elliot went on. “It was kept quiet then, but his wife was on dialysis for kidney failure. She was on the list for a transplant organ, but her time was running out. Kidneys are incredibly complex compared to something like the liver, which is far easier to propagate, but Frank was convinced that he could use his technology to save her. He kept stalling the mediation and pushing hard at his own research. Finally, Redback Industries decided they needed to step up their game. They hired a fixer.”

  Lennox’s eyes narrowed. “A fixer?”

  And so it begins. “Someone who uses underhanded or illegal means to turn the tide of a conflict of interest in their employer’s favor,” Elliot clarified, working hard to keep his voice cool and even. Of all the black marks in his past, none of them still gnawed at his soul the way this one did. “In this case, the fixer was a man named Jonathan Lehrer, who was meant to intimidate Mrs. Gunderson and, through her, her husband. Supposedly he was good at his job; he should have had Frank on his knees in a matter of weeks. Unfortunately he went too far and forced Mrs. Gunderson’s car off the road one day. She died in the resulting crash.”

  Rachel Gunderson had been forty-four. The only picture Elliot had ever seen of her had been a photograph next to her obituary in the newspaper, a round-faced woman with dark, curly hair and a smile on her lips. Elliot had kept it―it was tucked away in a folder at the back of his filing cabinet, beside a few other things he didn’t deserve to have but couldn’t bear to forget about. He cleared his throat. “Things were falling apart for everyone. Frank was bankrupt. He couldn’t even afford to bury his wife, and Lehrer was being investigated after what happened to her. The police were closing in on Redback, but the CEO, Mr. Pullman, wouldn’t stop pushing. He was obsessed with owning Gunderson’s work. He kept forcing the mediation.”

  Elliot found himself rolling his right shoulder unconsciously. It still ached, constantly echoing the pain of a fresh bullet wound. “Frank got a call during a meeting with us two days after his wife’s death. It was the police, although the rest of us didn’t know it at the time, telling him that Lehrer had implicated Redback as his employer. Apparently that was all he needed to hear.”

  “Frank came back into the room and shot Pullman and me, then turned the gun on himself. I was hit twice, Pullman once. We were taken to the hospital, and during my stay there the investigation found definitive evidence linking Lehrer to Redback, and from there, to the law firm. More specifically, to me.” Elliot chuckled, but not because it was funny. “Later, I found out he’d only bought the gun after his wife’s death. Frank was basically intimidated into getting a gun by the same people he almost killed with it.”

  Lennox looked at him steadily. “But you weren’t the one who hired him.”

  “But I knew about it.” Of course he had. Not explicitly, per se. He hadn’t known Jonathan Lehrer’s name until after the fact, but he’d known there was someone taking care of things for the company. He’d known enough to assure Mischa, his boss at the law firm and his lover in the privacy of their own home, that the case was as good as settled in their favor. He’d been stupid, and careless, and complicit in a crime he’d never meant to turn into a murder. But then it had, and all his intentions hadn’t counted for shit once people had ended up dead. Elliot would never forget the expression on Frank’s face just before he’d pulled the trigger. He’d never seen a man so heartbroken. It had almost felt good to get shot, after seeing that.

  “I offered to testify against Redback in exchange for immunity. I barely avoided going to jail, lost my license to practice law, and was fired by my firm.” And had been kicked out of the house he and Mischa had shared, but it had been no less than he’d deserved. “I got addicted to painkillers during my recovery, and was sent to rehab by my family. They haven’t spoken to me since, but I got the inspiration to start Charmed Life there, so.” He spread his hands. “I can’t say it was all bad.”

  The silence drew out for a long moment. Elliot took a deep breath to clear his head, then smiled his most practiced smile. “And so, you know. That’s the short version; the long version only comes out after copious application of alcohol.”

  “Amen,” Lennox muttered, so quietly that Elliot wasn’t sure he was meant to hear it. Then Lennox went on in a more normal tone, “Thanks for telling me. Which part of that history is making you worry about your safety here and now?”

  Well, there’s an assumption. “What makes you think it is? Maybe I’m a very safety-conscious person.”

  “That’s not what Serena says.”

  “Serena doesn’t know everything,” Elliot snapped.

  “Don’t let her hear you say that,” Lennox said with a smirk, and Elliot’s chilly defensiveness melted away before he could shore it up. “I’m not asking for the sake of asking. What you’re worried about factors into the kind of system you buy, like whether or not you go for twenty-four-hour monitoring or just link your sensors to a loud-ass alarm in the middle of your house.”

  “Oh.” That made a certain amount of sense. “There have been a few notes left in my mailbox. A picture or two. It’s nothing serious,” he emphasized, not bothering to bring up the shoes. “Stupid stuff, but I wouldn’t mind the extra monitoring. I don’t have a lot of close neighbors, so an alarm that just makes noise wouldn’t do much good.”

  “Do you have many ground-level windows?”

  “Yes.” Elliot didn’t know exactly how many, but one of the things that had drawn him to the house was how sunny it was.

  Lennox had his phone out and was tapping information into it. “How many entrances?”

  The phone’s case had a familiar face on it. Elliot leaned closer to get a better look as he answered, “Two doors. Do you actually have a picture of Lennox Lewis on your phone?”

  “Yep. My kid got it for me last Christmas.” Lennox glanced up at Elliot and smiled. “I like to box, and he and I have the same first name. Lia—Lee, damn it, pays attention.”

  It was fun to see Lennox lose some of his composure. “Which is it, Lia or Lee?”

  “Depends on her mood.” He immediately shook his head. “No, that’s not fair. Lee, these days. It used to be Lia, back before I left on my final tour. She changed it while I was gone.”

  “Time waits for no man, I suppose.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Lennox put his phone away and folded his hands. “When do you want a system installed by? Because I can have parts shipped to you and you can do it yourself next week, or I can get it installed as early as tomorrow if you decide what you want and can be at home for an hour or so.”

  Elliot’s reticence had evaporated, replaced by a strange urge to see this man, hardly more than a stranger, in his home. Preferably climbing high things or bending over, but a view of him sitting at the kitchen bar drinking a cup of coffee would be acceptable if that was all he could get.

  Goddamn chemistry. It always struck when he least expected it, and certainly Lennox wasn’t Elliot’s usual type. Maybe he’d finally grown tired of going after people like himself; it was like fucking in front of a mirror sometimes, except less fun. “If you’re the one doing the install, I can make tomor
row work,” he said. “Send me some examples and quotes tonight. I’ll make a decision on what to go with in the morning and let you know first thing.”

  Lennox tilted his head slightly. “And if I can’t do the install, you’ll do it yourself? Or let someone come by next week?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll pass for the time being.”

  Lennox frowned. “Mr. McKenzie, try to take this seriously.”

  “I do take this seriously, Mr. West,” Elliot said calmly. “I’m very careful about who I let into my home. I’m willing to let you in because Serena vouched for you,” and I’m having visions of you pressing me up against a wall that are neither here nor there right now, “but some random person who says he’s affiliated with your company wanting to get in? Not likely.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment before Lennox nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Elliot smiled victoriously. He was good at reading people, good at presenting information in a way that made sense to them. Understanding what made them tick was the key to changing their minds, and while getting Lennox to agree to do his installation was a minor win, it was intensely satisfying despite that. “Perfect. Four o’clock again?”

  Lennox seemed to be doing mental math. “Four should work if you don’t live in Fort Collins or the Springs.”

  Elliot shook his head. “Too far a drive for one, too much crazy for the other. I’m just a few miles outside of Golden. When I reply to your quote, I’ll include the address.”

  “Good.” Lennox stood up and Elliot copied him, taking the hand that came his way and holding it for a tad longer than he might under normal circumstances. Interestingly, Lennox didn’t make any move to pull away.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mr. McKenzie.”

  “Elliot.”

  “Right.” When Elliot eventually let go of his hand, it was like stretching taffy, a long, slow glide as their skin gradually separated. “Elliot. Thanks, Castillion appreciates your business.” He turned to go.

  “Don’t I get first-name privileges with you?” Elliot asked, surprising himself with how much he wanted them.

  Lennox shook his head. “It wouldn’t be professional. Only family and friends call me by my first name, anyway.”

  “I bet we could be friends.” Elliot could almost guarantee it, in fact.

  Lennox appeared to be sizing him up. Elliot had to resist the urge to square his shoulders. “Maybe we could be,” he said at last. “We’ll find out tomorrow. Good night, Mr. McKenzie.”

  He left, leaving the door open. Elliot listened to him say good-bye to Serena, heard the warmth in their mutual farewells, and wondered if he was reading too much into what amounted to a ten-minute meeting. Maybe Mr. West—Lennox to him by tomorrow, if he had anything to say about it—was a cautious flirt with everyone.

  Serena came into the room a moment later, her eyes wide. “Are you magic? Because I haven’t seen him that friendly with anyone he isn’t related to since Lee’s best friend came to dinner a month ago.”

  Or maybe I really am special. He winked at Serena and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’m secretly magic. Don’t tell anyone or Hogwarts won’t let me back in.”

  Serena laughed. “You’re a little old for wizarding school, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not a student; I’m a teacher. Transfiguration, naturally.”

  “Naturally.” They shared a grin.

  “Can you clear my schedule from three thirty on tomorrow?” he asked. “He’s coming over to do the install at four.”

  Serena thought about it for a moment. “The only thing you’ve got that isn’t flexible is that check-in with Stuart at four fifteen.”

  Oh, that was nothing. “Tell him we need to reschedule. Give him a half hour sometime next week to make up for it.” Stuart wanted a hand-holder more than anything. A little push out of the nest would be good for him.

  “I’ll make the change.”

  “Good.” If all went well tomorrow, then by the time Elliot was done with Lennox West, he’d get to call the man by something other than his first name.

  Partial transcription of most recent appointment with West, Lennox, Staff Sergeant US Army Rangers (R), January 28, 3:06 p.m.:

  JS: You haven’t actually said anything to me about your nightmares, you know.

  LW: Sure I have.

  JS: You’ve told me you have them, but none of the details.

  LW: Look, you’ve read my file. You can guess what’s stuck with me.

  JS: This file only pertains to your military service, which is far from all of your life. And I’d rather you tell me about your nightmares yourself.

  LW: Of course you would, Jesus Christ. (Patient shifts in chair, stares out the window for almost a minute before speaking.) It’s the last firefight, usually. The dark, the cold. The blue force tracker going down. Menendez and Phillips, dead. Mostly that.

  JS: What else?

  LW: That isn’t enough?

  JS: It’s enough if that’s all there is.

  LW: You’re out for blood today, Doc.

  JS: And you’re avoiding the subject, Lennox.

  Gaby had mentioned to Lennox more than once that it was easy to tell when he was getting pissed off. “You get this kind of murderous gleam in your eyes,” she’d said, only half teasing. “Like if you had a knife in your hand you’d be drawing it across the person’s throat just to stop them from being stupid at you.” She’d seemed to appreciate it, personally―Gaby said he’d be better than half a dozen dads boasting about shotguns when Lee started dating. Which would be when she was twenty-one or Lennox was cold in his grave, whichever came first.

  Class after class of Army Rangers had learned the perils of annoying their staff sergeant, and the ones who hadn’t been observant enough, he’d been able to render teachable through the simple expedient of making them run obstacle courses with full packs on at oh four hundred. Given plenty of time and constructive profanity, anybody could learn.

  The biggest problem with working in retail? Being confronted by idiot customers and having no mandate to tell them how fucking stupid they were sometimes. If it was simply ignorance, he could deal with it. A person had to acknowledge that they needed to learn before they ever would. He didn’t have a problem with neophytes. It was the swaggering idiots who walked in like their dick was so big they kicked it with every step, talking about what badasses they were and being complete morons at the same time.

  Case in point: the genius pressing his sweaty forearms against the glass counter, right next to the sign that said DO NOT LEAN ON GLASS, trying to impress Lennox with how much he knew about nothing useful.

  “Hey, I told my brother, I said to him, ‘Listen, Dougie, the thing you need for home defense is a goddamn shotgun, not a baseball bat. Like the tripped-out meth head in the apartment next to you is gonna be scared of a baseball bat, am I right? You gotta have that sweet sound, the ka-chink that puts the fear of God into ’em, ya know? Plus, hell, you don’t barely hafta aim with a shotgun!’ Which is good, ’cause my brother’s blind in his left eye and he can’t see well at night in the right one these days. A shotgun’s what he needs. I’m thinking a semiautomatic, but—”

  Lennox couldn’t take it. Fuck it; Rodney shouldn’t have left him on counter duty anyway. “You’ve still got to aim a shotgun, you know.”

  Mr. Moron squinted, like he might somehow process sound with his eyeballs if he stared hard enough. “Huh?”

  “The spread for buckshot isn’t that big, not if you’re talking home defense. With a standard twelve gauge, at fifteen feet you might get a hole as big as a tennis ball. Aiming is still a requirement.”

  “Huh. But what about—”

  Lennox pressed on. “And if your brother lives in an apartment, he’s going to have to worry about hitting his neighbors even if he’s using birdshot. A slug would definitely go through walls. Does your brother have any pets, any family in the apartment? He’ll have to worry about hitting them too.”


  “Well, he—”

  “And I know that slide-racking sound is nice, but a semiauto’s not going to give you that sound.” Hence the auto part of the name. “Not to mention, if the person breaking in is a tripped-out meth head, they might be too gone to hear it anyway. Frankly, it seems to me like a baseball bat is exactly what your brother needs, and lucky for him, he’s already got one!” Lennox spread his hands. “Problem solved.”

  Mr. Moron squinted at Lennox again. “Are you sassing me, son?”

  Lennox shook his head. “I do not sass grown men, sir. I’m not above fucking with them,” he added, “but that’s not what I’m doing here either.” He saw Rodney come in from the back, do a double take, then sigh and head their way. He had his placating face on, but Lennox wasn’t ready to hand over the reins of the conversation quite yet. “I’m just offering up some friendly advice. If your half-blind, apartment-dwelling, untrained brother really wants a shotgun, he should come in here and buy it himself. Which, incidentally, is also the law.”

  “What my associate means to say,” Rodney broke in, his round, mustachioed face still genial probably by dint of sheer will, “is that we’re happy to help first-time buyers learn the ins and outs of their weapon. We have a range right here on site, and we’ll go through everything with them, from assembly to loading to safely unloading, until they feel completely comfortable handling their firearm responsibly.” His faint German accent tinged his w’s with a v sound, but his enunciation was better than Lennox’s.

  “Huh.” Mr. Moron scowled suspiciously. “That’s not what it seemed like to me.”

  “Lennox was just leaving; he’s running late for a security system install.”

  Actually Lennox had an hour before he needed to be in Golden, but he took the out and headed into the back room. It had been a quiet day in the shop, for the most part: David, Rebecca, and Francis were all on installs, and Kevin was manning the phones. Really, he was probably playing Candy Crush, but he was still there in case a call came through.