by G. K. Parks
For the rest of the drive to the restaurant, he asked questions about my background and experiences with ol’ Jabber, which was his nickname for Mark. I answered easily and wished my morning interview had been this simplistic, without the interrogation. The driver pulled to a stop at an expensive looking French restaurant I had never heard of. The valet opened my door, and I stepped out. Mr. Martin, or James as I was supposed to call him this evening, came around to my side of the car and offered his arm.
“Shall we?” he asked politely.
This high-class scenario was probably to see how well his potential new security consultant could blend in with the hoity-toity aspects of his life, so I tentatively looped my hand through his arm.
“I guess so.” The familiar nervous pang resonated in the pit of my stomach, and arm in arm, we entered the building.
The interior was decorated extensively in crystal and glass fixtures. The dining room was comprised of less than two dozen tables situated in concentric half circles with a waterfall cascading behind the back of the bar. The bar stood against the far wall, completing the space the half circle of tables had left bare. To say the décor was exquisite would be an understatement. The maitre d’ greeted us immediately.
“Mr. Martin, it’s so nice to see you again. Would you care for your usual table?” she asked, her expression and body language indicating she’d seen him without his clothes on in the not too distant past.
“If it’s not any trouble,” he replied, oblivious to her smile. “But we will need another chair. There is a third party joining us this evening.”
I looked at him quizzically as we were escorted to a table near the back of the restaurant where we could gaze directly at the waterfall fixture and watch the bartender mix drinks. Once seated and situated with our beverage orders and menus, I turned to Martin.
“Is another executive joining us for dinner?” I wanted to know what other obstacles I might be facing tonight.
“No. I just thought Jablonsky could meet us here and praise you in person instead of in these nicely written form letters I keep getting.”
I studied my menu to avoid further conversation. I hated interviews; although, if I were being honest, I’d say I wasn’t a fan of intimate dinners either. Looks like a lose-lose tonight, Parker.
“Well, if it isn’t Marty trying to scoop up the best and brightest yet again,” Mark Jablonsky teased as he approached our table and extended his hand to Martin. “How the hell are you, you old son-of-a-gun?”
I looked at my former boss and my potential new employer. Since when did we transport back to the 1950s when people used phrases like old son-of-a-gun? The terminology didn’t faze Martin. He merely stood and shook Mark’s hand. The same look of mutual respect reflected on both of their faces despite how incredibly different they seemed.
Mark was older, in his early fifties, with graying light brown hair and a mustache. He had put on a bit of a gut from too many late nights in the surveillance van eating Philly cheese steaks and potato chips, and his suit, regardless of price, always looked as if he slept in it.
The two men sat down, and Mark beamed at me. “You look like a million bucks.”
Before I could respond, Martin chimed in. “That goes without saying, but the better question is does she look like she could protect a million bucks.”
“Alexis Parker is one of the most capable people I know. I wouldn’t have recommended her otherwise. I know what you need, and she can handle it.” Mark picked up his menu to read. “I always tell you if you need proof, test your hypothesis, just like your workers do in the lab.”
“Just so we’re clear,” I piped up; being silent was never my strong suit, “what exactly does this job even entail because security consultant is a vague term?”
Martin turned to me. “Martin Technologies is responsible for the development of many different things from cooking utensils to airplane parts. I personally try to provide more economical and eco-friendly alternatives worldwide, and therefore, I’ve made quite a few enemies.” He paused briefly and picked up his glass. “Recently, there have been death threats, a kidnapping attempt, some manufacturing sabotage, and corporate espionage. I need a new face I can trust to keep an eye on things at work. Not to mention, the Board thinks it might be a good idea to update my personal security, seeing as how I have majority control of the company.” He took a sip before continuing with what seemed to be a level of melodrama. “If something happens to me, there could be a coup, stocks could plummet, and the world could explode. You know, things of that sort.” Although he attempted to joke, his eyes were as serious as I’d ever seen. Was the great James Martin actually afraid, or was that something else I saw flicker behind his eyes? Anger, perhaps?
Before anything else could be said, the waitress returned to take our orders. I requested a steak with Portobello mushrooms in a cream sauce, as did Mark, while Martin ordered the Chateaubriand. As she walked away, I glanced around the dining room. Most of the tables were empty, which seemed odd since this was an upscale restaurant, and it was early in the evening.
“If you need someone who can do all that, you’ve found your girl,” Mark said, lauding my capabilities.
Martin considered it as he lifted his scotch and slowly swirled the golden brown liquid around the glass. “Perhaps you’re right. You’ve been right so far.”
I was about to ask for more job details and what the actual relationship between these two men was when I heard glass shatter. It was a much louder sound than if a waitress had dropped a tray of glasses. This sounded as though a wall of mirrors had simultaneously broken. Turning to the cause of the cacophony, I saw a group of masked gunmen enter the restaurant. The maitre d’ was cowering on the floor next to her podium, and the entire glass façade in the foyer was shattered.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if we may have your attention, please,” the masked leader bellowed. An older woman sitting on the other side of the restaurant gasped as the men invaded the dining room. “We shall make this as brief and painless as possible. Do not call the cops, and do not use your cell phones. Stay seated and place your valuables in the center of the table. This is a robbery.”
Martin carefully set his glass on the table and whispered in my ear, “Congratulations, you’re hired. Now do something.”
Three
I glanced at Mark to see what he was thinking. More than likely, he had his service piece and a backup with him. I didn’t know him to go anywhere without a weapon, OIO policy, but he shook his head. I hadn’t been planning to knock over any convenience stores on my way home, so I was also weaponless. Scanning the room, I counted four gunmen. Three entered the main dining hall, and one remained near the entrance. A couple more could be outside, but there was no way to tell for sure.
“I see four,” Mark whispered.
I surveyed the rest of the room. Out of the dozen tables, only four were occupied. Two tables of four and two tables with two. Another three patrons sat at the bar, and I spotted a waitress, the bartender, and the maitre d’.
“What are you going to do?” Martin asked. He didn’t understand the concept of mortal danger, or maybe after years of running a company he just expected answers and results with the snap of his fingers.
I glared at him. “Stay quiet. Do as they say. And do not draw attention to yourself.”
The armed men moved away from the first table and headed around the semicircle. A woman at the next table screamed in horror, and one of the men backhanded her across the cheek, knocking her from the chair.
“Things could get ugly. I think our best bet is to do as they say and hope they get what they want and go,” Mark stated in a hushed tone. I concurred with his assessment, my eyes never leaving the gunmen.
As if on cue, sirens blared in the distance. So much for easy. The gunmen turned to the door, and I grabbed my steak knife off the table and slipped it up my sleeve. Mark did the same. A knife in a gun battle is basically pointless, but it was the only weapon available. It had to be bett
er than nothing.
“What’s the layout?” I hurriedly whispered to Martin. “Other exits, bathrooms, windows, the kitchen, anything useful to know?”
“The bathrooms are on the other side of the bar. So is the kitchen. I don’t know what’s in it since I’ve never been in there. The bathrooms have barred windows.”
I bit my bottom lip and looked to Mark for ideas. Normally, he’d have a solution, but he was useless tonight. He simply shrugged.
The gunmen were getting antsy with the wailing sirens. The one who remained in the foyer yelled orders to the others. “We gotta go. Hurry it up.”
The other three seemed distracted, to say the least. They split up, and each headed for one of the remaining tables. The flash of police lights reflected off the shattered glass pebbles on the floor.
“Shit,” the head gunman cursed and bolted out the door, abandoning his comrades.
Gunfire erupted, followed by the sound of a bullhorn. “This is the police. The building is surrounded. Drop your weapons, and exit with your hands in the air.”
The gunman farthest from our table fired out the front door. “Stay back,” he bellowed.
Mark and I exchanged a quick glance. The situation would turn bloody any second, and we no longer had the luxury to wait it out.
“You take two o’clock. I’ll get four.” I indicated which of the remaining gunmen he should target. It wasn’t a great plan, but their backs were to us. In the commotion, it was our best bet.
The third gunman, who had fired at the police, would be a wildcard, but we would deal with him later. Mark held up his hand, preparing to begin the countdown. We had done this many times before. We knew what to do.
I leaned over next to Martin, practically pressing my lips against his ear. “When we move, get behind the bar, stay low, and don’t leave that spot.”
Mark silently counted down to three, and we sprang to action. I got behind my gunman. He held the automatic rifle loosely in one arm with his finger resting near the trigger but not on it. He seemed to be a professional or at least had some general gun safety lessons during the course of his lifetime. I came up behind him, knocking his wrist down with my right fist and simultaneously placing the knife against his jugular. His gun clattered loudly to the floor.
“Don’t move.” I yanked his right arm behind him to control his movements and used his body as a shield. Mark managed to get a similar hold on his gunman, but the third was now facing us with his rifle raised and his finger resting on the trigger.
“What are you?” he asked in a thick Boston-sounding accent. “Cops?” His trigger finger twitched slightly.
By this time, Mark had wrestled his gunman onto the ground and was completely unprotected without a human shield to use as cover. My acuity was skewed as time moved in slow motion. I shoved my gunman hard to the right, toward the foyer, dropped down to his weapon, grabbed it, and fired at the third gunman. I double-tapped the man center mass, and he went down. I turned back just in time to see my discarded human shield running out the door. Mark had his guy face down and was kneeling on his back.
I glanced around the room, making sure there were no other attackers. My adrenaline surged, and I wanted to be certain it was safe before I risked letting my guard down. Slowly, I stepped toward the man I shot when applause erupted from behind the bar. I spun around, gun still poised, to find Martin clapping his hands together.
“Bravo, Miss Parker,” he cheered.
“You idiot. I could have shot you.”
My nerves were raw. I was completely on edge, and Martin was making himself an easy target. Mark took the rifle from my hands. Why hadn’t he gone to the downed man to check to see if he was alive or taken his weapon? Something was wrong. Why weren’t the cops rushing in? Protocol required them to breach once shots were fired.
“Don’t be mad,” Mark said. He went to the downed gunman and offered him a hand. The man took it and stood up. I stared at them, completely bewildered. “They were just blanks,” he explained, patting the guy on the chest. “See, he’s okay. It was all…”
“A set-up,” I finished his sentence and spun around to face Martin. “You set me up. In your screwed up mind, you just see this as another test, don’t you?”
Martin, who was pouring himself a drink, spilled it as my volume increased. He decided it was best to ignore me and instead addressed everyone else in the room.
“Good job, everybody,” he announced to the restaurant employees, patrons, and gunmen alike. “Thanks for your incredibly convincing performances. Your bonuses will be included in your next paycheck. Have a nice night.”
The twenty remaining people in the room all stood, congratulated one another, and walked out the destroyed entryway. The gunman I had fired upon smiled and nodded to indicate no hard feelings, but I ignored him. He took his mask off, and I realized it was the security guard from Martin Technologies. Suddenly, I felt bad for anyone employed by this psychopath. It seemed absurd they were forced to play along in his little make-believe fantasies. I definitely didn’t want to be one of those people. I clenched my fists, hoping to stop my hands from shaking. The joys of anger and adrenaline.
“Please, Alex, don’t be so dramatic,” Martin chided, coming around the bar and sitting on one of the stools. “I like to battle test my employees, and you passed with flying colors.”
Mark touched my shoulder. “It’s just like training. You’ve been through worse with my tests.”
I looked at Mark. How could he deceive me for the likes of this Armani-clad douchebag? “You son of a bitch,” I snarled and walked toward the destroyed front door. Behind me, Martin and Mark tried to determine who I had referred to as the son of a bitch.
As I approached the broken glass at the front of the restaurant, I realized it was an intricately designed front. The shattered glass was comprised of safety glass, which explained the loud shattering noise and the rounded glass pellets. As I carefully walked through the glass pebbles and out into the cool night air, I noticed a few Martin Tech employees packing up a sound system and some lights. The police presence outside had been another ruse elaborately staged by some former AV geeks. They paid no attention to me as they grabbed their equipment and headed for a van with the MT logo painted on the side.
“Dammit,” I quietly cursed. It just now dawned on me I had no way of leaving this place, and to make matters even worse, I had no idea exactly where we were, anyway. If I had my car, I’d drive around until I found something familiar; instead, I was out in the middle of who knows where with no way to leave. Perhaps hitchhiking wouldn’t be a bad idea. I could always go back inside and demand that Mark take me home, but I didn’t want to see his face or hear his rationalizations right now, nor did I want to deal with James Martin at the moment either. My anger needed to seethe a little longer.
The group of Martin Tech employees quickly vacated the premises, and I watched the AV guys drive away. The only vehicles left were the town car and an old beat-up sedan. I was debating if I should ask the driver of the car to take me home when I heard a voice from behind.
“Hey, I am really sorry about this.” I expected those words to come from Mark or even Martin, which is what I settled on calling him with or without a few adjectives and expletives surrounding his name; however, the voice didn’t belong to either. It was the security guard/gunman. The Boston-like accent was gone, replaced with his normal speech pattern. “Mr. Martin has had us re-enact this scenario four times. So far, you’re the only one who shot me.” He grinned. Apparently being fake shot was an exciting prospect.
“Sorry about that,” I said noncommittally, noticing my hands were still shaking from the leftover adrenaline.
“Want to sit down?” He perched on top of a low-lying retaining wall, and I took a seat next to him. “I’m Jeffrey, by the way. Jeffrey Myers.”
“Alexis,” I offered lamely. We sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments.
“So,” we both began at once, and he laughed.
“Ladies first.”
“I was going to apologize for coming off like a complete bitch, especially in there. It’s just… I’m applying for this job, and your boss is a lunatic. How can you stand to work for him? The interview this morning was strange enough and now this elaborate fake robbery or hostage situation or whatever it was supposed to be. I don’t get it, and I’m stuck here with no way to leave.” I trailed off, my mind reeling. I knew I needed to shut up, but it was nice getting to talk to someone who might understand.
Jeffrey smiled. “I know what you mean. Mr. Martin can be a handful sometimes. He’s a bit eccentric, but it might be because he’s just so freaking smart. His brain is moving too fast for most of us to catch on, and once we do, he’s five steps ahead again. I think he means well, though. And he really does need an upgrade on his security. He’s been getting a lot of serious threats lately, and things within the company aren’t going so well. I don’t think he would have gone through all this,” he gestured to the building behind us, “if he didn’t seriously want to test your skills to see how well you could handle things.”
I looked at him suspiciously. “How much extra are you getting paid to feed me the company line?”
“An extra fifty for trying. A hundred if it works.”
“At least you’re honest. I’ll give you that much.” I stood and looked back at the front entrance. Mark was standing near the door looking sheepish. “Jeffrey, your acting isn’t completely convincing, and the accent definitely needs work. But perhaps you should still consider quitting your day job.” I began to walk away.
“Perhaps you should consider signing on to my day job. Where else can you have this much fun?”
I turned and gave him my best ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ look before continuing to Mark. I stood in front of him, my hands on my hips. I felt like a petulant five-year-old who was upset by a practical joke, but the practical joke could have been life or death. He should know better than to do something this stupid.