The Complete Alexis Parker Prequel Series

by G. K. Parks

  I pulled into a parking garage a block away from the Martin Technologies building and checked my reflection once more in the rearview mirror. My nerves were getting the best of me, and it was amusing to think I had been less anxious chasing armed thugs through the streets than I was going into an interview. There was something a little off inside my brain, and I suspected I was never properly socialized.

  “Here goes nothing.” I tried to bolster my confidence as I walked quickly to the MT building and pulled on the monogrammed brass door handle.

  Entering the lobby, I was amazed at how open and airy the room felt. Light was filtering in from numerous windows on all sides. The security office was a circular desk, set about twenty feet away from the front doors. There were a few couches throughout and a row of elevators at the back of the building. It looked like a classy hotel, but as I approached the security station, I noticed numerous surveillance cameras, keypads, and other protocols in place.

  “Can I assist you, ma’am?” one of the security guards asked from behind the desk.

  “Miss Parker,” I corrected automatically. I hated being called ma’am. “I’m here to interview for the consulting position with Mr. Martin.” The security guard smiled and asked to see my driver’s license, so I pulled out my wallet and handed it to him.

  “Right this way, please.”

  He went to a filing cabinet, pulled out a visitor’s pass, handed it to me, and then led the way to the elevator banks. He swiped his security badge into a card reader and pressed the elevator call button. The elevator dinged, and the doors whooshed open. We stepped inside. He pushed seventeen, and up we went.

  We exited into a hallway lined with lavish offices and conference rooms. The guard escorted me to conference room three and gestured inside. “Please wait here.” Before I could say a word, he was gone.

  “Friendly group of people,” I spoke aloud to the empty room as I sat in one of the rolling office chairs surrounding the large rectangular table. I opened my bag, pulled out my documents, and placed them neatly on the table. I was fidgeting with the corner of the stack of papers when I heard footsteps.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice greeted. I spun around in my chair. “I’m Mrs. Griffin. I believe we spoke earlier on the telephone. You’re here for the consulting position, correct?” I nodded and bit my tongue, ignoring the urge to mention her rude hang up from earlier. “I see you arrived with no issues. That’s a good sign.” She appeared to be speaking to herself, so I continued to nod, unsure of how to respond to her odd comments. “Mr. Martin shall be in momentarily. Can I get you anything while you wait? Tea? Coffee? Water?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.” I couldn’t get an accurate read on the woman, and she walked swiftly out of the room, closing the door behind her. I took a deep breath. The employees must be trying to perfect their disappearing acts.

  Before I could muse much further, the door opened again. This time, a man in a three-piece Armani suit and Rolex walked through the door. If given the opportunity, I would have bet his shoes were Italian leather. His dark brown hair was cut short and expertly styled. He had the lean athletic build of a runner, probably in his mid-thirties, and his green eyes sparkled in a way indicating the wheels were already turning inside his head.

  “James Martin,” he said simply, extending his hand.

  “Alexis Parker,” I responded. “Pleased to meet you.”

  He frowned slightly. “To be perfectly honest, Miss Parker,” he began, “I expected you to be male.” I looked at him, unclear if this was an insult or flattery, but instead, it just seemed to be a comment. “My assistant wrote this appointment down as Alex Parker.”

  “Oh.” What exactly was I supposed to say to that? “Well, I don’t plan to have any gender reassignment surgeries in the near future, but feel free to call me Alex. Most people do.” I was trying to lighten the mood.

  He smirked slightly but remained professional. I was quickly beginning to feel like a child sitting in the principal’s office. “Miss Parker, you come highly recommended by Agent Jablonsky. He was your supervisor at the OIO, correct?”

  “That’s right.” I sat up a little straighter. Despite the fact I had only stayed at the Office of International Operations for four years, I had spent the first two being trained by Mark and the second two running operations for him.

  “Jablonsky claims you were one of the best and brightest agents he’s ever seen, but you only stayed there for a few years. Why is that?”

  “Well,” I honestly didn’t know how to verbalize the answer succinctly, “I wanted to make more of a difference. There was only so much that could be done, and with an endless string of crime, things started to feel a bit hopeless. It made the work…monotonous.” I struggled to find the proper terminology to explain my feelings.

  “So, you don’t like structure or rules?” He stood and began to pace, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “I’m okay with rules and following orders. To be perfectly honest, I’m not too fond of the red-tape,” I was becoming defensive, “especially when you continue to see the same injustices going on day in and day out, and you know your hands are tied. It makes it difficult to accept the small wins in regards to the bigger picture.”

  “You want to be a superhero out to save the world?” he asked pointedly. “A vigilante?”

  “No.” Was this a trial instead of an interview? “I want to step back and do something that makes more of an impact.” The voice in my head was screaming kiss this job good-bye, working for a company isn’t what really counts, and Mr. Armani Suit should realize this by now.

  However, to my surprise, Martin clapped his hands together. “Exactly.” He was actually excited by my response, and I wondered if he had multiple personalities or suffered from some type of extreme mood swing disorder. He gave the briefest smile, or at least I thought he did because it appeared and disappeared so quickly on his face I couldn’t be sure. He looked down at his watch. “It’s almost eleven,” he announced. “I have some business to attend to, but if you can have the assistant copy your documents,” he glanced at my pile of papers, “I’ll be in touch.” He left the room and disappeared down the hall.

  I sat there absolutely stunned, feeling like I was suffering from whiplash. What just happened? I had the urge to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming, but before I could implement such actions, Mrs. Griffin appeared in the doorway.

  “Follow me this way.” She proceeded back into the corridor, and I hurried after her. Her office was situated next to the conference room, and inside, she copied my résumé and walked me to the elevator. “Someone from Martin Technologies will be in touch with you shortly.”

  “Thanks.” I was still somewhat dazed by the whirlwind interview.

  The door to the elevator opened, and the security guard from earlier was waiting inside. Had he been standing there the entire time? We rode the elevator back to the lobby in silence, but as the doors whooshed open, he turned to me.

  “Badge, please,” he asked politely, and I handed him the visitor’s pass. “I hope your interview went well.” His sentiment seemed genuine.

  “Thank you.”

  Once I got in my car, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and dialed Mark’s home number. I knew he’d be at work right now, so I left a message on his answering machine. “What have you gotten me into this time?”

  Two

  What a strange day, I thought as I rifled through the freezer looking for something to make for dinner. I had gotten home so incredibly baffled by the interview at Martin Technologies that I had put on my sweats and gone for a nice long run, trying to clear my head, followed by a second shower for the day, and a nap. When in doubt, nap. This had become my philosophy as of late and continued to work fairly well. Perhaps I should write a book on the art of napping since I didn’t see why anyone at Martin Technologies would actually want to hire me. Not to mention the fact I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to work for someone who seemed to have a few
screws loose.

  “Ah ha!” I exclaimed, pulling out a microwavable dinner which had been buried under a pint of chocolate ice cream and a bag of peas. “Dinner is served.”

  I scanned the carton for an expiration date and then cooking directions. I checked the time. It was almost eight. Napping has a habit of making the day fly by; maybe that should be the title of my first chapter. I just popped holes in the plastic wrap when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” I asked, answering without looking.

  “Get dressed,” a male voice I didn’t recognize responded.

  “Excuse me?” I was preparing to deal with this pervert quickly.

  “Semi-formal for dinner. There is a car downstairs to pick you up.” I pulled the receiver away from my ear to check the caller ID. “All part of the interviewing process, Alex.”

  “Mr. Martin?” The caller ID had been useless, only providing ‘private’ as the source of the call.

  “Of course.” He paused. “Why? Are you interviewing elsewhere?”

  “Can you ask the driver to wait? I shall be ready in ten minutes. Or I can drive myself if you simply tell me where to meet you.” I ignored his other question since jobs were like dates. You didn’t want to appear too eager or too available, but at the same time, you didn’t want to seem overly aloof or uninterested.

  “Nonsense, why waste a perfectly good, chauffeured town car. The driver will wait until you are ready. No rush.”

  I tossed the frozen dinner into the trashcan and headed for the bedroom. Who uses a surprise dinner as an interviewing technique? I pondered this while rummaging through my closet, trying to find something semi-formal to wear. Settling on a black skirt, lavender blouse, and a black blazer, I put my hair in a ponytail and slipped on some open-toed pumps. This better suffice, I thought as I quickly put on some eyeliner and lip gloss, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door.

  As I exited my apartment building, I spotted a black town car parked in the fire zone. James Martin was leaning against the back door with his arms crossed, chatting with the driver.

  “Stunning.” He smiled, and I blushed, despite my better judgment. He glanced at his watch. “And accurate too. It’s only been eleven minutes.”

  “I try to be punctual.” The driver opened the rear door, and I got into the car. “I didn’t realize you were waiting outside my apartment, Mr. Martin.” I was implying the creepy nature of his sudden appearance, but he didn’t seem to catch on.

  “Please, it’s no longer office hours, so it’s James.”

  “Okay, James. Pardon me for being so blunt, but why the surprise dinner? If you wanted to continue the interview, you could have said so this morning or had your assistant notify me.” Before I could continue explaining how his actions could seem a little stalker-like, he interjected.

  “I like to see how potential employees react under surprise conditions. Based on your previous employment with ol’ Jabber, I know you can handle stressful, volatile situations, so I wanted to see how you handle yourself during overly civilized functions.” He grimaced slightly at the overly civilized.

  “I see,” I said, even though I didn’t. “How am I doing so far?”

  “So far so good, but the night is still very young.” He might have winked, or it was just a trick of the lights.

  For the rest of the drive to the restaurant, he asked questions about my background and my 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 politely, smiling in such a way to indicate she had 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 hate 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 help protect a million bucks.”

  “Alexis Parker is one of the most capable people I know, and I wouldn’t have recommended her otherwise. I know what you need, and she can handle it,” Mark said, picking up his menu to read. “I always tell you if you need proof, then 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 fairly 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 Chateau Briand. 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 was lauding my capabilities, and Martin considered it as he lifted his scotch and slowly swirled the golden brown liquid around the glass.

  “Perhaps you’re right.” He nodded. “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 been simultaneously broken. Turning to the cause of the cacophony, I saw a group of masked gunmen in the restaurant’s entryway. 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, whispering in my ear, “Congratulations, you’re hired. Now do something.”

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