by Stephen Frey
He looked up, through the darkness. The light was still red. He shook his head. Isabelle had turned him down flat. That hadn’t happened in a long time.
“Oh, well,” he sighed, glancing back down at the now darkened Blackberry screen. “Never up, never in.”
He pressed a button on the tiny keyboard, illuminating the screen. In the eerie blue florescent light he saw that one new message had just arrived. He didn’t recognize the sender’s address, but the subject line blared “READ ME NOW.” Most likely an add for a dating service or a travel agency. The spam was constant, but there was nothing else to do while he waited, so he pulled the full text up on the screen.
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the words:
Don’t stop for anything until you’re back in the city. They may try again tonight.
Gillette glanced at the sender’s address again. [email protected].
A moment later there was a tap on the bumper and the Taurus lurched forward. Gillette’s eyes flashed to the rearview mirror. The car behind his had hit him. Not hard, but enough to get his attention. He opened the door and rose quickly from behind the wheel. The woman who’d hit him was getting out of her car, too.
He glanced around the intersection. There were three cars in front of him waiting at the red light. Lots of cars flashed by in both directions out on Route 1. A strip mall to his left with a bakery, a liquor store, and a dry cleaner. Several people inside. Visible through the glass.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman called, trotting toward him. She seemed sincerely upset. “Are you all right?”
Gillette checked the passenger seat of her car. Empty. He glanced back at her as she moved toward him. Middle-aged, wearing a nice dress and tennis shoes. Probably on the way home from work. Walking in the oncoming lane, he noticed. On the other side of the double yellow line. She seemed to be watching something as she came toward him. Something over his shoulder.
He sprinted forward two steps and dove over the Taurus’s trunk just as the sound of gunshots crackled in his ears. He tumbled to the asphalt on the other side of the car, then scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward a gas station fifty yards away. Zigzagging as he ran.
Two more shots. Like firecrackers on the Fourth of July.
A setup.
Without the e-mail, he’d be dead.
A bullet slammed into a telephone pole as he raced past it, and he glanced over his shoulder. A guy with a pistol was chasing him. The woman was still standing by the Taurus.
Gillette headed toward the gas station, but the attendant inside had seen what was happening and rushed out from behind the counter to bolt the door. Another bullet zipped by and slammed into the large window in the front of the building, shattering it. Gillette ran past the station and around back.
There was a wide, empty parking lot behind the station. With a full moon hanging in the sky like a beacon, the guy would have a clear shot at him. So Gillette stopped as he turned the corner of the building and backed up to the cement wall, sucking in air. Then he noticed the restrooms a few feet away and darted for them. The first door was locked, but the second was open and he hurried inside, leaving it slightly ajar. Climbing up on the toilet beside the door and holding his breath.
Gillette could hear the man outside, breathing hard. The guy would have to do something fast. No doubt the attendant inside the station had already called the cops—unless he’d been shot.
The man reached inside for the light switch and flicked it up and down, but the bulb was burned out. Gillette could hear the switch clicking.
Suddenly the man burst into the pitch-black restroom, shooting blindly, bullets screaming and echoing around the small, enclosed space.
Gillette grabbed the beam above him with both hands and kicked, slamming one of his hard-soled shoes into the side of the man’s head. The gun flew from the man’s hand and clattered against the far wall as he crumpled to the floor. But he was up again instantly, racing away.
Gillette dropped down, searching for the gun in the gloom, finally spotting it under the sink. He bent down, grabbed it, and headed out the door. As he came around the side of the building, the assailant and the woman were jumping into the car ahead of the Taurus. Too late. No chance to get them.
He bent over and grabbed his knees, sucking in air. He needed to hire an outside security firm as soon as possible.
10
Economic Incentive. If you believe that those around you are ultimately driven by what’s in their best economic interest, you have only one choice if you want their best: pay them well. More than they could earn anywhere else.
It’s called capitalism.
It’s also called common sense.
“CHRISTIAN.”
Gillette glanced up from the computer screen at his assistant, Debbie Long. She was standing in his office doorway, leaning on the knob, a pen and notepad in hand.
Debbie was young and cute—twenty-eight, with short brown hair and a trim figure. She was also a lesbian. Tom McGuire had confirmed that before Gillette hired her. So there was no sexual tension between them, which was exactly how Gillette wanted it. A perfect business relationship. No chance of her developing some silly crush on him, or of him getting any stupid ideas of his own.
Debbie was very good at her job, too. Efficient, loyal, and willing to put in the time. She often worked fifty to sixty hours a week—and never complained. She had the most positive attitude of anyone he’d ever met. She never seemed to have a bad day. If she did, she didn’t show it. In short, she was perfect.
So Gillette paid her well: a hundred thousand dollars in salary and last year a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus. Which, even in New York, was good money for an executive assistant who didn’t occasionally use the boss’s toothbrush in the morning. He’d probably pay her a seventy-five-thousand-dollar bonus this January so she’d understand that the deal would keep getting better—as long as she kept performing. He might even give her a small portion of the ups. Which Cohen and Faraday would scream about, but he didn’t care. This was his show now.
“What’s up?” he asked gruffly.
“And a very good morning to you, too.”
He was still distracted by the incident in New Jersey last night, but he intended to do something about it this morning. “Debbie, I—”
“Come on, Chris,” she interrupted. “Perk up.”
Gillette’s eyes moved deliberately to hers. “Someday we’ll go to dinner and talk about how you stay so sickeningly positive.” They’d never been together outside the office. Part of their unspoken pact to keep everything business.
“No, we won’t,” Debbie replied flatly.
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t be able to handle what I’d tell you.”
“I can handle any—”
“Your ten o’clock is here,” she cut in.
Gillette shook his head and smiled. Glad she wasn’t going to let their relationship go any further. “Fine. Show him in.”
Debbie moved to one side and waved the visitor on.
A moment later a well-built African-American man moved past her. He was dressed in black—jacket, turtleneck, slacks, and shoes. Cut and sleek looking, he had a cool, confident air about him. As if nothing in his world moved faster than he wanted it to.
Gillette gestured toward a corner of the office and several comfortable high-backed chairs arranged around a coffee table. “We’ll meet over there.” He looked back at Debbie. “Keep everyone away from here until I’m finished. No exceptions.”
She nodded, her expression turning serious when she heard Gillette’s tone change. “Right.”
Gillette waited until Debbie had closed the door, then moved to where the man stood. As they shook hands, Gillette felt immense physical strength in his grip. “I’m Christian Gillette.”
“Quentin Stiles.”
“Have a seat.” Gillette pointed to one of the chairs. “Would you like something to drink?”
’’No.’’
&
nbsp; “I appreciate Jeremy Cole putting us in touch,” Gillette said when they were both seated. Cole had called late last night to tell Gillette he’d found someone with an excellent reputation. “Thanks for coming to see me on such short notice.”
“No problem. My company is based in Manhattan.”
Gillette picked up a bottled water from the table. “What’s your background, Quentin?”
“Five years with the Army Rangers, then three with the Secret Service. The last five I’ve been on my own in the private sector.”
“What’s the name of your company?”
“QS Security.”
“Clients?”
“The president of the United States, for one.”
“I mean, after you quit the Secret Service.”
“The Saudi royal family when they come to Manhattan. Madonna. Michael Jordan. Several high-profile football players. Jeremy Cole, for one. Now that you got him that big contract. Others you’d recognize.”
“How many people at QS?”
“Forty. And I’m not one of those guys who hires temporary help if I get a couple of big jobs at the same time. I only take the number of jobs I can handle with the people I’ve trained. People who understand how I do things.”
“Ever lost a client?” Gillette asked, drinking some water.
“Never.”
“Close?”
“Define ‘close.’ ”
“Anyone you’ve been protecting ever been hurt?”
“No.”
“Attacked?”
“Sure.”
“You ever been shot?”
“Yup,” Stiles replied, pulling back his jacket and lifting up his shirt to point at a nasty scar beside his navel, then to another one on the left side of his rib cage.
Gillette gazed at the wounds, wondering how it would have felt if one of the bullets had hit him last night. “Why’d you quit the Secret Service?”
“They didn’t pay very well.”
“What do you charge?”
“Two thousand a day, plus expenses. Another thousand a day for each additional person.”
Gillette whistled. “You must be good.”
“Very good.”
“You don’t talk much, do you, Quentin?”
“My clients don’t usually care about talk. They care about being safe.” Stiles glanced around the office. “If you’re really looking for companionship, I can put you in touch with another kind of firm. High end. No questions asked.”
“Thank you, no.” Gillette took another drink of water. “Get some references to my assistant, will you?” But he already knew he was going to hire Stiles. Something about the man impressed him. And, as analytical as he was, Gillette had learned over the years to trust his instincts, too.
“I’ll leave telephone numbers with her on my way out, numbers of people I’ve worked with.”
“Good.”
“What’s the job?” Stiles wanted to know.
“Protecting me full-time.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then it’s three thousand dollars a day. I charge an extra grand when it’s open-ended.”
Gillette did some quick calculations. Almost a hundred thousand a month just for Stiles. Plus another thousand bucks a day for anyone else Stiles used. A lot, but so be it. “Okay.”
“Why?” Stiles asked after a few moments.
“Why what?”
“Why do you need protection?”
“Someone blew up my limousine.” He didn’t want to mention last night yet.
Stiles’s eyes flashed to Gillette’s. “The one that exploded in front of a church over on Park Avenue?”
“Yes.”
“I heard about that.” Stiles shook his head. “And you waited three days to get in touch with someone like me?”
Gillette shook his head. “No. We own a firm that provides executive protection. The CEO of that firm has people with me.”
“What firm are you talking about?”
“McGuire & Company. You familiar with them?”
“Of course.” A quizzical expression ran across Stiles’s face. “If you own them, and Tom McGuire already has someone with you, why did you call me?”
Gillette liked the fact that Stiles was familiar with McGuire & Company, particularly that he knew who Tom McGuire was. “Last night I was attacked,” he said quietly. “A woman—”
“Stop talking,” Stiles ordered, scooping up the television remote from the table. He pointed it at the set in the far corner of the room and clicked. When it was on, he turned the volume up high, then pulled his chair close to Gillette’s. “Go ahead, but keep your voice down.”
“What’s the problem?” But Gillette knew what Stiles was thinking. And he liked how suspicious the guy was.
“Keep your voice down, please.”
Gillette leaned toward Stiles. “What’s the problem?” he repeated innocently.
“Where was the McGuire guy last night when you were attacked?”
“Not around.”
“So the guy who’s supposed to protect you isn’t around when you’re attacked.” Stiles placed the remote back down on the table.
“I gave him the slip here in Manhattan. I’m a pretty good driver when I want to be.”
“Then I have a question and an observation.”
“Go ahead.”
“First, the question.”
“Okay.”
“Why did you want to slip away?”
“I had personal business.”
Stiles gave Gillette a frustrated look. “Mr. Gillette, if I’m going to protect you, there can’t be any secrets between us. I have to know everything about you. But I will promise you this,” Stiles said, holding up his right hand as though he were about to take an oath. “No one will ever know what I know. No one.”
Gillette stared hard at Stiles. He had that air about him that made you trust him. “It involved a woman,” Gillette explained. A partial truth, but probably enough to satisfy Stiles’s curiosity.
“Okay. Now, here’s my observation. Just the fact that you were able to slip away tells me something. With all due respect to your driving skills, I can assure you right now that you wouldn’t be able to slip away from me or any of my men under any circumstances. Do you understand?”
Gillette was already feeling safer. “Yes.” And it had occurred to him that he’d been able to lose the McGuire guy easily, too.
“Good. Now why would someone want to blow up your limousine?”
“Don’t know.”
“Speculate.”
For the next five minutes Gillette described Everest Capital and the events of the last week. What the firm did and the massive amount of money it—he—controlled. Bill Donovan dying suspiciously at the estate. How Gillette had been elected the new chairman of Everest by one vote. How there were a number of people who might want him dead. And how there were very few people he could trust at this point. Maybe no one.
“Tell me exactly what happened last night,” Stiles requested when Gillette was finished. “When you were shot at.”
Gillette took several more minutes to explain the incident in New Jersey. “I guess it could have been a random carjacking,” he said, finishing the story.
“What kind of car were you driving?”
“A rented Taurus.”
Stiles shook his head. “People don’t go out of their way to steal a Taurus. And a carjacking? I seriously doubt that. Particularly if there were two vehicles working together, and they shot at you before driving you to an ATM. It makes no sense. No, they were after you. Plain and simple.” Stiles paused. “How much are you worth, Mr. Gillette?”
“A lot,” he answered. “And, with Donovan dead, I could be worth a lot more.”
Stiles pointed at Gillette. “In other words, as far as Donovan goes, you had motive, too.”
Gillette gave Stiles a strange look. “I like how you try so hard to ingratiate yourself a potentia
l client, Quentin.”
“I call it as I see it,” Stiles replied firmly.
“While you’re at it, call me Christian.”
“I don’t get close to my clients. Now answer my question. How much are you worth?”
“Around seventy million.” In addition to his stake in the funds, which Cohen estimated was worth sixty, Gillette had banked ten during his career at Everest, thanks to the salaries, bonuses, and payouts on the ups he’d earned on earlier funds.
Stiles’s expression didn’t change. “And, as a result of Donovan’s death, how much could you be worth?”
“Billions.” Again, Stiles’s expression didn’t change. Which Gillette liked.
“Just by virtue of being chairman of Everest.”
“If I’m chairman long enough.”
“So, if someone else were in your position, they could be worth billions, too?”
“Yes.”
Stiles picked up the remote and turned the television off, then stood up and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gillette. I’ll give your assistant those telephone numbers on my way out, and I’ll wait to hear from you.”
Gillette stood up, too, and shook Stiles’s hand. “Can I look at your gun?” He’d seen it when Stiles had shown him the bullet scars.
Stiles pulled his jacket back, revealing a shoulder holster and the black handle of a pistol.
“What kind is it?” asked Gillette.
“Glock forty cal.”
“Let me have it.”
Stiles withdrew the weapon from the holster and popped the clip, then handed the gun to Gillette.
“Not going to let me have it loaded, huh?”
“No.”
Gillette held the Glock for a few moments. He liked the way it looked and the way it felt in his palm. He handed it back to Stiles, who reinserted the clip and slid the weapon smoothly back into the holster. “You’re hired, Quentin.” Stiles was heading toward the door. “I want you to start immediately.”
Stiles turned back around to face Gillette. “Sorry, Mr. Gillette, but I have a few things to take care of first.”
“Get one of your people on them.”
“I can’t. I have to—”