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"I don't care what the bitch's problem is. If you don't come through by the end of the week, you're both dead." Ron Griffith closed his eyes and took a deep breath before speaking into the phone. "I will take care of it, Mr. Sadar." "Damn right you'll take care of it. You have no idea how much I have riding on this project and the people I had to put in place for this to work!" There was an explosion of noise over the phone, and Griffith could picture Sadar's muscled arm crashing onto his desk. An icy chill wrapped around Griffith's heart. In the month that he had been working with Sadar, not once had this dark, little man from Rhode Island lost his temper. In fact, he had been cold and meticulous in everything from the way he spoke to the way he ate. Even if Rhode Island was over eight hundred miles away from Griffith's office in Bristol, Tennessee, the man's atypical fit of anger was paralyzing. "Are you listening to me, Griffith!" Sadar's voice splintered in fury. "Yes, sir." "If that software is not in place by next week, we lose JFK. And that one airport alone will make over ten million a month." There was a pause in the tirade, so Griffith filled it by saying, "Yes, sir." "Don't 'yes sir' me! Just get it done!" Griffith yanked the phone away as Sadar's receiver crashed onto the hook with a loud crack. When he brought it back to his ear, a dial tone greeted him. "Jesus Christ, what have I gotten into?" Ron said before lowering his own receiver onto its cradle. He stood and walked to the plate glass window that faced the Brighton Security Products parking lot where his manufacturing staff, otherwise known as the herd, was filtering across the asphalt to leave for the day. It had been three months since Griffith's first meeting with Sadar, the meeting in which Sadar had introduced himself and revealed his plans for corporate espionage. "We need the designs to an airport security system, and because your daughter is dying of cancer, we knew you'd need the money." Sadar's words still made Ron's hair stand on end when he recalled them. That single decision, to sell his company's hardware and software designs for his daughter's life, had added guilt and remorse to an already painful existence. And it seemed to be getting worse. Over the past week, he'd counted over a dozen times seeing the same light blue Taurus occupied by the same tree trunk of a man wearing the same pair of dark Ray Bans. There was little doubt he was being followed, and it took only a tiny hop across the synapse of his mind to imagine Sadar's plans to kill him rather than pay for the software he was stealing. But maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing. It's hard to give a damn when you're dead. *
"Dammit, Tony!" Peggy Overton slammed the front door to her home. "A separation means separate houses!" Peggy's estranged husband looked up at her from a handful of cards. "Give me a break, Peggy. You know I can't fit this many people into my apartment." He looked back down at his cards before adding. "And anyway, I do own half of this house." The four other men seated at the table focused on their cards or paid particular attention to the condensation on their bottles of beer. Two additional drunks immersed themselves in the flashing images on the television as one of them jabbed the remote toward it in an attempt to scroll faster through the channels. Peggy suspected a seventh guest when she heard bottles shifting against one another in the refrigerator. She also smelled something, though was surprised to admit to herself that it actually smelled edible. "I've had a horrible day, Tony, and I want you and your cronies out of here." Peggy dropped her briefcase then turned to hang her jacket on the coat rack. She sniffed the air and asked, "What in the world am I smelling?" Before Tony could answer, a loud crash came from the kitchen immediately followed a slurred stream of profanity. Peggy looked toward the kitchen just as the short, round silhouette of one of Tony's friends stumbled into the doorway. For a moment, the man balanced himself against the doorframe looking down at the kitchen floor. Then, aware of the stares from the living room, he turned. It only took a moment for his eyes to find Peggy, and when they did, he blinked hard as if unsure of what he was seeing. "Whoa! The boss is home!" he said, waving a dark brown bottle in the air. "Just gettin' a refill. Can I come into the living room, Tony, or do we have detention?" "Get your ass in here, Frank," Tony said without looking away from his cards. "I need to win back some of my money." He twisted in his seat to look at Peggy, then corrected himself. "I mean 'our money'." He grinned, then turned back to the game. "Go to hell, Tony," Peggy said, walking toward the kitchen. When she got there, she was surprised to find an eighth guest in her home. This one stood over her stove as a cloud of steam rose from one of her iron skillets and was sucked into the exhaust fan. Actually, towering over her stove would have been a better description; the man was enormous. "I don't mean to be rude," Peggy said, "but who the hell are you?" A gentle smile had spread across the man's face before he'd even turned around. He pulled off an oven mitt and held his hand out to her. "I'm sorry. I'm Peter Tremain. I started working in the garage with Tony last week." She ignored his hand, so he lowered it. "And you must be Peggy." "As a matter of fact, I am," Peggy said, walking to the refrigerator and opening its door. "So what exactly are you doing in my kitchen?" "Well, homemade enchiladas are cheaper than a delivered pizza." Peter grinned again, then turned back to the stove. "Actually, I'm just waiting for one of the poker players to pass out so I can take a seat at the table. It was too late to get into the game when I got here." Peggy pulled a container of tuna salad from the refrigerator and a bag of low fat potato chips from the counter. Before she could sit down, Peter turned and said, "What are you doing?" She looked up at him, raising one eyebrow. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm getting something to eat." Peter held his hand toward the skillet. "Why? Don't you want an enchilada?" "Are you offering?" Peter pulled the bag of chips from her hand and tossed it back to the counter. "Of course I am. Sit down and I'll have a plate to you in a minute." Peggy put the tuna away and slid into a seat at the kitchen table. It had been a bitch of a day. Between loosing a promotion and dodging a flurry of sexual advances, she'd come as far as writing her resignation. She managed to come to her senses before handing it to her boss though, and the document now lay quietly on a diskette in her briefcase. To top it off, her best friend and confidant wouldn't be back in town until late tonight forcing Peggy to stuff all those miseries and let them fester between her ears. But here she was, waiting for a man she'd met only five minutes ago to cook her dinner. Maybe things were looking up. Peter Tremain was at least a foot taller than her five and a half feet, yet the way his shaggy brown hair framed his face, he looked like a kid. Each time he turned toward her, Peggy felt a need to pull the strands of hair curling down his forehead back so she could see his eyes more clearly. Two minutes later, after a flurry of activity at the stove, Peter placed a steaming plate of food in front of Peggy. His hands, clean except for the dirt worked under the tips of the nails, were big with raised veins weaving their way from his knuckles to his muscular forearms. His skin was the color of a two year old penny, slightly burnt but mostly tan, which made his white shirt and light blue jeans stand out. "I'm not usually such a bitch," she said, letting the warmth of the food pass across her face. "I'm sure." He let out a short, airy laugh, then got another plate of food from the counter and sat across from her. "What's making you a bitch tonight?" Peggy looked up at him, a tight frown pulled across her lips. "You better watch yourself or I'll add a fourth to the list of men I'm planning to castrate." "Ah! I smell revenge!" "You offering to help?" Peggy said swallowing a mouthful of food. "No, I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass on anything that involves knives and genitals. Anyone I know?" Peggy put down her fork and counted the victims off on her fingers. "My boss, the asshole my boss just promoted over me, and my husband." "Cool," Tony said, staring at her over his fork. "You work for the U.S. Postal Service?" Peggy laughed, then stifled it remembering she was supposed to be pissed. "No. But believe me, those boys are going to wish they were taken down with automatic rifle after I'm through with them." "Damn! What'd they do to you?" Peggy dropped her fork onto her plate. She felt the words building inside of her and knew that without releasing them, she'd be insane before morning. "Ron Griffith, my boss, called me into his office this afternoon because he wanted to be sure he was the first to tell me that Bill Lyons got my promotion. Dammit!" Renewed anger coursed through her body and she swung her fist down and smashed it into the kitchen table. All the plates and silverware jumped in unison. "I produce a hell of a lot better code than Bill does. And more of it too! That asshole spends more time flirting with the women on the production floor than he does at his desk!" Peter leaned back from the table and crossed his arms. "Did you tell your boss any of this?" "Yes. And when I did, the bastard had the nerve to tell me..." She mimicked her boss' nasal voice, "Men work more efficiently than women do. You know, your monthly visit from your aunt." Her voice returned to its normal level. "Maybe those little hick women in production are used to being talked to that way, but I'm not." Peggy glared across the table at Peter. He still had his arms crossed and there was a slight smile on his face. Peggy ignored the smile and continued. "And since you're a member of their half of the race, maybe you can answer me this. Why do men who dress in the same tired clothes they bought over twenty years ago think that a woman has to dress as if she were on display for them?" "Is that what they told you?" "Not in so many words, but Ron did tell me that I'd have a much better chance if I acted more like a woman and wore dresses and high heels." Peggy reached behind her and pulled a tissue from a cardboard box sitting on the counter. She blew her nose hard, then tossed the tissue into the trash. "That asshole also had the audacity to pick today to sexually harass me again." "You're kidding me?" Peggy paused for a moment, searching Peter's face for sincerity. Finding some, she shook her head. "Nope. He told me that Bill Lyons was willing to do anything for a promotion then asked if I was. Then the damn redneck leans back in his chair and grabs his crotch." She took a deep breath, then picked up her fork and stuck it into her food. "I'm sorry. I don't even know why I'm telling you this." Peter smiled, uncrossed his arms, and leaned forward onto the table. "Maybe it's because I was the first person you ran into who'd listen." Peggy swallowed, then said, "Well, I should've told my dog. That way there wouldn't have been any witnesses." Peter lifted a wary eye to her then asked, "Where do you work?" "At Brighton Security Products." "Oh." He let a moment of silence pass so Peggy could take another mouthful of food. "What do you do for them?" "I'm an electrical engineer. We design security systems." "I've been wanting to get a security system for my house, but I've never heard of a Brighton system." Peggy gave a dramatic cough. "You mean Tony pays you enough money mounting tires for you to buy a house? I would've doubted you could afford a security system by itself." He smiled. "Let's just say I had a little put away before I met Tony." Peggy turned when she heard a slight cough behind her. Tony was standing in the doorway. "Are you two getting cozy?" His voice was heavy with sarcasm. Peggy turned back toward the table. "Go away, Tony." Tony walked behind Peter and nodded toward the living room. "Peter, why don't you take my seat at the table? I need to talk to my wife." "Sure, Tony." When Peter stood, Tony took a couple of steps back to reduce the effect Peter's additional eight inches had. "Nice to meet you, Peggy. I hope you get everything straightened out." When Peter was gone, Tony sat down. "We are not divorced yet and I don't want you flirting with my employees." "I wasn't flirting, Tony." "Don't give me that crap, Peggy. You're still my wife and if I ever catch you talking about me behind my back..." "Talking about you? Get a grip on your ego, Tony. You're not important enough for me to talk about." Peggy pushed out her chair and stood. "I'm serious, Peggy. I never want to see you..." Peggy cut off his words. "Listen to me, you son of a bitch. When you took that bimbo to my bed you lost any right you ever had to tell me what to do. Now take your friends and get the hell out of my house." She turned and walked out of the kitchen. Halfway across the living room, Peggy felt a momentary loss of balance when Tony grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him. Before she could catch herself, Tony swung and slapped her across the face. The room fell silent aside from the chatter coming from the television. The muscles in Peggy's face went hard in an attempt to stifle the impending tears while the burning sting of Tony's slap grew in her cheek. She began jabbing her finger into his chest as she spat out her cold, sharp words. "You touch me again, you bastard, and I swear I'll kill you. Now take your damn friends and get the hell out of my house." Without waiting for a response, she turned and climbed the set of stairs to her bedroom. |