Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Rhodes
“Who is it?” Sydney asks, standing to the side of the door as if expecting bullets to fly through the wood.
This is insanity. We’re losing a grip on reality.
I step past her and sling the door open.
Mile’s fist comes within inches of my chest before his reaction time catches up to the reality of the open door.
“What the hell, man?” My business partner and friend pushes past me, charging into the room.
Behind him are two men, both fit and intimidating, in navy golf shirts, khakis, and matching sports jackets that do little to hide the bulge of their holstered weapons.
My gut instinct is to shut the door on them, but they’re probably outsourced security on ARGUS payroll.
“Let them in,” Miles barks.
“Security? Why?” I stand in the doorway, hand on the knob, Sydney at my side, peering at the men.
“It’s fucking needed, given the shit you’ve been pulling. Don’t leave them out in the hall.”
I look to Sydney, questioning, and she gives a brief nod.
I’m not sure why I’m questioning letting these men enter the hotel suite. Miles is pissed, but he’s not a violent guy. He can’t stand guns. He refuses to play violent video games.
Right now, he’s annoyed I won’t cave. I maintain controlling interest, and therefore the company can’t go public without my approval.
Before closing the door, I peer down the hall, half-expecting Alex to be waiting in the wings.
Satisfied that he’s nowhere to be found, I take in my old friend, too worked up to stand still, pacing between the circular sitting area and the adjacent room with a long dining table, a portion of the suite Sydney and I have yet to use.
Daisy swears that Miles aims to mimic Ryan Reynolds in all things fashion, and in his tapered dark jeans, brown wingtips, subdued tee, and flexy light suede jacket, I’d say he nailed the look today, even if the suede jacket has no place in July in D.C.
The black square dark-rimmed glasses create a funky, cool vibe, all designed to hide the inner geek.
Before I left on vacation, he’d been growing out his thick black hair, debating attempting gravity-defying dreadlocks, but he must’ve lost patience, as his hair is shorn down almost to the scalp.
“Still holing up with your vacation find, I see,” he says, speaking in the general direction of Sydney, but avoiding her direct gaze. “She’s lovely, but can we clear the room? I’m happy for you and all, but we need to talk.”
He’s in max asshole mode.
One of the suited security men places his hand on the door knob as if he’s going to open it for Sydney to leave.
“Sydney, you remember Miles Johnson, my partner and a backstabber. Oh, and she stays.” Miles needs to calm the fuck down. He’s jittery, agitated. “Did you stop taking your Adderall?”
“Fuck you.” His anger is visceral. “Do you have any idea how much you’re fucking up right now?”
Miles and I go way back, but I’ve never seen him like this. He’s so worked up, so in his head. How the hell am I going to get through to him?
“Did Alex put you up to this? Is he behind this? Has he gotten in your head?”
“Alex? What the hell is wrong with you? I’m not here for Alex. Or the IPO. You think I can’t tell when you mirror a site? You think I don’t know what you’re planning on doing? What the hell, MacMillan? You think I’m going to let you throw everything we’ve worked so hard for away?”
“What exactly do you think we’ve been working for?”
I’m standing in the center of the round room, a hallmark of Suite 7, the crystal chandelier directly overhead, and I swear, I feel like Zeus, waiting for one of the misguided gods to explain to me exactly how he’s fucked up.
Miles glowers. He’s Apollo, ready to battle.
“You brought up Alex. Well, he’s right. This is our chance for generational wealth.
Alex is right! Do you get that? Building on campuses that bear our names.
MacMillan Avenue. Johnson Business School.
This is a stepping stone to imprint businesses across the world.
What exactly is your plan? Huh? ‘Catch’ the bad guys?
” Using his fingers for air quotes, he looks like a buffoon.
“Don’t you get it? The government is playing nice right now.
We play along, give them what they want, and we’ll move forward with a public offering, and we grow.
We get what we want; they get what they want.
We don’t play along, they declare we’re a risk to national security, and they take over.
We become a government-run utility. If we’re lucky, we don’t end up in jail.
You need to wake the fuck up! This is not your call! ”
“Have they threatened you?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, MacMillan! Are you listening to me?”
Syd sits on the sofa, head bowed, but she’s sure as fuck listening. Probably recording.
“Why did you visit the Russian embassy yesterday?” He stops pacing as realization registers.
My eyes are now open, but I’m still trying to understand what I’m seeing.
“It’s not always an us versus them scenario,” Miles says, voice hushed, defensive. Zero trace of denial.
“You’ve struck deals with multiple governments,” I say, barking out a half-chuckle that tastes bitter in my throat.
All this time I suspected Alex was the problem, the one pushing the financial agenda.
But it was Miles all along. The realization crashes over me in waves—not just the betrayal, but the magnitude of it.
This isn’t a disagreement about company direction; this is Miles systematically undermining everything we built together. Miles. Not Alex.
Nearly twenty years of friendship, of sharing apartments with paper-thin walls during our startup days after dropping out of business school and pissing off our parents, of celebrating breakthroughs at three a.m. with cheap beer, of standing beside him at his father’s funeral.
All of it sacrificed for what? Control? Profit? Fear?
“You tried to trap me. Put them up to blackmailing me.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears—too controlled, too calm for the hurricane of emotions beneath. “That’s the backstabbing knife I was referring to, by the way. Was that meant to force my hand? To back me into a corner?”
That’s the piece I’ve been trying to figure out. It could so easily backfire. He wants us to go public. A public scandal, a congressional investigation, would tank a public offering.
“You want to force me out of the company. Right? Did you go to Dristol to help with that endeavor, or is that just a side hustle? Have you been greasing the wheels, selling information to jackasses like Dristol, for what? Extra money? Why? You don’t need more money. Why do this?”
The mythology metaphors from my conversation with Sydney flash through my mind. Miles isn’t playing the role of Apollo, god of light and truth. He’s Icarus, flying too close to the sun of power and wealth, not realizing his wings are melting. He’s the one who will fall.
He deflates, releasing a sigh that carries the weight of decisions he can’t unmake.
“You’re not going to cave, are you?” The anger in his voice can’t quite mask the resignation. “Too fucking pompous for your own good.”
I want to rage at him, to demand explanations, to remind him of what we stood for.
Do good!
Or at the very least, do no fucking harm.
But beneath my anger is something worse: grief for a friendship I now realize is lost, perhaps long before this moment. Miles Johnson is not the man I befriended. When did he change? How did I not see it?
Miles sinks onto a sofa and leans over, forehead in his palms.
This version of Miles…this moment…it’s surreal.
“What have you done?”
Sydney now stands in the doorway with a calculated stillness.
I haven’t been watching her directly, but I’m peripherally aware of her subtle movements—positioning herself where she can better monitor the security guys, the almost imperceptible touch to confirm her phone is still securely tucked into the side of her leggings.
Miles hasn’t looked directly at her since his initial dismissal.
He’s underestimating her—seeing only the woman I met hiking, unaware she’s an operative who planted surveillance software in a Russian embassy.
His security team, however, keeps repositioning slightly to keep her in their sightlines.
They, at least, recognize a professional when they see one.
Her eyes catch mine for a split-second—a silent communication that conveys both caution and readiness.
“Miles, when we built ARGUS, we agreed. The only way to ensure an ethical company is to remain a nonprofit—to never let growth or profit become our sun. Never. I caved on the nonprofit front. That wasn’t enough, was it?
What’re you doing now? All those executive team meetings where you and Alex tag-teamed me about profits—was that all theater?
Were you already selling us out?” Instead of a surveillance device at the Russian embassy, I should’ve asked Daisy to monitor Miles’ communications.
Fuck me . The rumors about ARGUS deciphering state secrets and selling them are true…
because of Miles. “Did Alex put you up to this?”
“You are one arrogant son of a bitch,” he growls.
“Alex is an employee. I’m your partner.” He pounds his chest with his finger, proud.
“Your co-founder. But fuck it all if I don’t do it all!
I’m the one who brings in our funding. I’m the one who gets us contracts.
You sit back and futz around writing code and doing fuck all!
” He’s back to pacing. “It doesn’t even matter.
I don’t need to waste my time or energy.
This little trap you’ve built. It’s pissed off some powerful people.
Dristol? Reid? You don’t think those NPCs are reporting to someone? ”