Alex
I’m driving to my property upstate. I thought about going to my cottage on the coast, but it felt too open. Too sunny and bright for the mood I’m in. Plus, there’s only so much space from tourists that money can buy during the last week of August.
There’s a cold system dipping down from Canada. It just skims the tops of the Adirondacks. A little rain. Steel-colored clouds. And air that doesn’t feel like it’s been shared with every resident of New York.
I should be able to get some serious work done if I can clear my head. Driving is a good distraction to put me in the mood. My Aston Martin turns these corners into amusement parks. One foot on the clutch, one hand on the shifter—I’m connected to the car as I roar inland towards the mountains and away from the heat of the city streets.
The last time I was here, Paige and I took the helicopter. There was something impersonal about the pilot’s presence and not being able to see the land we passed over in the dark. It was an omen for that trip.
The whole thing turned into a nightmare. Maybe that was more Paige’s fault than anything. She found some old Polaroids an ex and I had taken years ago. Dusty as they were, she still accused me of having interest. Then I had to remind her that she and I weren’t even dating.
That was a mistake.
I want some solitude this time. I had some friends staying there for the summer, but they left a couple weeks ago. It’s a mansion on a lake, built in the twenties by a New York magnate with the same intention of creating an escape from the city.
It has its own lake, which is clear and cold in summer. But I like it most a few months from now. When the woods are silent and the birds and their chatter have gone.
On black nights, I’ll go out to the shore. The property sits in a little valley, and if the wind is light, it will be completely still. As silent as death itself. And in December, when the ice forms on the lake, the only sound I’ll hear is the stray tectonic crack as it settles, boomeranging off the hills. Like the great erratic heartbeat of the earth.
Those moments when I’m alone and away from what I’ve built have been growing on me. Standing seventy stories over the city in my bathrobe doesn’t make me feel like the bigshot the same way it did in my early thirties. I’m just another rat in the race, albeit crowned.
My phone rings breaking me from my thoughts. It’s Bruce from security. I hit Accept on the dash screen.
“Yes.”
“I’m just wondering if you’ve heard, sir.”
I pause. His tone is nervous. “No, I don’t think I have.”
“There’s been an attempt on the lives of three employees at Summit Bank, as well as the journalist who first published the piece on the money laundering.”
“Attempt? Everyone’s alive?”
“Yes sir, the bankers—one of them was your friend, Lucas—were dining on a patio. It appears the assailant’s weapon misfired.”
My breath catches in my throat. Lucas? What the fuck was he doing there? “And he’s alright?”
“Unscratched. I was even able to speak with him.”
My head feels lighter than it has in years. I take my foot off the gas and slow down. This has gotten out of control. I have to keep speaking in order to keep my rage from blinding me. I take it out on the steering wheel and squeeze.
“What happened to the journalist?”
“Peter Rose? His car was blown up.”
“While he wasn’t in it, I take it?”
“While he wasn’t in it, yes.”
I sigh. “Sounds like Belarusian thugs.”
Bruce chuckles. “Yes sir. It sounds like they tried to get their hits out of the way in the morning before they were too drunk.”
“It would seem they were too hungover anyway.”
“I don’t have to tell you, sir, but this is going to escalate things.”
“I know. Increase security for all C-suite employees at Blackwell.”
“Will do. There are a few things I must tell you. First, you could be a third target today. I advise coming back to the city immediately.”
I look in the rearview mirror. The road behind me is empty. The clouds are low and gray. The only way it could look more foreboding is if there was a cluster of fallen leaves running with the breeze.
The idea of turning around scared makes me want to hit the gas harder. I could take a troop of these hypothetical Eastern European gangsters by myself, but the situation has changed. I need to go back for business. “I’ll return.”
“To the penthouse? Or your residence on Park? May I recommend, for security purposes, the residence.”
“You don’t think I’m safer in the clouds?”
“It’s the windows, sir. Unless you want to curtain them all, I don’t think you should stay there. I don’t like the idea of your movements being so visible. We can keep you just as safe physically in either.”
“Fair enough. The residence on Park. I’ll meet you there for a briefing in two hours.”
“One last item. An employee of yours was in the line of fire at the patio shooting.”
I freeze, confused. “Which one?”
“Lucas’s sister, Hailee Barnes, was there.”
I stare at the road ahead. It feels like an anchor dropped and is currently plunging through my stomach.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Um… I’m sorry, sir. I doubt she was a target.”
I failed to protect her. Lucas’s sister. My employee. I’m hit with an emotion I haven’t had to reconcile with since I was still a bright-eyed kid trying to win his first mining contract. Utter fucking failure.
I need to remind myself that this is the nature of the business. That everyone is okay. But my dirty laundry just got my best friend and his sister shot at.
“Sir?”
I realize I haven’t said anything in several seconds. “And she’s okay?”
“Yes. Everyone, bystanders included, were unharmed.”
That isn’t what I meant. I want to ask Bruce if she was okay mentally . I’m sure she’s in shock. People can develop PTSD from getting shot at. It happens all the time. My heart is pounding so hard it could bruise.
“I’ll see you in two hours, Bruce.”
“See you then.”
I hang up and hit the wheel. A part of me is concerned with how much I care. This isn’t how I operate. This is a business. A dirty part of it, yes, but these kinds of things happen. Rarely ever in broad daylight in New York, however.
It’s that my friend and an employee I’m supposed to protect were in the line of fire. That’s why I’m so disturbed.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
My reasoning doesn’t connect with the image in my head that I can’t shake—Hailee with tears in her eyes, shivering in fear. Every bubbly ounce of her ambition sapped away, replaced by fear.
Fear that is, in some way, my fault.
The tires squeal as I brake hard. I swing onto the shoulder to give myself more radius and then crank the wheel into a U-turn. I stomp the gas pedal. The V-12 engine roars and is happy to swallow the yellow divider lines faster and faster.
I’m racing to Hailee. I need to fix this. And that means someone is going to pay.