Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
PATRICK
The candidate sitting across from me had a doctorate from MIT, seven years at Genentech, and two patents in immunotherapy delivery systems. On paper, she was exactly what MIRI needed. In reality, I couldn’t focus on a single word she was saying.
Eight days. Theresa had eight days before that board meeting, and I was sitting here pretending to care about polymer-based drug carriers when I should be helping her.
“Mr. McCrae?”
I snapped back to attention. Dr. Elizabeth Hartley was watching me with polite confusion, her portfolio open on her lap.
“My apologies.” I straightened in my chair, forcing myself back into the role of CEO. “You were explaining the bioavailability challenges?”
She resumed her explanation. I nodded at intervals, asked a few questions that probably sounded intelligent, and got through the rest of the interview without completely embarrassing myself.
“I think you’d be an excellent addition to the team,” I said as we wrapped up. “Let me discuss it with my board, and we’ll be in touch within the week.”
The moment Rita closed the door behind Dr. Hartley, I pulled out my Rolodex and flipped to the M’s.
MacKenzie, Callum.
My cousin. The family’s resident problem-solver. The one who always knew which strings to pull and who owed whom favors.
Growing up, Callum had been the charming troublemaker—the cousin who could talk his way out of anything, who always had a scheme, who somehow made money appear when the estate taxes came due.
He’d gone to Oxford instead of staying in Scotland, worked in London for a few years doing something vague in “corporate consulting,” and now split his time between New York and San Francisco.
The family didn’t ask many questions about what Callum actually did. We just knew that when you needed information, connections, or a problem to quietly disappear, Callum was the one you called.
I’d used him exactly once before—three years ago, when a former MIRI researcher left for a competitor and we suspected he’d taken proprietary data with him. Callum confirmed it within forty-eight hours. The researcher returned everything and signed an NDA with teeth.
This was different, though. This was personal.
I picked up the phone and dialed.
Two rings.
“Aye.”
“Hey cousin.”
“Patrick.” Callum’s voice came through smooth and amused, the Scottish burr polished to a dangerous shine. “Twice in three years? I’m honored.”
“Are you in California?”
“San Francisco. Just flew in from Zurich. Why?”
Relief loosened something in my chest. “I need a favor. The kind you’re good at.”
A pause. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that widow you’ve been seeing, would it?”
I didn’t even blink. Callum made it his business to know things before they were news.
“Her company’s being sabotaged. Hostile takeover. I need to know everything about the man behind it. Every skeleton, every offshore account, every secret he’s ever whispered.”
“Ah.” I could hear the interest sharpening in his voice, like a blade being drawn. “Now that sounds more interesting than patent disputes. Lunch? I’m free today.”
“Name the place.”
“The Cavalier. One o’clock. And Patrick?” His tone shifted slightly, losing the warmth. “This is going to cost you.”
“I know.”
“Not money. A favor. The kind where you don’t ask questions.”
I understood what he was offering—and what he was asking in return. Callum operated in circles where information was currency and debts were paid in kind. If I asked for his help now, eventually he’d ask for mine. And it might not be something I’d want to do.
“I understand.”
“Good. See you at one.”
The line went dead.
I sat back in my chair, staring at the San Francisco skyline through my window. I’d just crossed a line—called in a favor from someone who trafficked in corporate secrets and political connections. The kind of person who made problems disappear through channels that wouldn’t hold up in court.
This isn’t who you are.
The thought came automatically, trained into me by years of scientific ethics. But it rang hollow.
Who was I? A grieving widower trying to build a new life? A father failing his children? A man falling for a woman who was drowning in grief and corporate warfare?
All of the above, apparently.
Rita knocked and entered with a cup of tea—Scottish Breakfast, the way I took it when I was thinking too hard about something.
“Your two o’clock called to reschedule,” she said, setting the cup down. “And you have three messages from Edinburgh.”
“Thank you, Rita.”
She paused at the door, her sharp eyes assessing me over her reading glasses. “You look like you’re about to do something you’ll regret.”
“Possibly.”
“Is she worth it?”
The question caught me off guard. Rita had been with me for ten years, followed me from Scotland without complaint, and never once commented on my personal life.
“Yes,” I said simply.
She nodded once, satisfied. “Then don’t second-guess yourself. Regret’s a waste of time.”
The Cavalier occupied the top floor of a Financial District building, all dark wood and expensive discretion.
Callum was already there, sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall—habit, no doubt. He looked like he’d stepped out of a Bond film—tailored suit, silver cufflinks catching the light, and an air of relaxed danger that made the waitstaff nervous.
“Patrick.” He stood, pulling me into a brief embrace. “You look like California’s treating you well. Or possibly killing you. Hard to tell.”
“Bit of both.” I settled into the chair across from him.
A waiter appeared immediately, almost bowing. “Mr. MacKenzie. The usual?”
“Macallan 25,” Callum said smoothly. “Two glasses. Neat.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Starting early?”
“Celebratory drink for a family reunion.” He grinned, a wolfish expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Besides, I’m still on Zurich time. It’s practically bedtime.”
When the waiter left, Callum leaned back, studying me. “So. Tell me about her.”
I did. All of it. Marco’s death, Arthur’s takeover attempt, the connection I’d felt with Theresa from that first meeting. The Scottish partnership I’d arranged, Arthur’s sabotage of the CFIUS filing, the board meeting in eight days.
Callum listened without interrupting, sipping his whisky like it was water. When I finished, he set down his glass.
“Arthur Vance. CFO for eight months, hired by the board after Marco Carideo died.” He said it like he was reading from a file in his head. “Harvard MBA, previous positions at two Fortune 500 companies. Clean record, respected in his field. Boring.”
“You already know about him.”
“I ran a quick check while you were driving over. Surface level.” He shrugged. “But the sabotage you’re describing—including old military research in a CFIUS filing? That’s not just ambitious. That’s devious. I like him already.”
“He’s trying to destroy her life.”
“Which means he has something to gain. Follow the money, Patrick. It always leads to the rot.”
He pulled out a slim leather notebook and a gold fountain pen. “Give me everything you have. Arthur’s background, CarideoTech’s corporate structure, timeline of events. Home address, usual haunts, known associates.”
I handed him a folded paper I’d prepared that morning.
He scanned it, nodding. “Thorough. You’ve been thinking about this.”
“Since yesterday.”
“The Scottish partner—Duncan MacLeod. Old family?”
“Different MacLeods. But yes, old money. His daughter has Type 1 diabetes. This isn’t just business for him.”
“Personal stakes. Those are always the most interesting leverage points.” He pocketed the paper.
“I’ll make some calls. I have a friend at Treasury who owes me for a favor in Brussels.
Another at State who enjoys gossip. Give me seventy-two hours.
But I should warn you. Corporate intelligence, leaked documents, information that can’t be used in court.
.. it gets messy. Are you ready to get your hands dirty, cousin? ”
“Theresa’s already drowning in mess. Arthur made sure of that.” I leaned forward. “I’m not asking for permission, Callum. I’m asking for ammunition.”
Callum smiled, and this time it looked genuine. “Good lad. I always knew you had a bit of the devil in you.”
He stood, dropping a stack of bills on the table that would cover the meal three times over. Callum never left unnecessary paper trails. “I’ll be in touch. And Patrick? Be careful with this one. You’re not just protecting her company. You’re protecting her. That’s different.”
“I know.”
“Good.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “She must be very special.”
“She is.”
He was gone before I could respond further, moving through the restaurant with the calm confidence of a man who owned every room he walked into.
I sat alone for a moment, staring at the bay through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere out there, Arthur Vance was probably sitting in his own office, confident his plan was working. That Theresa would fail, the board would panic, and he’d emerge with control of CarideoTech.
He had no idea what was coming.
Neither did I, really.