Moonlighter

1. Early July

EARLY JULY

ERIC

Reporting for a lunch date at my family’s security firm is always trippy.

My brother likes secrets. So much so that I don’t actually know the legal name of this place. To outsiders—such as me—Max refers to it as The Company. The family joke is that I’ll learn the name in his will after he dies.

“But what if I die first?” I always ask.

“You won’t,” is his reply. “Your line of work is safer than mine.”

And that’s saying something, since I’m a professional hockey player. My workdays are spent facing down a dozen guys with big sticks who are trying to crush me like a bug.

I approach the receptionist behind the imposing reception desk. She looks normal enough. She’s pretty hot, honestly. Although she’s probably trained in a dozen ways to kill me. My brother likes to hire sweet young things with a military background and serious skills at the firing range.

“Hi there,” I say as she waves me forward.

I happen to know that the desk itself is bulletproof.

And there’s an armored cabinet at the receptionist’s feet, should she wish to make herself scarce.

And those are just the security features that I know about.

“I’m Eric Bayer, and I have a lunch date with the assholes who run this place. ”

The young woman blinks. And then her eyes light up with recognition. After all, I look a lot like a scruffier, less intense version of her boss. She gives me a big, flirtatious smile. “Nice to meet you, Eric Bayer.”

I hold my breath, because what comes next is crucial for her job security.

There’s a beat of hesitation on her side of the desk. But then she does exactly the right thing. “Can I see some ID?”

“Of course.” I slide my driver’s license across the granite countertop, happy that she got it right. Even if she recognizes me from TV—and my team got a whole lot of publicity this past month—the poor thing would have been fired if she didn’t verify my identity.

My brother is a ruthless employer. And kind of a dick. But he can’t afford to make mistakes. His clients’ lives are on the line.

The receptionist scans my ID. Then she pretends to scrutinize it.

But we both know that a computer is currently checking my driver’s license number against a database of known undesirables.

And because there are approximately seventeen cameras focused on me at the moment, a human is also watching somewhere, and weighing in on whether or not I’ll be allowed upstairs.

There’s a soft chime, after which a little green light on her desk winks on.

I grin. “You know what that means.”

“Congratulations on not being an imposter. Here’s your pass and your ID.” She takes another appreciative glance at my photo before handing it back. She looks me dead in the eye and drops her voice to a sultry whisper that makes “Have a nice lunch” sound dirty.

“You know it.” I throw in a wink to amuse whomever is manning the control room right now. Maybe I’ll ask for her number on my way out.

But first, lunch. I move my ass toward the elevators. The doors part as I arrive. I step inside, and they close again.

A sensor has already scanned the chip on my visitor’s pass, so the moment the doors close, the car begins to rise toward the sixth floor. The elevator buttons wouldn’t even work if I pressed one. Only employees can choose a destination, and only if they’re approved to go there.

It’s like an even more paranoid version of the Death Star. Although, I’ve been promised tacos, and I don’t think the dark lord eats Mexican.

Buying me lunch is no strain, because my brother and my dad have made several billion dollars together. And they did it by being the two most paranoid men in Manhattan.

I glide slowly higher, past five floors I’ve never visited.

But presumably they’re filled with busy employees.

My father started this company when I was eleven years old.

Before that, he had a couple of successful decades as a naval intelligence officer, and then as a police chief on Long Island, where I grew up.

In my father’s hands, The Company was an ordinary private security firm. Back then it even had a name—Bayer Security. If you had some money and needed to keep your family safe, you could call Carl Bayer to set up a discreet security detail.

But then, about ten years ago, my brother left his government job. Although he was never allowed to say so, I’m pretty sure he used to be a CIA analyst specializing in cyber security.

So Max joined Dad’s firm, offering to help Dad branch out into e-security as well as physical security.

I thought their partnership wouldn’t last the week.

It’s generous to say that Dad and Max both have strong personalities.

The less generous version is that Dad’s kind of a cheerful tyrant and Max is a broody asshole.

Besides—Dad’s gumshoe security work and Max’s hacker skills didn’t seem to have much in common.

But what do I know? The firm took off like a rocket and never looked back. They made their billions by chaining Max’s genius brain to Dad’s New York connections.

Not only did my brother accurately predict the importance of cybersecurity, he was one of the first geniuses on the scene.

As security evolved from muscles and guns to a cyber arms race, he and Dad—plus Max’s college roommate—began writing the code and designing the tools that keep captains of industry safe and their data secure.

They also license a few of their toys to other security companies and probably the government.

It’s the most successful company that you’ve never heard of.

In contrast, I’ve been a professional athlete for fifteen years. I make seven million dollars a year, and I’m basically the family slacker.

The elevator doors part on the sixth floor.

I step out into a vast open space. This is no typical C-suite of plush offices.

It looks more like a Silicon Valley startup, with brightly colored furniture and a big kitchen along one wall.

There are offices up here, but the majority of the floor space remains open for collaboration and for testing whatever The Company needs to test. Weapons, maybe.

Or detection devices. Facial recognition software imbedded in sunglasses.

Tiny drones disguised as dragonflies. A phone signal jammer that looks like an ordinary pencil eraser.

Fun times on the sixth floor. I’m just here for the tacos.

My brother is sitting in his office, talking a mile a minute into his earpiece, his hands typing furiously at the same time.

The office window looks normal until you happen to glance at the computer screen.

Its display looks black, but that’s only a trick.

The glass in his office window blocks light waves from his monitor so that nobody passing by can read what’s on his screen.

The first time he showed me that glass in action, I thought it was amazing. “Jesus, really?” I’d said, ducking in and out of the office to see the difference. “You’re getting a patent for that, right?”

“No fucking way!” Max had looked appalled. “Only losers get patents. You have to disclose too much information. Patents are for suckers.”

If we didn’t look vaguely alike, it would be hard to guess we share a gene pool.

Dad’s office door is open, but he’s not inside. So I scan the wide-open areas, looking for his silver hair.

But it’s busy up here. Two young women are perched on an indescribable piece of furniture. It’s a bright salmon-colored sofa that’s shaped like a cresting wave. They’re having a discussion which involves wild gesticulation and frequent references to a laptop on the table in front of them.

Then there’s the two guys who are testing some kind of electronic device over against the wall.

One of them is standing with his arms and legs spread, while the other one waves a hand-held gizmo at his body.

I can’t make any sense of it. But there’s a ringing sound, and the two guys let out a whoop and high-five each other in an obvious nerdgasm.

And people think my job is weird.

I finally spot my father at the other end of the space, inside a conference room resembling a glassed-in tank. Dad’s assistant—Shelby—spots me approaching and opens the door. “Come in, Eric!” she says. “He’s in a feisty mood today, though. Careful.”

My father has been in a feisty mood for seventy-six years, and we both know it. “Hey, pops. What’s happening?”

“Eric.” He stands up and gives me a bear hug.

My dad is an affectionate man. Part of the reason his firm grew so fast (even before my genius brother got involved) is that he’s such a magnetic person.

He knows everyone in New York City, and he’s not afraid to hug ‘em all.

“Great to see ya. Shame about game seven.”

“Isn’t it?” I try to keep my expression neutral, but it’s going to be a while until I feel okay about it.

We lost in the last game of the final round.

We were literally one goal away from the Stanley Cup.

I played on an aching knee, with a barely healed shoulder.

I gave it everything I had, and my everything wasn’t quite enough.

“Sit, sit, sit!” Dad offers me a conference room chair like it’s a royal throne. Although, given the money they throw around, it might cost as much.

I sit down and lean back into the leather seat. “Where’s this taco joint, anyway? Is it in the neighborhood?”

“Listen,” Dad says. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Hmm?” I’m busy sizing him up, because I haven’t seen him in a while, and he’s getting on in years. He was forty when Max was born, and forty-two when I came along.

But I have to admit he looks as healthy as ever. He’s dressed in khaki pants and a button down, but there’s a very fit body under the starched fabric. He has a closet full of the same J. Press blue oxfords, which the housekeeper irons each week and rehangs in his closet.

The scent of Niagara shirt starch—the kind in the spray can? It’s the scent of my childhood.