HIS SAFE ROOM DOESN’T FEEL safe. He should have had stainless steel walls put in. They could get in, his enemies. They’re everywhere. Nylan snorts another line of coke. That’s better. It was just a paranoia burst. It’s over. Another snort. He’s safe. He’s in control. Things are fine. They’re fine! If only he didn’t have to deal with sycophants, these weak, pathetic wannabes.
The room is littered with pizza boxes that hold congealing slices, soda cans, beer bottles; there are cigarettes and overflowing ashtrays and an empty gin bottle and half-smoked joints, and it’s all so messy and disgusting.
Spellman’s over in the corner on the phone, frantic, frantic fool. Everything’s fine. Except for Spellman’s mess. He better pull it out of the bag. He better. He has to.
Nylan crosses to him. “Is he there? Is he ready? Is it happening?”
“I’m trying to find out!”
Nylan can smell himself, he’s disgusting too, the sweat has congealed on his body like the cheap oil on the pizza. His T-shirt is dark with sweat, so dark it looks like blood.
Mullen is over in another corner on his laptop, freaking out. Another loser. The Great Hacker got hacked himself. That’s when it all started to unravel. It’s not unraveling. Snort! There. Better.
“He’s in! He got into my encrypted files! Ahhhh!” Mullen leaps up, paces around, takes another toot. Man, has he lost his cool. He’s lost in Loserville. He stinks too, he smells like old, wet boot leather, rank.
“I thought you were the best in the world, Mullen. You told me you were the best in the world, and that joker Benton in IT got into your encrypted files!”
Mullen’s eyes bulge out, he looks like a freak, a strung-out freak. Pathetic.
Nylan goes over to the table and huffs up a line. He’s fine. He’ll get everything under control. He’s done it before, he can do it again. It’s all going to go down just as he planned. Just waiting for confirmation from Spellman. Then he has to make sure Erica is there. It’ll be the most spectacular news story ever. In history. As big as Lincoln’s assassination, as big as Dealey Plaza. He makes the news; he creates history. There’s never been anyone like him.
There’s that stupid dog, Wilmot, slumped, crumpled on the floor in the corner holding a bottle of whiskey, his body shaking. Is he sobbing? That’s sickening. Boy, true colors, huh, Fred, fold in the clutch, pathetic, blubbering slob.
NEVER GIVE UP. NEVER, EVER GIVE UP.
“It’s a go! He’s in place!” Spellman screams.
Nylan feels a surge of triumph. He calls Erica.
“Nylan,” she says.
“How’s the weather?”
“Terrifying.”
“Funny, you don’t sound scared.”
“It takes a lot to scare me. You know that, Nylan.”
“Just make sure you get to the airport. This is going to be the biggest story of your career.”
“I’m heading that way.”
“Don’t mess this up, Erica. There’s too much at stake. Don’t forget who made you a star. Where would you be without me? You’d be covering a Kiwanis Club picnic for some tenth-rate station in Buttcrack, New Hampshire. That’s where you’d be. Nowhere! I made you a star!”
“You sound a little stressed, Nylan. Is everything okay?”
“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you. I’m fine. I’m in control. I’m always in control. Don’t forget it, Erica. And get to that airport.”
He hangs up. He looks around the room at his loser lackeys. And the mess, the disgusting mess. He sucks up a line. He’ll get his cleaners in, everything will be spotless. Sparkling. Good as new. Like nothing ever happened. Beautiful. Perfect.
King of the Universe.
He picks up a filthy dish towel from the floor and mops the sweat off his face.