part0073

Charles reached out to turn his alarm clock off. He wouldn’t go into work today. Honestly, he’d been around long enough that he didn’t need to make excuses when he wanted to take a couple of days off. He needed to get himself together, find a way to relax, and let off some steam. Maybe, he thought groggily, he could even get laid. That usually helped him back into the mood.

His hand fumbled for the alarm clock but found nothing but air. The sensation of almost falling was enough to wake him abruptly, barely in time to stop himself from falling over.

Blearily, he studied his surroundings and finally remembered that he hadn’t actually gone home the night before. He’d fallen asleep in his chair in his office. It was surprisingly comfortable, although at his age, he knew his back would ache for the rest of the day.

Maybe a visit to his masseuse was in order before anything else. He pushed heavily from his seat and stretched, groaning as he did so. A few annoying and painful clicks in his back left him sore but awake as he relaxed again, although he was also more than a little hungover. He sucked in a deep breath before he straightened his shirt and wandered to the sink in his office. He didn’t bother with a glass but sucked water straight from the tap before he shuffled to the toilet to take a piss.

He left the bathroom, feeling a little better, but something nagged at the back of his head. Something had vibrated, something that had woken him up at—holy shit, was it already ten in the morning?

Charles moved through his office and tried to decide what he was looking for. Another buzz from his desk answered the question and he dragged his attention to the phone. He repressed a massive yawn behind his hand as he picked it up and activated it.

He’d received a notification from the Foundation. He felt his blood run cold for a moment as he worked through the password protection to see what it was. Had the account been paid out? Had someone finally killed Anderson?

Excitement made his fingers jittery as he moved through the various encryptions to access the notifications. If the account had been paid out, proof would be offered to show that Anderson had been killed. That was something he wanted to see.

Request to change account name. Confirm? was the first notification.

“What?” He leaned in closer to the screen. There were three other notifications, and he swiped to see the next one.

Request to change account name confirmed. Specify account name change, said the second, and the cold feeling in his stomach turned icy. Any change in account names needed to go through him. The fact that it had already been confirmed without him even having access to it told him that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Account name changed from ‘James Anderson’ to ‘Charles Stafford’ confirmed. Account locked until contract completion. Charles stared at the final notification in horror before he let his phone fall from his numb fingers. The account name had been changed to his name. All the criminals with access to the Foundation would see a contract for five million dollars payable on the death of one Charles Stafford.

“Shit,” he said and retrieved his device hastily. It hadn’t broken, thank God. The new polymer screens were the best at preventing phones from breaking, which meant there was no way for him to think any of this was only his imagination. He checked it again. When nothing had changed, he checked it again to make sure.

The name had been altered. He was now the target.

“Fuck!” he screamed and bolted as quickly as he could to grab his coat and rush toward the door. He needed to get out. The contract had been elevated to a national level. If he could get out of the country, he could get to Bern. He could appeal the contract with the Foundation. They would be able to see that it was tampered with, fix their systems, and put the contract back on Anderson.

It was his only chance. The contract was locked. There was no way to change it for any reason until it was paid out. They were coming for him now, not Anderson.

“Mr. Stafford?” his secretary asked and looked up from her work. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“I…spent the night,” Charles said, truthfully enough. What was her name again?

“You have that eleven o’clock lunch meeting—” she started to say, but he cut her off quickly.

“Something’s come up, I won’t be able to make it,” he snapped and shook his head. “I’m actually taking some time off, so you can go ahead and cancel everything I have for the rest of the week. And why don’t you take that time off yourself? I need some time on my own.”

“Oh…of course,” she replied but looked concerned at the state he was in. “Are you all right, Mr. Stafford?”

“I’m fine,” he lied. Dammit, he didn’t have the time for this. The word was probably already out that he was in the building. Attackers would be waiting for him outside, and they would find a way inside if he remained there. His car was in the basement so he would be able to get out of the building without too much trouble.

“Oh…if you could do me a favor?” he asked as he moved to the elevator and pressed the button five or six times. “I’ll need you to buy me an airplane ticket. First class, of course, anywhere outside the country. Text me the details, if you could.”

“Of course, Mr. Stafford,” she said. He knew why she didn’t ask any questions. People in her position didn’t keep their jobs that way. Their bosses were supposed to be eccentric, and to make decisions like this on the fly was par for the course. It was their job to keep up with the eccentricities and make sure the rich men who employed them were able to do what they wanted with as much comfort and as little hassle as possible.

She would get him that ticket in a few minutes and all he had to do was get to the airport.

When he reached the garage, his driver was already waiting for him. The man was a veteran as well, trained in aggressive driving techniques, and doubled as a bodyguard. And Charles didn’t even know his name. He wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing. Getting too attached to these people would influence his decision to get rid of them when they inevitably made the mistakes he needed them never to make.

“Mr. Stafford.” The man nodded, clearly having been alerted of what to expect by the secretary who had called him. He opened the door for his boss to step into the town car that waited for him.

He circled once Charles was inside, slid into the driver’s seat, and eased them out of the parking lot onto the ramp that led up from the underground.

“Where to, sir?” he asked and glanced at him as they waited for the gate to raise and let them out.

“Get me to the airport,” he replied and leaned back in his seat. He knew he should have gotten the limo that had a bar. More than anything, he needed a drink.

“Will do, sir.” The driver tipped his hat as they emerged into the street. He seemed to know that they were in a hurry and ran lights and stop signs alike as they increased speed on the route to the international airport. A few minutes later, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and smiled to see a link to a one-way, first-class ticket to Tuscany, where he had a couple of properties. It was where he usually went when he needed time off. It was a good call.

Of course, he preferred to have a plane to himself, but a first-class ticket was good enough. With the airline she’d selected, he would have his own room with a bed, a TV, and Internet connection—a little luxury for the people who couldn’t afford to have their own plane.

He would buy a plane when all this was over. After all, he had the money for it, and he hated having to sign off to get one through Pegasus. Besides, it didn’t seem like he would get any more support from the company.

His eyes narrowed as they pulled off the highway and headed down into an underpass.

“Hey…what the hell are you doing?” Charles demanded. He leaned forward, but all the driver did was roll the partition up.

The cold feeling in his stomach returned. It continued to grow as they emerged beneath the freeway and came to a halt on the abandoned road.

He tried the door a couple of times, although he already knew they had been locked from the driver’s controls. The man stepped out of the vehicle, holding a phone to his ear. He spoke in Spanish, from the sound of it, and less than a minute later, a couple more cars arrived and parked around his town car.

“Fuck!” he gasped and fought to open the door again. That didn’t work, so he tried hitting the glass. He doubted that he would be able to get through the window and out, but he had to try. There would always be that annoying instinct for self-preservation and damned if he wouldn’t listen to it, even if it was one last time.

The men circled. There were nine of them, all toting assault rifles. They handed another one to the driver, who turned to face the vehicle.

Holy shit, he’d never thought it would end this way. Charles looked at the floor. He really wished they had gotten him a car with a bar. A last drink—or even a last smoke—sounded perfect. He wouldn’t get one, though. The men positioned themselves outside the car and raised their weapons like they were performing an execution. Which they were, he realized, and closed his eyes when the first opened fire.