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THE FUND

Dorchester Publishing

Chapter One

Jamison was rushing to finish his work and get down to Jonah's Bar. As the chief engineer on the Wombat's weapons modification, he always worked late and missed much of what happened in the world of happy hours, movies, and restaurants. He wanted tonight to be different because he needed the break, but the board of directors was making its final decision tomorrow and he had to make it an easy one. So he worked late, checking and rechecking every statistic, refiguring the costs and confirming the allowances for manufacturing delays and conversion complications. He had it all on his desk, black-and-white documents and full-color charts - clear, concise answers to any questions that might be asked.

At forty-seven years old, Jamison was the highest paid division head at Dillon. He loved working there, even with the threats and fears that erupted after the leaks began eleven months ago. He'd made good time at Dillon after two years in the army and his late start on college. His hard work and confident leadership shot him ahead of the normal promotional curve. He was a blue-flamer, and he knew people said so when he wasn't around.

It hadn't hurt that Dillon's management liked him, in spite of the strain he put on some restrictive company policies. The aerospace industry was competitive, and fights over government contracts were fierce. Jamison had proven he was tough and would fight like hell for his projects. His quick movements, youthful face, and wild blue eyes always looked ready for a challenge, and Dillon had given him plenty over the years. He made good on every one of them.

He liked to believe those battles were the reason he stayed in such excellent shape, a corporate motivation to keep his lean, six-foot frame powerful. But it was a lie. Although Dillon provided a gym and encouraged its employees to use it, that wasn't the reason Jamison stayed strong and fast.

The unsettling truth was that he stayed fit, absolutely battle-ready, because the crazy man demanded it.

Jamison pushed back from his desk, locked the data in the credenza behind him, and tried to ignore little worries about tomorrow. "Okay," he said, "everything's ready. The target ident parameters, the accuracy data and the cost projections. All my stuff's organized, so I guess I'm out of here. Time to knock back a few with-"

From out in the hall's gloom a sound slipped under his door and burrowed into his ears - the scrape of a shoe. Then a click followed, light as breath but mechanical as the antipersonnel mines that had laced the foot trails and paddies of Vietnam. He snapped off his desk lamp and turned the room to black.

The click came again. The doorknob was turning. Slowly, the shadowy glow of the emergency lights leaked into the room as the door cracked open. He watched with the quiet stealth of a predator, half-thinking that he didn't have to worry because he was protected by Dillon's security force, but on some basic level doubting it. Then the alarm bell rang in his head and demanded that he trust himself for his own defense. He jumped to his feet and rushed for the door.

Like everyone who'd ever walked patrol in Indian Country, he would always respect the value of speed. Regardless of how badly he wanted to flush the war's damage from his soul, a combatant still lived inside him, holding on to the skills that had kept him alive. Speed was his friend. Stillness too, at times, but speed was best when suddenly put on the defensive.

He closed in on the threat, praying that this was a false alarm. But the door kept moving. He grabbed the handle, threw open the door, and shot his hands at the intruder's neck, ready to break it if necessary.

Ted Bronovich stood frozen in the doorway, his right leg twitching in an attempt to get moving.

"Hey, slow down, it's me!"

Jamison jerked back his hands but kept his eyes on his boss's face, watching the kind of fear he'd never seen Bronovich show before. Not at work, and certainly not in the off-hours they shared together. His face mixed fright with resignation, the look of a person who sees some unavoidable disaster hurtling at him like a killer meteor, far-off and small but closing fast. Some terrible event he has no power to stop.

"Damn, Ted, why sneak around in the dark? You trying to give me a heart attack?"

Bronovich didn't answer. He just shuffled side to side in the doorway, his sharp nose slicing through the air in front of him. He looked down the hall in both directions before he stepped inside Jamison's office. He wasn't wearing his jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows of his thin arms. His Christmas tie, a pattern of decorated trees and candy canes, drooped from his skinny neck.

Jamison reached to snap on the lights, but Bronovich grabbed his hand. "I've just got a minute," he said, then glanced again down the hall. "Let's leave the lights off."

Jamison checked the hall before he closed the door and leaned against it. Bronovich's silhouette moved around in his office until somewhere over on the other side, completely lost in the darkness, his footsteps stopped.

"Okay, Ted, what's up?"

Bronovich took a heavy breath. "Peter, I shouldn't be telling you this, but I wanted to give you a little warning." Jamison started toward him, but stopped. The darkness protected both of them and gave them the same advantage, so if he moved noiselessly to a new spot farther down the wall, Bronovich wouldn't know where he was.

"Thanks. Tell me what?" He moved right after speaking, hating that his mind still worked this way.

Bronovich's voice drifted to him from somewhere along the rear wall, near the corner.

"They've taken your project off the agenda for tomorrow's board meeting. I just found out. Knew you'd want to know."

Jamison took a noisy step forward, looked hard to find his friend in the darkness and get a look at what his face said.

"What do you mean, taken off the agenda? Another delay?"

Bronovich moved too, but then he spoke, making him easy to follow. "I wish. It's been canceled."

"Canceled? Why? I had approval from Casey."

"I know. Dead now, though. Sorry."

"The Navy can't keep flying the Wombat without changes. Too many pilots have died already. You know that better than anyone. What's their reason?"

"Maybe your system didn't measure up, or it was a victim of economics. Maybe it's your old girlfriend's fault. I had nothing to do with killing it, so I really don't know."

"What about our jobs? Will my team be reassigned?"

Bronovich moved again. Jamison tracked him, but still couldn't see him.

"Don't worry, Peter. You're too valuable to lose. They're already talking about reassigning you to the attack platform of the F-35 Joint Strike Fighter. It's a great opportunity to work on an all-services, next-generation warplane."

"What about my team?"

Bronovich didn't answer.

"Ted, it's almost Christmas. Tell me they're not going to lay them off."

Bronovich walked through the darkness and stopped in front of Jamison. "I'm sorry, but yes. They'll be gone next Friday."

"Friday? Shit! Will they get severance pay?"

"They're contract workers, Peter. No severance, no guarantees. You know that."

Bronovich opened the door, letting the dim light of the hall drift in.

"Is Casey still upstairs? I want to hear it from him."

Bronovich stopped and lowered his voice as panic crept into it. "You can't go up there, Peter. They'd know I was the one who told you. With all the other leaks, they'd have my ass. Dillon is too dangerous these days."

"You're telling me."

"Yes. I am telling you. And if you make a stink, they'll just fire you."

Jamison shrugged, thinking that there were lots worse things than being fired. He stood still for a minute, feeling Bronovich's breath on his cheek. "Ted?"

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you risk this? Why did you come down here and tell me?"

Bronovich winced. "As a friend, I wanted you to know what was coming and give you a little time to prepare, a chance to do something. I doubt it's possible, but I wanted to give you the chance."

"I appreciate it."

"Well, actually, there is something else."

"Which is?"

"You know someone in the F.B.I., don't you? An agent with no connection to the investigation of Dillon's leaks?"

"Rich Blevins. Been friends since the army. Why?"

"You trust him?"

"With my life."

Bronovich rubbed his eyes. "Can you do me a favor, then? Will you tell him I'd like to talk to him? In confidence."

"About?"

"I've got a small problem, that's all. Nothing urgent, just whenever he gets a chance. Okay?"

"Sure. I'll tell him tomorrow. We box every Friday morning. Soon enough?"

"That'll be fine. Thanks. Our secret?"

"You bet." Jamison looked around his office, then came back to Bronovich. "I'm heading to Jonah's. Why don't you join me? We can talk a little, maybe help with each other's problems. What do you say? I could use your support around my design team."

Bronovich smiled, just slightly, and reached for the door. "No, I'm anxious to finish my work. The family's waiting."

"Understood."

Jamison stepped into the hall and watched Bronovich ease into the darkness, creeping along the shadowy walls until he was invisible, just the sounds of his footsteps coming back. When they faded out, Jamison grabbed his coat and briefcase and ran through the darkened halls. He cleared security and hit the cold air of another winter night in northern Virginia.

He drove along the southern shore of the Potomac, the Washington Monument's reflection bouncing off the black water. It was after eleven when he reached Jonah's Bar, and he was hoping the place would be empty and his team gone. But the parking lot was full and he had to park in the back. Trees shrouded this spillover lot and the spaces weren't marked. It was just a dark little slab of asphalt for employee parking.

He turned off his car but sat for a minute before opening the door. He understood his own limits, knew the pressure crowds put on him. He was already jacked up, so this might be a bad night to push the boundaries. Besides, what was he going to say anyway? You've been laid off, nice working with you, now good-bye? But he'd promised them he would come, so he bolted through the cold and entered the bar without slowing down.

He took a deep breath and pushed himself into the crowd, worked his way to his team's table, and smiled and shook his head when he got there. "Okay, wild people, who's the designated driver here?"

Steve Harrison sat at the far end of the table with three men on one side, and two women and a man on the other. They'd saved the head of the table for Jamison but had used the spot to store empty glasses. Harrison waved for a waitress, then squinted at Jamison.

"You, Peter. You, sir, are the designated driver." His slurred Southern diction was loud and rose above the noise of the crowd. "And I should tell you that we're damn glad you finally showed up."

A waitress wriggled up to the table and Jamison ordered a gin and tonic. Then he turned back to Harrison. "No way, Steve. You're not throwing up in my car again."

All of them laughed at the old story, which made Jamison sorry he'd said it. He'd come here wanting to relay a hint of Bronovich's news, to give them some kind of a warning that tomorrow would be a bad day. Their laughter made it impossible. He glanced at their faces and thought about their families, then looked into their futures and saw how hard it would be. Defense cutbacks and corporate downsizing had eliminated thousands of jobs, and there was no way Dillon would hold onto excess engineers in this tight market. If the Wombat modification project died, it would be impossible for them to find any kind of good work. There was nothing but suffering ahead for them, a holiday present from Dillon Aerospace.

He couldn't stay seated once that vision hit him. He stood up, dropped five dollars on the table, and tried not to rush his words but did anyway. "All right, folks, I've got to run. Just stopped by to tell you not to stay too late or drink too much. Those are the rules, my friends, and now you know them."

Seven pairs of eyes locked on to him. Harrison jumped up, wobbled, then sat back down. "My goodness, Peter, what's your hurry?"

"I just remembered something I need to do at the office. You people have fun, and don't be careless. I'll see you in the morning." He turned and left before they could argue.

He squeezed through the crowd and headed for the doors. He needed room and ran outside. It was colder now, freezing, and he praised the icy wind that numbed his senses. He had a job to do, an important job. His friends would turn desperate tomorrow, counting on him to save their jobs, their homes, their futures. He needed to focus.

He would go to the office and go over every detail again. Maybe find some way to change the board's decision.

He punched the code into his car's keyless entry system and the lock engaged. He froze, suddenly remembering tripwires and toe-poppers and all the men who had been lost to them because of a casual attitude in situations like this, angry that he still wasted so much of his life thinking about fighting and staying alive. It wasn't normal and he knew it, he just couldn't stop himself from doing it.

Could there possibly be a bomb? Was someone lurking around the dark lot? Was he standing on anything that might be pressure-sensitive? Or had he simply forgotten to lock the car earlier?

In less than a second the hairs on his neck prickled against his collar and sent a little shiver along his spine. He had locked the car; he remembered doing it. He took a big jump back, anticipating everything, or nothing, then ran around the car next to his. He crouched beside it and waited.

Three or four minutes passed. He didn't move but stayed low beside the next car, his eyes peering through the glass and watching for an attacker to rush from the shadows. But nothing happened. He began to shiver, and shivering always sucked when speed or deftness might be necessary. He stood slowly and scanned the area again. Then he crept to his car, looking for some sign of a break-in. He walked around it, noticing everything, wishing it had snowed so there'd be prints.

But there was nothing to indicate tampering or a break-in. His CDs were still on the seat, the player still in the dash, his briefcase on the floor. He'd learned a lot in the jungle, and the senses that had kept him alive over there were on full alert. He was combat-ready, bladed, as Lt. Blevins had called it.

He crouched beside the passenger door and turned away, covered his head with one arm as he pulled the door's handle, hoping he wouldn't have body parts blown off, or car parts blown into him, or any combination of the two.

The car didn't explode, so he elbowed over the floor and looked under the dash for unusual wires or a detonation cord. He climbed across the center console to check for a triggering mechanism attached to the driver's door.

Finally, he eased into the driver's seat, shut his eyes, and turned the key. The car sparked to life, and the suddenness of it twisted him involuntarily toward the door. He sat there embarrassed for a minute, then drove slowly out of the spooky lot, picking up speed as he hit the highway back to Dillon, wondering who had been in his car and why.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from THE FUND by Wes DeMott Copyright © 2004 by Dorchester Publishing. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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