Street Smart, page 21
Martin sighs and leans forward again, ducking his head in a conspiratorial gesture. “Truth? I suspected Grant was up to something almost immediately after he came on board six months ago. Always leaving to take these weird calls. Shady shit on the servers late at night. I never totally trusted the guy, but didn’t want to fire him without knowing his angle. I cut him out of all serious operations early on and basically just monitored him. When I found out he was talking to my father, I figured out pretty quick what they were up to.”
“Wow,” I say. “And you didn’t turn him in?”
Martin snorts a laugh. “Turn him in? And launch an ugly, expensive legal battle, federal investigation, and very public corporate war with my competition at a time when I’m trying to fly under the radar? No way. I just let them do their thing and planted fake documents for them to steal.”
I gasp. Marcos grins.
“February twelfth,” Marcos says, slapping the table. “You cloned and altered your QMS on February twelfth.”
Martin nods, again looking impressed. “Yeah. Took a whole team of trusted employees and an entire day of work, but yeah. I probably should have done more to hide the fact that all those files were fake, but if you’re here, having this conversation with me, clearly they haven’t figured that out yet.”
“No, they haven’t,” Marcos says. “And since I have experience with quality management systems, it sounds like they want to bring me in to help them interpret yours.”
“My fake one,” Martin corrects with a sly smile. Marcos returns it. Yep, they’re two bro-points away from a guys’ weekend in Vegas.
“It would really screw them up to waste all their time and resources countering technology and an organization that doesn’t exist.” Marcos’ voice holds a tinge of awe. “They think they have proprietary hardware drawings of your satellites and test scripts. Instead, they’ll be studying, developing, and counteracting gibberish. The financials are all fake too?”
Martin returns a self-satisfied shrug.
Genius. Also, my stomach drops when I hear the unspoken conclusion hanging in the air around us. I see it too in the look Martin and Marcos exchange. It’s settled. Marcos needs to continue riding this wave. Sandeke is already on the wrong track. Marcos can find out how far off and keep him there. He has to go on that yacht trip. I hate it, but there’s no chance of talking him out of it now.
I’m also certain of another truth.
“There’s something else,” I say. Marcos must know what I’m about to disclose and offers an encouraging nod. I steady my gaze on Martin. “All that suspicious behavior you noticed in Grant? It probably wasn’t just secret spying for Sandeke Telecom. We have reason to believe Grant actually works for Brighthouse. He’s probably spying on Sandeke also.”
Martin and Kaitlyn’s look of shock quickly morphs into what I’m sure is the Martin Sandeke version of glee. “Grant is a plant from Brighthouse?”
“Sounds like a t-shirt slogan. Watch the rhyming, Lord Byron,” Kaitlyn mutters, and Martin’s expression shifts into amusement.
He cocks his head at her. “What would you prefer?”
“Hmm… spy, scout, mole…”
Martin focuses back on us. “Grant is a mole from Brighthouse?” he repeats dryly. Kaitlyn relaxes, now as satisfied with this twist as the rest of us. Martin shakes his head, studying the table in wonder. “This is amazing. Brighthouse is Sandeke Telecom’s biggest competitor. The spy they sent after us is actually spying on them? Talk about Karma.” His smile is genuinely friendly when it lands on me. “It took a lot of guts to go against your father. Your family business.” Hey, maybe I’ll be invited on that Vegas trip, too. I hope Kaitlyn goes.
I return his smile and shrug. “Our world may be draped in shades of gray, but sometimes right is just right. Marcos is the one who taught me the value of fighting a battle, even if you might not win the war.”
Marcos meets my gaze, his eyes offering a clear window into the intricate maze that is his mind. Gosh, I’m glad I’m on his side of the war.
His fists clench on the table, his jaw set for a fight. “This proves the winners and losers in any equation are never a guarantee. Goliath only wins if David consistently backs down.”
He’s right. It’s incredible how quickly this entire situation has turned on its head. I scan the group, enjoying the communal reaction as we bask in that beautiful image. It was a bumpy road getting here, but now that we’ve arrived? Pretty damn satisfying.
“Kind of funny that the monopolies who wanted to kill a startup could end up destroying each other instead. SAT Systems might be the only one to come out of this unscathed,” I say, glancing over at Marcos. My intern. My partner. Mine.
Marcos grins back with all the radiance of a future CEO. A man who’s determined to change the world.
That smile.
Note to the corporate monster: Better get ready for that smile. It’s coming to take you down.
Part V
Measure
22—The Loser
Marcos
Martin didn’t have a ton of advice for me on how to attack this day trip with his father. It was obvious by the hostile cloud that settled over him that, while he endorsed our plan—and even appreciated the sacrifice on his behalf—he’d rather engage in a Nash-level artist-eye-gouging than endure such a trip himself. In fact, his guidance basically boiled down to: “Try your best not to murder anyone because prison sucks.” Acknowledged.
My attempt to get Eva a ticket went better, and in fact, too well. As soon as we arrive at the marina, it becomes clear that our exclusive evil spy convention has morphed into a full-on couple’s yacht party.
“This should be interesting,” Eva says. “Also, is this a private yacht or a cruise ship?”
“I count at least three decks. Four, if you include a lower deck. It’s going to be harder than we thought to keep track of everyone today.”
“I’m guessing Patrice won’t be a problem. She’ll be keeping track of you,” she mutters. “Why’d you have to wear that shirt?”
“What’s wrong with my shirt?”
“Nothing, except you look even hotter than usual.” She says this with such bitterness, I swallow the urge to apologize for being attractive.
“It’s a teal button-down.”
“Exactly. Do you not look in the mirror in the mornings and see what those colors do to your eyes? Plus, the sleeves. Don’t even get me started on the sleeves.”
I stare down at my sleeves—normal cotton fabric rolled up to the elbow like usual. “What’s wrong with my sleeves?”
“Um… everything?” She waves her hands over my arms. “You have them rolled to maximum hotness length.”
There are hotness lengths? That would have been helpful information at previous jobs.
“What should I have worn?” I ask with a smirk.
“I don’t know. Pretty much anything else. Except a suit. You’d look ridiculously good in that. Or a bathing suit. Or any of the t-shirts or other button-downs I’ve seen you in… okay, fine. You could have borrowed a shirt from Chad.”
“Actually, he would’ve loved that. He tried to get me to go home with him to watch him change the other day.”
“What?!”
“I didn’t. We had our impromptu storage closet meeting—oh crap. Is that J-Dawg?”
Eva follows my gaze to the giant bald man running security at the entrance to the boat. He’s traded his black jeans and tightly fitted black tee for a black suit and aviator sunglasses, but it’s definitely the man who has the power to ruin another important moment of my life. Our brilliant spy plan is quickly turning into a very bad idea.
“Yeah, he does lots of private gigs,” Eva says, not sounding concerned. “Kyle hired him as a bouncer from the security firm Reedweather Media and Sandeke Telecom use.”
She grabs my arm when I hesitate on the dock. “Wait, are you worried? We’ve already been through the stripper thing with him. He knows you work for me now. I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“Yo, Reno! Ms. Eva! Small world!” J-Dawg shouts to us.
We lift our hands in a small wave as I cringe, and Eva scrunches her face in mock apology. “Or not,” she whispers.
“He probably thinks I’m today’s entertainment,” I mumble.
Eva’s smile grows, and I don’t like the new glint in her eyes.
“No,” I say, giving her a hard look.
“What? It’s a good idea. We missed a golden opportunity, I think.”
I roll my eyes. “Intern Spy isn’t weird enough? Now we’re moving on to Stripper Spy?”
“You could do a whole boardroom theme. Think of the potential for a water cooler prop!” Her arm tightens around mine with her grin, and I both hate and love how much brainpower she’s devoting to that image. When her fingers dig into my bicep well beyond what’s required for a polite stroll on a marina, apocalyptic prophesies for the coming afternoon begin flashing along the horizon.
“You’ve never done it for me, you know,” she says as we walk.
“What, strip?”
She nods, her gaze darkening into hungry excitement entirely inappropriate for an office event. Damn. Wish I’d known about the sleeve thing a long time ago.
“Um, I’ve stripped for you several times now,” I say. “In multiple locations.”
“You know what I mean. You haven’t danced. Or shown me the spreadsheet. I’m dying to see the spreadsheet.”
Yeah, I never should have mentioned the spreadsheet—a problem for later. Right now, I’m more concerned about J-Dawg’s grin at our approach.
“Oh, no way. You workin’ Sandeke’s party, Reno?”
I can’t even look at Eva as I shake my head with what I feel is an entirely understandable scowl. “Yes, we’re here for Sandeke’s party. But no, I’m not working it. I’m Marcos, remember? An employee of Reedweather Media?”
Great, he looks genuinely confused again. Did nothing register from our previous encounter? But there’s no time for a recap when Reedweather ambles toward us with a scotch in hand.
“I thought that was you, Mark-O! We’ve been waiting. Eva,” he adds severely. Right. Still need to ask about that strange greeting she gets from her father. “Denver Sandeke only has the good stuff,” he tells me in a serious tone, lifting his glass. “Can I interest you in a beverage?”
“I’d love a drink,” I say, eager to escape before J-Dawg can point me to a dressing room or something equally incriminating. I offer a tight smile and step past J-Dawg just as he leans down.
“You’re gonna clean up tonight, kid. Deep pockets.” He pats his own with a knowing grin.
Reedweather’s face contorts in confusion, and Eva grabs his arm.
“Rummy,” she explains as she drags him away. “We’ll be playing cards today, right? We’re so ready to win some money.” It’s a good cover, and better than anything I had queued. My brain was stuttering between “uh” and “gah,” about to settle on an unhelpful “ugh.”
We’ve just rounded the final turn, the rest of the guests fully in view, when Reedweather yanks us to a stop.
“Wait.” He’s clearly no less confused than he was several seconds ago. “Has Mary Lou been playing high stakes rummy this whole time?”
Is high stakes rummy a thing? It is now, according to Eva, who wasn’t a hundred percent sure she saw large amounts of cash being exchanged that one time last summer, but it sure looked like it. I don’t feel bad about the lie since the thought of his wife as a rummy shark seems to only excite Reedweather. If this were a Tuesday, no sleeping area on this boat would be safe right now.
In other news, Sandeke brought Patrice, and Grant brought… someone. I suppose he could be carrying his own sequined clutch for today’s aquatic adventure, but it seems more likely he’s holding onto it for someone else. It suddenly occurs to me that the nature of this becoming a couple’s party also puts Eva in the awkward position of being my date, not my boss, even though for the purposes of decorum and this spy mission she’s my boss, not my date—while in reality, she’s probably my date and my boss. I have no idea what to do with any of that. Eva seems unsure as well when she releases my arm and takes half a step away as we approach the other guests.
I’d like to pause to acknowledge that this yacht is the most glorious, ostentatious monument to wealth I’ve ever experienced. The main deck, where we’re presently located (I think), is an indoor ballroom-sized lounge with an enormous TV screen, full bar, array of leather seating, and a short stairway that leads to an outdoor space. By the bikini straps showing from under Patrice’s tiny sundress, I’m guessing the outside area boasts some sort of water feature. This is definitely a toy that screams, I have too much money and ran out of islands to buy. How about a portable one?
“Ah, Marcos. You made it,” Sandeke says, his hand outstretched and primed for The Handshake. And…
Nailed it.
He lets go with the business greeting equivalent of orgasmic release, and my annoying brain wonders what a businessman stripper routine would look like. I cast a subtle glare at Eva for planting that thought, but she’s busy at the bar, probably buying us time to sort out our relationship status for this event and giving me face time with Sandeke. That’s definitely a boss move. Then again, I like her because she’s smart and strategic, so it’s also a date move. Her outfit, a modestly cut white pantsuit, could also go either way based on the fact that it suggests boardroom over yacht party, but still mercilessly draws my gaze to her butt—especially when she leans against the bar like that. Seriously, how long does it take to get a drink at a private party of eight? The bartender is enjoying her company way too much.
“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Sandeke. This is a beautiful boat,” I say, forcing my attention from Eva’s magnificent rear to Sandeke’s less-than-magnificent face. I don’t know anything about Martin’s mother, except that she must have had a pristine physical genetic code to pass on to her son. He was fortunate not to inherit his father’s thin, crooked nose and suspect hairline, both of which make you positive there’s some bully-style overcompensation going on in the ruthless tycoon. What do they say about inferior men owning superior yachts? Okay, fine. No one says that, but they should—based on this one instance right now.
“And so fortunate Eva could accompany us today.” His tone doesn’t support this statement, however. In fact, he sounds as if he views her presence as rather unfortunate. When his gaze flickers to Patrice, I shudder. Maybe Eva was right to be concerned about an attempted yacht-knapping.
“Yes. Eva is a tremendous asset to the team.” Can’t hurt to cement her position as well.
“Well, hopefully not so tremendous that we can’t steal you away this afternoon. I have big plans for you.”
Ah, so this is where Reedweather learned his creepy killer clown grin. Sandeke doesn’t include a finger gun, though, which I find disappointing.
I swallow and force a return smile. “Looking forward to it.”
“But don’t you worry. There will be plenty of time for play as well.”
Okay, well now I’m worried as Sandeke saunters away to greet Grant’s date, who’s finally returned from wherever she was. I ignore the fact that she looks exactly like Grant and join Eva at the bar.
“Grant’s date just came back holding her phone,” I whisper. “Don’t look. They’re facing us.”
“But Grant had her purse.”
“Exactly. Which means she definitely left to make a call, not to go to the bathroom or something.”
“That woman over there? She was on her phone,” the bartender interrupts. We stare at him in surprise and he shrugs. “I heard her a minute ago when I went down to get more glasses. It sounded intense.”
The staff. Of course! They’re going to be the key to our surveillance today. Guess that also means I’ll have to pay J-Dawg another visit.
“Intense, how?” I ask. “Angry intense? Eager intense? Intrigued intense?”
“Hmm.” He glances toward the stairs to the lower deck, presumably where glasses are stored and intense phone calls are made. “I guess… kinda like… intense intense? I heard a few words, though, if you’re interested.”
We nod, mirroring his conspiratorial slant over the bar. “What words?” I ask when he seems overly caught up in proper spy posturing.
“Oh. Um. She definitely said the word ‘leverage’… although now that I think about it, maybe it was beverage? She did ask me for a chardonnay on her way by. Also, she said ‘lighthouse.’”
That one’s more promising.
“Are you sure it wasn’t Brighthouse?” Eva whispers.
He thinks for a moment and shakes his head. “No. Maybe. No. Definitely, ‘lighthouse,’ which makes sense because we’re on a boat. It actually sounded like kitehouse but that’s not a word. Right? I don’t think so. But I guess maybe in Scandinavia?”
No. On multiple levels, no.
“Well, thanks,” I say. “If you learn anything else that might be of interest…” I slide a few bills his way, which is pretty much the most baller spy move yet. Eva seems impressed as well—or surprised. Sometimes I can’t tell those two looks apart on her. Damn, I wish I already had a scotch in hand. And a cigar. I’d chew on the end and nod super-shrewdly right now.
“Hey, can I get a scotch neat, please?” I ask the bartender.
He nods. “What kind, sir?”
Crap. What were the kinds again? Trivia or something. No. Those are random facts about stuff. Trivet? That might be the thing for protecting tablecloths from hot pans. Dammit. Got way too overconfident in my spy game.
“Trivello, if you have it,” Eva interjects. “I’ll have one too.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She winks back, and suddenly I’m not sure which of us is the James Bond of this scenario. The bartender slides us our drinks, and we touch glasses in a quick spy toast before moving away from the bar.
