Armageddon Conspiracy Read Online Free PDF Page A

collapsed, while Brent kept moving, spinning leftward around Smythe, letting his heavy briefcase swing wide and catching the second mugger in the hip. The man grunted and splayed on the sidewalk. He came back up in a low crouch, holding his side, and Brent saw the glint of bare steel.
    He dropped his briefcase, deciding it was too unwieldy against the knife. The first mugger was still on his hands and knees, stunned but trying to stand. Before he could, Brent grabbed him by his pants and the neck of his sweatshirt, jerked him off the ground, and hurled him into his partner. Both muggers went down in a tangle. Brent rushedover, pinned the second man’s wrist with one foot, and stomped on his hand with the other until he heard bones crack.
    He kicked the loose knife into the gutter as sirens sounded in the distance. When he looked around he spotted Smythe with his cell phone to his ear.
    “I already called 911,” Smythe said breathlessly.
    Brent glanced back at the two men, both getting to their feet, one cradling his wrist. Heedless of horns and screeching brakes, they scuttled across Fifth Avenue and disappeared over the park wall.
    “Come on,” Brent said as he bent over and picked up his briefcase. “Let’s get out of here.”
    “We have to wait for the police,” Smythe said.
    “You’ll be looking at mug shots all night. Your wife will be pissed.”
    Smythe gave him an amazed look. “You’re a damn Kamikaze!” Still, he started walking. Halfway down the block he turned. “You do stuff like that all the time?”
    Brent winked. “Every chance I get.”
    “I owe you,” Smythe said. He shook his head as he continued to look at Brent. “Thanks.”
•  •  •
    On the second floor of the Genesis Advisors building, Fred Wofford stood in the window of his darkened office. He had witnessed the entire confrontation—in fact he had arranged it. Even though he hadn’t intended for Smythe to be involved, it had worked even better. He nodded to himself. The kid with the injured arm would have a fat wad of cash to compensate him for his discomfort, but more important Wofford had seen what he needed about how Brent Lucas would respond.

SIX
NEW YORK, JUNE 14
    A HALF HOUR LATER, BRENT perched atop an unpacked moving box as he sipped a cold beer and gazed out his apartment window at the shrouding yellow mist. One hand was bruised and his shoulder ached, yet he felt pleased. He’d reacted purely on instinct, just like a Lucas, like his father or Harry or his Uncle Fred, having no thought for self-preservation.
    The building across the street had large picture windows, and there was a dinner party underway. In other apartments couples watched television; a man read to his daughter on a couch. He watched them, thinking that these were normal people, not those who would risk everything on a random confrontation. He sipped his beer, thought about how unlike them he was, and his mood darkened.
    He’d been brought up to think he was different from the others in his family. He was smart—in school they’d called him “gifted.”At Yale, as an All-Ivy football star, he’d been swept into a different world. Courted by wealthy alums, he’d gone on to become an analyst with a prestigious investment bank. Two years later he’d entered business school then joined a fund manager in Boston. His rise had been meteoric and had shown no signs of slowing until the ugly truth of an ugly business began to chip away at the fairytale facade.
    The greed of his co-workers had been a slap in the face and brought the values of his family rushing back. He’d blown the whistle without a thought of what it would do to his career. Now here he was at GA, still making great money but an outsider and a short-termer. Where was he headed from here, he wondered?
    He took a sip of beer and shook his head because his career was only part of the problem. The bigger piece was Maggie. He closed his eyes and pictured her. Lush black hair, worn short