me what you do have, and I’ll go do my job. All right?”
He looked to be concentrating on something.
A thought occurred to her. “George, are you afraid that somebody in this club might hurt you?” Wow, what had Finn gotten into? “If you break your silence?”
She saw the incredulousness on his face and, a split second later, it evaporated. Putting on an overblown mask of concern, instead, he said, “Not scared, just…nervous. When I joined the Club, I thought it was going to be fun—parties, rowdy stuff. But the guy running it, Lincoln—he’s got a past. Lots of secrets. He’s a dictator, likes to be in charge, wants everybody to do things his way.”
“Is he forcing Finn to do these dangerous challenges?”
“Are you kidding?” George said dismissively. “That’s pure Finn. He’s forcing other people to do stuff, more and more life threatening. He’s taking the philosophy, and he’s… twisting it.” George was all but pleading with her. “I don’t even know him anymore. I think…he might hurt himself. Or…someone else.”
Her crap-ometer went into the red, and she sighed. George wasn’t going to be winning an acting award anytime soon. He was trying to discredit Finn, pure and simple. Perhaps it was time to do a little research into George’s activities, as well.
“Do you know where they meet? How many of them there are?” Anything useful?
“The meeting location changes all the time. There’s about thirty members, but I got out with a lot of other people when Lincoln took over.” His expression turned crafty, and he grabbed a piece of paper. “I can give you a few names, but that’s the best I can do. Please, don’t tell anyone I gave you this information.”
“I’ll be discreet,” she said, forcing herself not to roll her eyes as he furtively handed her the folded paper. She stood up, eager to get out of the cramped office and away from George. “If I have any further questions, I’ll call.”
“You know,” he said, standing up, as well, “it’s almost lunchtime. Maybe we could have something to eat. I could tell you about some of the adventures I had when I was a Player.”
Ugh, gag. “I’m not hungry, and I have a ton of things to do today,” she replied, keeping her voice neutral.
“Maybe some other time,” he shifted the point easily. “Or how about dinner?”
“I don’t date clients.”
“I’m not your client,” he countered, and got into her personal space.
She yanked open the door, shoving him a little with her elbow until he jumped away. “Technicalities. Keep up the good work, George.”
George was up to something, she thought. Fortunately, he seemed to lack follow-through, and right now, he was the lesser of her problems. As she headed to her office, she opened the piece of paper George had handed her. There were only a few names, but the one he’d written at the bottom was underlined.
Lincoln Stone, she mused. She’d start with him.
GEORGE LEFT WORK EARLY, heading for his favorite hangout, a bar about ten minutes away from Macalister Enterprises—close enough, but not so close that he’d run into other people from work. He got his usual booth and his usual order—a dirty Stoli martini. Then he sat and waited.
Victor, one of the aspiring accountants toiling away beneath Macalister’s chief financial officer, showed up, managing to look equal parts scared and irritated. He was tall, stick-thin, with mouse-brown hair and a receding hairline, somewhere in his early forties. “I got here as soon as I could,” he said, slipping into the booth. “Couldn’t we have met somewhere more private?”
“He’s not trying to shag you, Victor,” another voice said, low, with a distinct British accent. “Are you, George?”
George grinned, even as Victor looked uneasy when the newcomer, “Jonesy” St. James, neatly boxed him in on the other side of the booth.
“Just water for me,” ordered Victor. George saw sweat beginning to
He looked to be concentrating on something.
A thought occurred to her. “George, are you afraid that somebody in this club might hurt you?” Wow, what had Finn gotten into? “If you break your silence?”
She saw the incredulousness on his face and, a split second later, it evaporated. Putting on an overblown mask of concern, instead, he said, “Not scared, just…nervous. When I joined the Club, I thought it was going to be fun—parties, rowdy stuff. But the guy running it, Lincoln—he’s got a past. Lots of secrets. He’s a dictator, likes to be in charge, wants everybody to do things his way.”
“Is he forcing Finn to do these dangerous challenges?”
“Are you kidding?” George said dismissively. “That’s pure Finn. He’s forcing other people to do stuff, more and more life threatening. He’s taking the philosophy, and he’s… twisting it.” George was all but pleading with her. “I don’t even know him anymore. I think…he might hurt himself. Or…someone else.”
Her crap-ometer went into the red, and she sighed. George wasn’t going to be winning an acting award anytime soon. He was trying to discredit Finn, pure and simple. Perhaps it was time to do a little research into George’s activities, as well.
“Do you know where they meet? How many of them there are?” Anything useful?
“The meeting location changes all the time. There’s about thirty members, but I got out with a lot of other people when Lincoln took over.” His expression turned crafty, and he grabbed a piece of paper. “I can give you a few names, but that’s the best I can do. Please, don’t tell anyone I gave you this information.”
“I’ll be discreet,” she said, forcing herself not to roll her eyes as he furtively handed her the folded paper. She stood up, eager to get out of the cramped office and away from George. “If I have any further questions, I’ll call.”
“You know,” he said, standing up, as well, “it’s almost lunchtime. Maybe we could have something to eat. I could tell you about some of the adventures I had when I was a Player.”
Ugh, gag. “I’m not hungry, and I have a ton of things to do today,” she replied, keeping her voice neutral.
“Maybe some other time,” he shifted the point easily. “Or how about dinner?”
“I don’t date clients.”
“I’m not your client,” he countered, and got into her personal space.
She yanked open the door, shoving him a little with her elbow until he jumped away. “Technicalities. Keep up the good work, George.”
George was up to something, she thought. Fortunately, he seemed to lack follow-through, and right now, he was the lesser of her problems. As she headed to her office, she opened the piece of paper George had handed her. There were only a few names, but the one he’d written at the bottom was underlined.
Lincoln Stone, she mused. She’d start with him.
GEORGE LEFT WORK EARLY, heading for his favorite hangout, a bar about ten minutes away from Macalister Enterprises—close enough, but not so close that he’d run into other people from work. He got his usual booth and his usual order—a dirty Stoli martini. Then he sat and waited.
Victor, one of the aspiring accountants toiling away beneath Macalister’s chief financial officer, showed up, managing to look equal parts scared and irritated. He was tall, stick-thin, with mouse-brown hair and a receding hairline, somewhere in his early forties. “I got here as soon as I could,” he said, slipping into the booth. “Couldn’t we have met somewhere more private?”
“He’s not trying to shag you, Victor,” another voice said, low, with a distinct British accent. “Are you, George?”
George grinned, even as Victor looked uneasy when the newcomer, “Jonesy” St. James, neatly boxed him in on the other side of the booth.
“Just water for me,” ordered Victor. George saw sweat beginning to
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