2 A Month of Mondays Read online

  He lost interest in Hallie, but evidently she was waiting on him to say something. He did not have anything to offer, so he stood there clicking his nail on the ignition key to his 2009 Bugatti Veyron. He continued to stare at the menu as if it had changed overnight. It didn’t matter. He would order the same thing as he did every weekday.

  “Caramel Macchiato with a side of cinnamon and a strawberry cream cheese Danish. To go,” Hallie said. She stood beside him with a smug look on her face, sipping her espresso. The muffin lay on the counter, looking forgotten.

  “Hmm. Yes. And an extra shot of espresso today, Barb.” He had noted the café clerk’s name badge earlier. He was perturbed that Hallie already knew something about him. All he knew about her was that she chewed her nails. Maybe that was something. He stored the information for now.

  “Wanna join me in the elevator on the way up?”

  “It’s a long voyage. I’m not sure I want to make that sort of commitment.” He still had not looked at her. The menu still held his interest. He watched as a fly crawled across the “We serve soups!” sign.

  Hallie pursed her lips and watched Barb’s back as she turned to grab the caramel.

  “I see. Tom said you were a hard nut to crack. I just thought…”

  “Yeah. Well, don’t think, rookie. React. You will live longer.” He congratulated himself. He was imparting sage advice and putting the new girl in her place at the same time.

  “Is that what you call what you did Thursday? A reaction?” She nodded and picked some poppy seeds off of her muffin with the nubs of her ragged nails. Her smug smile was barely visible out of his peripheral vision. She rolled the seeds between her thumb and finger.

  Jake left a ten dollar bill on the counter and took his Danish and macchiato from Barb. He remembered to smile. Barb always gave him extra caramel. Barb had a wart on her left cheek and a chipped front incisor. She wore White Diamond perfume and Avon hand lotion. She was right-handed and she spoke with a southern drawl, probably from Texas, he thought.

  Hallie followed him. Predictable. He thought about her nails. Her jacket: wool, yet it was June. Her heels were purchased from JC Penny. Her necklace looked like an heirloom. Probably her mother’s. He could not make out her accent. Possibly Pennsylvania? It didn’t matter. He developed a profile in his mind and worked diligently to decipher this annoyance. He couldn’t let a rookie have the upper hand.

  “I just wanted to visit with you to give you a heads up, Mr. Monday.” She sounded desperate now, but she caught him off guard again. He was beginning to really not like Hallie. His thumb dug into the soft sugary Danish and his hand pressed dangerously against the hot cup of macchiato.

  He turned on his heel and she stopped abruptly. He could hear her heels slipping on the tiles of the lobby. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “Heads up, you say? Why, rookie, why didn’t you say so?” He stared down at her. She was tall, especially in the four inch heels, but he was still taller. Hallie looked down as if to make sure she had not spilled. Jake tossed his Danish in the trash and licked the icing from his thumb.

  “Look, Hallie. I had a hard week last week. We all are aware of that. If you have some sort of comment, why not save it for the briefing? Or even better yet, keep it to yourself until you’ve walked in my shoes for a while.” He straightened his Forzieri tie and smoothed his Paul Frederick suit jacket.

  She did not respond. Satisfied, he turned and followed the mass of employees toward the elevators. He didn’t care if he had upset her. He didn’t care if she followed. She had piqued his interest and if she really had something to tell him, she would assert herself.

  He waited with the throng of sleepy-eyed and young coworkers for the elevators to arrive. Everyone was going up and so he usually waited until the lobby cleared out to go up last. He pulled out his smart phone and checked his e-mail.

  “So, you really don’t want to know?” Hallie sipped her espresso and glanced at him over the lid.

  He looked up at her like he did not know who she was.

  “Excuse me? What do I not want to know?”

  “Well, for starters, you might want to know about the contract on your head.” She raised her eyebrows to emphasize her point.

  He was not worried about being overheard. The lobby was buzzing with conversation. The cameras could pick up their visual, but he knew from experience that the audio was limited.

  “And this is different how?” He tried to seem calm. He wasn’t. He could feel sweat roll down his shoulder blades. He fought the urge to remove his jacket and loosen his silver-and-gold lined tie.

  “It is coming from the very top, for starters. Your actions last week evidently marked you as expendable.” She shrugged.

  “Let me get this straight: you come up to me to warn me like you are looking out for my best interest? I’m confused, rookie. Aren’t you here to get my guard down so that you can be the one with the feather in your cap?”

  “Ambition is your calling card, not mine.”

  “Trust me, rookie. You are just as interested in climbing the ladder here as I was when I started. I can see it your greedy little eyes.” She appeared hurt. Her frown took in her entire oval face. He couldn’t help himself. He felt a little sorry for her. This was dangerous. He could not let her get the best of him like this.

  I need to get in control of this and fast.

  “I think you are forgetting where you came from,” she said, anger tingeing her voice. He could tell he made her mad.

  Despite this, he had to resist with every fiber in his being from ripping out her beautiful little throat. He felt his vision narrow, and his feet become lead. He blinked hard and stared at the macchiato in his hands. Absently, he threw it in the trash. He looked back up to see Hallie staring at him. The look of pity on her face turned his stomach.

  As if in another world, he heard the elevator chime. The doors opened with a thud.

  “We’re the last ones up. Maybe we should go.” She seemed nervous. He caught her glance over his shoulder. His sense of danger seemed muted, but he could not ignore the signs. Something here wasn’t right.

  “How can I be sure this won’t be my last trip on this elevator?” He asked. Hallie stood inside the elevator and smiled back as she leaned forward to stop the door from closing.

  “You can’t.”

  “Well, I guess that will be the best answer a man could ask for.” He entered and deliberately turned his back to Hallie, looking back out toward the lobby to see what had concerned her earlier. He noted several employees from other floors walking or standing and talking. No one stood out. He cursed his sudden numbness. It was sure to get him killed. He crossed his arms across his chest. His right hand made a fist and his left hand was shaped into a blade, his fingers doubled over.

  As the doors closed, he became acutely aware that as an assassin, he would have already pulled the gun out and had it to the poor sap’s skull. Hallie had not moved. Too bad. She had her opportunity. He would have to teach her a lesson.

  He led with his left hand, sweeping it under to hit her in the solar plexus. At the same time, he turned his hips and prepared to drive his right fist at her temple. The only problem: she was not there. He felt something small and hard at his right pit. He froze, his hands held out ridiculously before him like he was doing some sort of elevator kata.

  “Put your hands down, you idiot.”

  “I’m sorry...”

  “Shut up! Don’t talk right now. We don’t have much time.” She seemed nervous. He could not understand why. He was the one that was going to die.

  Chapter 3

  Money Can't Buy You Love

  Clarence gazed out into the factory, impressed by the orderliness of the operation. Machines and equipment moved inexorably, performing repetitive tasks. Men and women in yellow plastic caps and white smocks lifted, pulled, pushed, and inspected product. The thick walls of the office and the glass kept the majority of the noise to a minimum. Still, he could he
ar people mumbling, machinery clanking, and hydraulic presses hissing. Behind it all was the rhythmic sound of metal being stamped, pressed, and cut.

  "We are not talking about an insurrection like John Brown at Harper's Ferry, here, Mr. Brookhaven. The current atmosphere is not ripe enough for a rebellion to be successful," George H. Beckford, III said.

  Clarence did not turn. He understood Beckford's reluctance to involve his company in their plans. Granville Arms was a supplier of weapons to military units world-wide. Their largest customer was the US government. Granville supplied dozens of state police forces, National Guard Armies, and even provided some specialized weapon choices to the Navy SEALs and the FBI.

  Being a government vendor had its perks, but also its dangers. Exposure to federal inspectors, local and national corruption, and the never-ending meddling of anti-gun lobbyists created a nervous atmosphere. Beckford knew on which side his bread was buttered.

  At the same time, Clarence knew that their proposal was very tempting.

  "We do not expect you to fall on your sword, George," Clarence said. He watched his reflection in the glass. He could see George sitting uncomfortably behind a large oak desk behind him. Clarence imagined that George sat at that desk maybe a few hours per year. It did not seem to fit him. "We do not even need your money. We have that. We need your cooperation. We need your supply lines. And we need your secrecy."

  "Secrecy. That does not come cheaply," he replied in a huff.

  Clarence turned then, a puzzled look on his face. George was a big man. His face was lined with age, his goatee trimmed short and mostly white. His hair was a shock of white. It was a stark contrast to his tanned skin. George was an avid outdoorsman. The exposure to so much sun had left its mark on his face and on his gnarled hands. He appeared much older and at the same time much younger than his fifty-eight years.

  "Surely you are not insinuating that you are in need of cash."

  "I am merely stating that you are clearly not aware of how much federal and global pressure we have to remain 'transparent' in our operations. We have a team of lawyers from a dozen countries here every month looking over our books, our operations, and our shipments. Secrecy is a foreign idea."

  "What are you getting at, George."

  George turned up his mouth and twirled a pen between his fingers.

  "I bought an abandoned factory in Mississippi in 1987. Long before I was dealing with Uncle Sam. I still own it under a different corporation, one that I run indirectly. It has been fitted for production of several makes of our most requested items, mostly copies of Kalishnikovs, rocket launchers, and high volume machine pistols," George said. He raised his eyebrows, "I would be willing to make this factory operational and provide a work force to produce the products we discussed. For a fee."

  "A fee. Not a cost per shipment?"

  "That, too. I am afraid that I will require the capital to re-fit the tooling, the dies, and the production lines. I will also need to hire some ballistic engineers for design, quality control, and management of the project. These individuals will have to be vetted properly to maintain the level of secrecy you demand."

  "I see. I suppose you have a number in mind."

  George shrugged.

  "I suppose I could throw a number off the top of my head. That is not how I do business. Let me put together a complete proposal and get back with you," George suggested.

  Clarence shook his head. He sat in the leather chair across from George.

  "We do not have the time, Mr. Beckford."

  "Twenty-two billion dollars." George's eyes betrayed him. The glitter there told Clarence all he needed to know.

  Clarence smiled.

  "Will that be enough to cover your expenses, George?"

  He did not fidget at all.

  "You are welcome to check around. Get some other proposals. I am not the only manufacturer of small arms in the world, Clarence."

  "We are aware of that. We have contacted firms in Germany and China. We can hire three companies for the price you are asking," Clarence countered.

  George shrugged.

  "Then, by all means, that is what you should do."

  Clarence smirked.

  "How soon can you start?" he asked.

  "I can have the staff hired by next week and the plant can be operational in six months. First shipment by December, let's say?"

  "Merry Christmas to us."

  "Yes. Merry Christmas," George replied. He put the pen down on the desk. His brows furrowed and Clarence knew he was fidgeting for the first time. George had expected him to balk at the price. Clarence knew that what came next would hint at his greatest fear. "So, I have never been squeamish about how my weapons are used. I know that they are responsible for deaths of innocents, women, children, old people as well as rebels and insurgents. However, I am curious about this rebellion you have planned. How can this consortium of companies and organizations that you mention pull off a global coup? What makes you think that a corporatacracy will work?"

  Clarence nodded. He tried to avoid seeming smug. He leveled his gaze at George.

  "It already is working. The conversion of China to capitalism has begun. We already have dominion in America. Europe cannot compete. The elite are in place. We need only to pull in the dissidents and the masses to break sway with existing forms of government. That is where you come in."

  "But. Without the existing forms of government, currency becomes obsolete," George said. Clarence could smell the fear.

  The wealthy outside of the elite were all like this at first. The panic came from years of building empires of money with the understanding that it was all a house of cards, built on the financial structure of an arbitrary global concept of what constitutes "money."

  "I am glad you see our situation clearly."

  "That is why you can pay my price," he said flatly.

  "We are prepared to pay whatever it takes," Clarence replied.

  "With currency that is soon to be worthless." Anger was beginning to boil to the surface.

  Clarence shrugged.

  "You named the price. We will listen to any reasonable offer. If you are interested."

  Clarence picked the pen back up and looked through the glass. Clarence remained still. He knew that Beckford was thinking. He saw his jaw twitch. Then, George's blue eyes snapped back down to settle on Clarence. He could see some defiance there.

  "Who are you to insult me like this?"

  Clarence kept his voice calm. He was used to this reaction. He had experienced the same response from a dozen owners already this month.

  "I am merely a messenger, George. But you know who I represent. You know the power they wield. I do not need to remind you."

  Clarence watched as George's neck became red. He tapped the pen on the desk.

  "You threaten me?"

  "No. Your expertise is important to us. Even though we have the option of demanding your services, we are able to offer you a position of power in return for your cooperation. We fully expect you to take advantage of our generous offer. I am merely the bearer of good news. Refuse, and George, you may be visited by another messenger with an entirely different message. Perhaps then, we will be engaging in a different conversation. For now, let me encourage you to take the offer. It is very generous. Plus, twenty-two billion dollars in this economy would make you a very important figure in the meantime."

  George appeared to struggle containing himself. Finally, he snorted through his nose.

  "Forgive me, Mr. Brookhaven. My wife tells me that sometimes I lead with my temper. I am like a bull in a china closet. You are right. My price for making the Mississippi plant operational and supplying you with arms for your new government can be done for the price we have discussed. And the position you have promised."

  "Good. We will have a gentleman's agreement, then."

  "Gentlemen. That is funny. I thought we are both hunters."

  Clarence smiled at that.

  "Yes. We are hunte
rs. That is appropriate. It is always better to be the hunter than the hunted, wouldn't you agree?" Clarence left the veiled threat hang in the air with his hand extended.

  George took his hand. It was huge and hot. Their eyes met and Clarence was confident that his message had been delivered.

  "Merry Christmas, Mr. Brookhaven."

  "Merry Christmas to you, George."

  Chapter 4

  Say My Name

  Jake could feel her pressing against him. He knew he was dead. Of course, he could kick her with his right knee in the kidney from this position. He was certain it would connect. He could feel her hip at his thigh. But the Browning was securely under his arm. The bullet would travel across his chest cavity, through lungs, heart and back out his left shoulder. And that would be it: so much for Jake Monday, vaunted assassin.

  He wanted to regret his recent actions. Recounting all the decisions that got him to this moment, he realized he could not remember ever wanting to be an assassin. He couldn’t recall when it had first occurred. She was right: he had forgotten his roots. How could she know him so well, when he was such a mystery to himself?

  He could remember some important things about his life. He remembered test driving the Bugatti, could remember the blonde that sold him his set of seven ties. He recalled the lady with the locket lying prone on the ground. But his roots? What made Jake Monday tick? Big mystery, that.

  “Get against the wall,” she ordered. He could smell her perfume over the mahogany interior. Her eyes were actually green, he saw. They were wild. Her hair, swept away from her face now, framed her porcelain features. He noted the light red-and-brown freckles across the bridge of her nose. He wondered why he had not noticed her before.

  He expected it to end then. He was surprised as he backed up to obey her order that her other hand snaked behind his ear. She grabbed his hair and tugged forcefully.

  The next thing he knew she was kissing him desperately. He could taste the espresso and lemon. Her lips were soft, but she pushed them against his with such force he could feel her teeth. He could feel the heat of her body pressed against him. She pulled away with a gasp.