Michael Ridding Page 2

  “So you found one?” Michael asked cautiously.

  “Well, I'm CEO, so I must have found something,” Benedict answered with a hint of sarcasm.

  “All right, then what did you find? A live one? Footprints? Hair?”

  “If I could tell you, I would, but one of the things Morecraft and I agreed on was that none of the discoveries I made using his resources could become public. I mean, couldn't you just see hillbilly gangs heading up into the woods and killing every last one if they knew where to look?”

  Michael opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Benedict continued.

  “Before he died, Morecraft said he wanted me to bring in more people to help me in my work. He didn’t name anyone in particular, but in my...” Benedict trailed off, gathering his thoughts. Several tense moments passed before he continued, “In my research, you and your friend Aron both showed up as potential candidates. Don't ask why because honestly, I don't quite know myself. I’m simply trusting the judgment of those who advise me.”

  Michael raised an eyebrow.

  “I want to offer you a deal, Michael. If you agree to help me with my research and expeditions, I will see to it that your store stays open. Not only that, but you will be paid generously to investigate and research a variety of subjects, from paranormal to political to religious. It's all totally legal and sanctioned by the US government, as long as we do the occasional side work for them, in addition to giving them any valuable finds from our own investigations. I'm not allowed to answer the ‘why’ questions about your projects—or even say if your work is a success in some cases—but I can say you will make a good living and find fulfillment with the work you do. If at any time, that isn’t true, just let me know, and we will fix that. The arrangement would benefit everyone. I really, really think we can make this work.”

  As Benedict caught his breath, Michael let the first of several questions out of his head. “You want me to take a second job working for you, and in exchange, you’ll pay me and support my shop?”

  “Yep.” Benedict looked relieved, as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  “And I’ll have no idea what I’m working on until you tell me?”

  “In some cases, yes. Think of it like you’re working alone on one corner of a puzzle. You may not know what it is—and I may not either—but when everyone puts their corners together, we get a picture. If you don't feel like it's a good fit...” he trailed off, his breathing still heavy. “If it's not a good fit, then we can work something out. Plus, like I said, if your own interests are desirable and could provide useful results, I would be more than happy to let you pursue them with our help.”

  Michael thought he would have more to ask, but as Benedict caught his breath, only one more question escaped his lips: “How do I know this isn’t a scam?”

  Benedict reached into his coat pocket and produced a large packet that Michael was surprised could have been concealed without being noticed. He placed it on the table, taking one long look at it before sliding it across to Michael.

  “Everything you’ll need to convince yourself is in there. I think it would be best if you took a day or two to look it over before making your choice. There’s a card with my personal phone number on it, so when the time comes to say yes or no, call me. Everything else should be self-explanatory.” Benedict got up and pushed his chair in. “I may not be reachable for the next twelve hours or so. Where I’m heading, I don't get great reception. By tomorrow morning, though, I should be able to take calls.”

  Benedict extended a hand to Michael, who hesitated for a moment before shaking. Part of him hoped that whatever was inside the packet was bogus and that the whole thing turned out to be a scam. He knew there could be dark things down that path, things he didn't want to get involved in. And as he looked into Benedict's eyes for the last time that day, he thought he could see what that kind of research could do to someone.

  They ended the handshake, and Benedict headed for the door. “Think it over and give me a call. And for the moment, don't tell anyone, not even Aron until I can talk to him personally.” He gave a small wave. “I'll see you in time.”

  Benedict left the break room, and shortly after, Michael heard the front door chime, signaling his departure.

  Benedict had put on a good show, but he still could have been a brilliant con artist. It could all be a game, an elaborate plot meant to take everything Michael had left, which was already dwindling dangerously close to nothing by the day.

  Money was so tight, he was considering talking to his parents again and seeing if he could move back home to Sacramento for a while. It was a prospect he loathed, mostly since it had been over a year since he had spoken with them. They hadn’t approved of his choice to leave Dallas, and the few times they had talked since the move had been tense, to say the least. When it came to his father, who never failed to bring it up, “hostile” would have been a better word. He knew he was a disappointment to them, forgoing relationships and stability in favor of his own desires.

  Now, he might have an opportunity to do things right in their eyes, but he couldn’t say he wanted to.

  He left the packet on the table and headed for the computer. First, he looked up DenCom and found it was an actual corporation. Not only that, but it was indeed the leader in non-commercial tech for businesses and the US government. He also found out that since the company's founding in the sixties, no one had ever gotten an interview with either CEO, but he found purported pictures of them on conspiracy sites. Apparently, Morecraft and Benedict's work had not gone unnoticed by those in tinfoil hats.

  He found an article on one site detailing Morecraft’s disappearance and Benedict's arrival onto the scene. The article included pictures of who they thought were the two CEOs. The older man in the first picture wore thick glasses and a slightly disheveled tan tweed sports jacket. Michael could tell the picture was likely taken without Morecraft's knowledge, since he wasn't looking at the camera and a blurry cityscape could be seen behind him. The other picture was obviously of Benedict, who also seemed oblivious to the photographer. His coat was blowing in the wind, and he looked to be on an airport tarmac with two other, much taller men: One was bald, the other sported a short Mohawk.

  The article itself was essentially useless. It was a lot of “We know something is going on. We don't know what, but something!”

  He closed the computer, only slightly less cautious about the situation. Benedict was the subject of some crackpot's mystery article. So what? Couldn't that crackpot be Benedict himself, just another layer of the man's scheme? He obviously knew Michael was going to look him up, so could he have written the article?

  At least DenCom existed. That was verifiable. In fact, as he thought back to his last trip to Denver for a trade show, he had seen DenCom Tower in person. It was the largest building in the city, standing easily a third taller than the rest.

  On top of that, it seemed well-established that the CEO had never been a public figure, and that he was only known by his first name, even within the company. Still, the article implied that the name might have been taken from the recently renamed street that led to DenCom Tower: Benedict Street.

  He’d seen enough. He had to open the packet.

  Michael headed back to the break room, the packet still lying on the table. He opened it, flipped it over, and let three items fall out. The first was a plain white business card with Benedict's number written on it. The second was an employee manual that was easily an inch thick, labeled Practice and Procedure for DenCom Private Agents. Michael flipped through it, paying little attention to the text.

  The third item was a small envelope labeled “Advance” in rushed handwriting. He gently opened it and nearly fell out of his chair.

  Inside was a check made out to him for a million dollars.

  5

  Tuesday, July 23rd

  Irvine Spectrum Shopping Mall

  Irvine, California

  4:13 P
M

  “Well, I'm glad you didn't leave without me.”

  Michael retreated from the memory to find Aron standing beside him, grinning as he sported a large, furry red dragon under his left arm. Michael looked over his disheveled friend. His bright blond hair, normally slicked to the left side, was messy and out of place. His light turquoise shirt was pressed to his skinny frame by a fresh sheen of sweat.

  Michael hadn’t expected anything less. He took another glance at the red dragon.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “I won it,” Aron explained. “They didn't have any prizes I wanted and I thought your brother's kids might enjoy it.”

  Mark, Michael's older brother, was not someone he saw often, but he and Aron always hit it off. Mark was a nice enough guy, but he was also an idiot: He had married the only girl he ever dated and now, they had three kids in Apple Valley. However, Mark and his wife seemed happy, and the kids adored their uncle and Aron, so Michael kept his mouth shut.

  “Great idea, I'll see when he's—” Michael began before he was cut off by a curse escaping Aron's lips.

  The dragon hit the ground softly, letting out a roar from its voice box as it came to rest on its side. Aron bent down, complaining about losing his grip, when something else caught Michael's eye.

  The pillar behind Aron erupted outward from a small hole at eye level. As pebbles settled at their feet, Michael realized too late what had happened.

  As Michael turned to examine the cavity, his right shoulder was sharply thrown back, pushing him to the ground with a smack as his head connected with the brick walkway.

  Then, he felt the hot, searing pain of a bullet wound and blood seeping out beneath him.

  Screaming filled the air. Several people rushed to help him, but they scattered as a man nearby took a third bullet to the head. He fell to his knees, shattered skull fragments caving in as he knelt. Then, he fell face-first onto the ground, and gravity finished the job. His head deflated like a battered balloon.

  Aron rushed to help Michael, only to be cut off by a stream of silenced gunfire that made him retreat behind the pillar.

  With all the strength he could find, Michael forced himself up and hobbled across to the opposite pillar while the unseen gunmen’s view was blocked by the fleeing crowds.

  “Aron, go!” Michael ordered as he slumped beside the pillar, just barely able to stand.

  Aron didn’t move. He looked to the doors of Dave and Buster’s only a few feet away, then back to Michael.

  “Go! Get help!” Michael roared over the crowds. He could see the doubt in Aron's eyes. Who was there to call? It was a poor distraction, but he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let Aron die in an attempt to save him. “I'll be fine!”

  Reluctantly, Aron sprinted to the entrance, bullets striking around his feet as he burst through the doors and out of sight.

  Michael felt at least some relief as Aron disappeared, but the sensation was soon replaced by crippling panic.

  More screams echoed through the mall. More gunfire as countless innocent people were killed. What the hell was this? A terrorist attack? But why here? Why him and Aron? He tried to contain his questions and bottle up his fear as he told himself to think logically about his next step.

  In the end, instinct prevailed.

  As shoppers fled to one of three walkways leaving the food court, Michael joined them. Hidden among the crowd, he followed the flow of panicked traffic in a hasty retreat.

  He caught a brief glimpse of one of the terrorists sidestepping from behind a sunglass kiosk, shooting as he went. Several people in front of him collapsed. One man, dead before he had hit the ground, suddenly blocked his escape.

  Toppling over the bleeding corpse, Michael landed hands-first, cushioning the rest of his body before he crumpled under the stampede of panicked shoppers. The air left his lungs as he felt his body sinking into the ground, the steady flow of feet against his back restricting his airflow. As the screams of the crowd faded away, Michael sensed what was coming next.

  6

  Michael opened a weak eye to see two men racing toward him. Both wore white polo shirts and sported muscular figures that revealed they either worked out rigorously or took a lot of steroids. Michael presumed the latter.

  Guns fixed on him, they slowed to a cautious stop. He didn’t know if they thought he was dead or not, but he was obviously of interest to them.

  “Erickson,” one of the men said, lowering his weapon. “You didn’t wait for the go-ahead!”

  Out of sight, Michael could hear the approaching footsteps of another man, but didn’t want to risk taking a look. The man came to a stop only inches from his head, inserting a new magazine with a metallic click as he did so.

  “Doesn’t matter. I think we did just fine,” the man behind him said. Michael felt the cold barrel of the gun pressed against his head. “Father will be proud.”

  Before Michael had the chance to panic, the gun was removed from his temple. The man behind him stood up and walked past him swiftly, gun raised toward the sky, and joined the other two identical men.

  “What the hell is it?” the one called Erickson asked.

  Moments passed, Michael silently questioning why he wasn’t shot as the three gunmen tried to figure something out.

  As some senses came back to him, Michael heard a loud crash and a car engine that sounded vaguely familiar.

  The gunmen walked on, leaving Michael to contemplate the growing roar. Once they were out of sight, he risked taking a look.

  He did so just as his black 1973 Pantera rounded the wide corner with Aron at the wheel.

  Michael didn’t dare move as the three men unloaded on the windshield. Aron ducked as bullets reduced the glass to microscopic shards. Dozens of bullets struck the hood and interior without any sign of letting up.

  The barrage was short lived.

  The Pantera barreled into the three men, the roar of gunfire replaced with the snap of bones as the car bounced up a small stairway, the angled front bumper meeting each man just above the hip.

  They flew over Michael, their bodies soaring limply past. All three landed with a loud, deep thud, then fell still.

  The car stopped just in front of Michael. Aron ran from the driver’s side and helped Michael stand, then quickly ushered him into the passenger's seat. He brushed off as much glass as possible before letting Michael sit down.

  “Benedict...” Michael said weakly as Aron got back in the driver's seat. “Call... Benedict.”

  “As soon as we get to the Irvine office,” Aron said. “They have a private garage where we can hide the car until things calm down. Where do you hurt?”

  “Just... everywhere,” Michael managed as he began to drift out of consciousness. The statement, despite sounding sarcastic, was far too accurate. His ribs and gut hurt the most—next to his ruined shoulder, of course. And yet, it was getting harder to feel anything. The pain began to fade as he drifted away.

  Except his breathing. It still hurt to breathe.

  “How’s the wound?” Aron asked, speeding up as they left the deserted mall behind.

  “Passed… I think it passed…”

  “Just stick around a little longer. We should be there in a second.”

  The Irvine offices were already visible as a pair of large white buildings, the office situated near the top of the closest. Michael and Aron had met Benedict there only hours before to discuss their latest investigations.

  During the meeting, Michael had seen the shopping mall from the window and thought it would be the perfect place to unwind. He laughed out loud at the thought while the door to the underground parking garage opened, consuming them in orange light as Michael drifted out of consciousness.

  7

  Tuesday, July 23rd

  DenCom Irvine Office

  Irvine, California

  9:23 PM

  Michael woke engulfed in a brilliant white light. A feminine form stared down at him, silhouett
ed against the haze. As the world became clearer and his senses returned, Michael made out the white garb of the nurse along with Aron, who came into view opposite her.

  “Rise and shine, Mr. Ridding,” the nurse said. “I can raise the head of the bed up if you want. Might make it easier for you to take your call.”

  “Call?” Michael asked as he focused on her slim figure. She was a small woman, barely two thirds his size. He watched her work daintily over a clipboard, waiting for clarification.

  “Yes,” she explained “You're not seriously hurt. The bullet wound was from a small caliber weapon, and our doctors were able to patch it up easily. Benedict is insisting that you be released soon, but he would like to talk with you first.”

  Before Michael could question her further, Aron cut in.

  “We're still in Irvine, at a DenCom emergency medical office and care center.”

  Michael chuckled. “So, he doesn't even trust hospitals?”

  Those who were close to Benedict knew he was not very trusting of… well, anything. His cleaners, meals, travel accommodations… almost everything Benedict needed came only from a group of trusted sources that were usually shell companies he owned. Similar to how Michael and Benedict were joint owners of Modern Aquaria, some were extra eyes and ears in the world, while others had no secrets to hide.

  “You're right about that one,” the nurse admitted. “Anyway, you’ll have some minor pain from the wound, along with some bruising in your midsection and back. You'll ache for a while, but it should pass within a few days. If I were you, I would try to spend a couple days in bed when you get home. If possible.”

  Michael noticed the way she phrased everything: It was exactly how Benedict would want things to be handled. Nothing forced, no holding him down, even for his own well-being. In any other hospital, he would have been required to stay overnight for an observation period, at the very least. But that wasn’t Benedict's way, and he paid people enough to respect that.