Severance Package (4 page)

He had to kill them all.

The conference room
table was loaded with cookies. Pepperidge Farm, every conceivable make and model: Milano, Chessmen, Bordeaux, Geneva, and Verona. David had encouraged everyone to go ahead, open the bags, help themselves. Also on the table were two towers of clear plastic cups, three cartons of Tropicana, and four bottles of champagne.

Jamie couldn’t read the labels on the bottles, but they looked French and expensive. The tops on two of the bottles had been popped and removed, but nobody had poured a glass yet. The cookies also remained untouched.

That is, until David reached forward and grabbed a Milano, then everybody decided having a cookie was a great idea.

Jamie had his eyes on the Chessmen, but held back. He wasn’t about to fight the Clique for a cookie. Let them pick over the bags. Chessmen were the least popular. He’d be able to grab a few when the feeding frenzy was over.

“Looks like everybody’s here …,” David said, scanning faces, then frowning. “Except Ethan. Anybody seen Ethan?”

“His bag’s at his desk, and his computer’s on,” said Molly, who’d taken her usual position: the right hand of the devil.

“Did he make it home last night?”

“He did,” Amy Felton said, and then winced, as if regretting having opened her mouth.

“Should I look for him?” Molly said.

David shook his head. There were droplets of moisture on his brow. “No, no. We can start without him.”

“Are you …”

“I am.”

Some boss/assistant drama going on there, Jamie decided.

He hated how David treated Molly.

She had been here only six months, and already working for David had utterly demoralized her. Jamie assumed that was because she was a genuine human being—not one of the Clique.

Out of all his coworkers, Molly was the only one he spent any significant time with. Jamie had once read a story in some magazine about “office spouses”—surrogate partners in the workplace with whom you shared your life. It wasn’t about infidelity. Jamie read that piece and decided that the closest thing he had to an office spouse was Molly. What made it easy was that Molly, like Jamie, was married. And they were united in their thinking that David Murphy was a serious tool.

“Tool?” Molly had asked, trying to fight a goofy smile that threatened to wash over her entire face.

“Yeah, tool,” Jamie had said. “Never heard that expression before?”

She giggled. “Not in Illinois I didn’t.”

“Stick with me, country girl,” Jamie said. “I’ll teach you all about the big bad city.”

Molly, come to think of it, was the one who’d organized the shower for Jamie. She was the only one who saw him as more than just the media relations guy.

The cookie grab ended. Jamie took the opportunity to snag three Chessmen. He stacked them on a square white paper napkin. The cookie on top: a pawn.

“First of all,” David said, “I want to thank everyone for coming up here on a Saturday morning. A
hot
Saturday morning in the middle of August. The time of year when nobody in their right mind stays in Philadelphia.”

Stuart chuckled. No one else did. Stuart was a brownnosing ass.

But David was right. Outside, the haze blanketed downtown Philadelphia, making it difficult to see any detail outside of a two-block radius.

David paused to snap a Milano in half with his teeth. He chewed slowly. Brushed crumbs from his place at the table. The man enjoyed taking his time almost as much as he enjoyed Pepperidge Farm cookies.

“I know this kind of meeting runs counter to protocol. But we’ve come up against a new challenge. I’ve been tasked with accepting that challenge, and this is why I’ve brought you all in this morning.”

Already, David was being his good ol’ obscure self. Protocol? Challenge? Did anyone really talk like that? Did anyone understand what the guy was talking about half the time?

Jamie eyed the Tropicana. He was thirsty. The Chessmen wouldn’t help that, and they’d probably only jack him up for a sugar crash this afternoon. He had promised Andrea he’d be home as early as possible and take over Chase duty.

“As of right now,” David said, “we’re on official lockdown.”

“What?”

“Oh, man.”

“I came in for this?”

“What’s going on, David?”

“Damn it.”

Jamie looked around the room. Lockdown? What the hell was “lockdown”?

“Beyond that,” David continued, “I’ve taken some additional measures. The elevators have been given a bypass code and will skip this floor for the next eight hours. No exceptions. Calling down to the front desk won’t work, either.”

Jamie didn’t hear the part about the front desk. He was fixated on the “next eight hours” bit. Eight hours? Trapped in here, with the Clique? He thought he’d be out of here by noon. Andrea was going to kill him.

“The phones,” David said, “have been disconnected—and not just in the computer room. You can’t plug anything back in, and have the phones back up or anything. The lines for this floor have been severed in the subbasement, right where it connects to the Verizon router. Which you can’t get to, because of the elevators.”

Stuart laughed. “So much for a smoke break.”

“No offense, David,” said Nichole, “but if I need a smoke, I’m marching down thirty-six flights of fire stairs, lockdown or no lockdown.”

“No you aren’t.”

Nichole raised an eyebrow. “You going to come between a woman and her Marlboros?”

David tented his fingers under his bony chin. He was smiling. “The fire towers won’t be any good to you.”

“Why?” Jamie heard himself ask. Not that he smoked.

“Because the doors have been rigged with sarin bombs.”

Six wadfuls of toilet paper and a vigorous hand-washing later, and a solemn vow to never
ever
so much as glance at a French martini—or an Egg McMuffin—ever again, Ethan left the
bathroom on the thirty-seventh floor and headed for the north fire tower.

Checked his plastic-and-metal Nike sports watch. He was late. What else, right?

Better to be late than to squirm uncomfortably in that over-chilled corner office and have to rush out in the middle of a David Murphy brainstorm.(tm)

Sorry, boss. Got to do the hot squat. Ask Felton for details. She’ll tell you all about the effects of the French martini on the lower digestive tract.

In all the time Ethan had used the men’s room on the thirty-seventh floor, he’d never stopped to wonder about the companies up here. There was more than one, certainly—there was a directory at the end of the hall.

He didn’t stop to wonder now, either.

The air in the fire tower was mercifully warm. Ethan was tempted to take a seat on the cool concrete and savor the varying climes. Breath warm; sweat out the French martini. Meanwhile, let the soothing cool work its way up from the steps, into his buttocks, and beyond, healing the O-ring damage he’d sustained up on thirty-seven.

But the later his appearance on the thirty-sixth floor, the worse off he’d be.

Up, Ethan, up.

Go, Ethan, go.

Down the stairs. Hand on the doorknob. Get it over with.

The cardboard he’d used to prop open the door was still in place.

There were smiles at first, then confused frowns. Was this supposed to be an icebreaker? Jamie thought. Or was this David’s
strange way of saying there was going to be a Saturday-morning fire drill?

“Stop it, David,” Amy said. “This isn’t funny.”

“Sarin,
David?” Nichole asked. “Isn’t that a little harsh?”

Stuart tried to jump on the bandwagon. “Seriously. Couldn’t you have made do with a little burst of anthrax or something? Let the trespasser know you mean business, but live to tell the tale?”

“Biological agents like anthrax take too long,” David said. “And it’s not as easy to weaponize as you think.”

“Right,” Stuart said. “I always have trouble with that.”

“Plus, you could take a full blast, right in the face, and still figure you were okay for a while. Then you could make your way down the stairs and out to Market Street. I figured the immediate impact of sarin—burning eyes, nausea, constricted breathing, muscle weakness, the whole nine—would be the only thing that could keep you guys on this floor. I didn’t use an extravagant amount, but certainly enough to prevent you from reaching the bottom floor. Your throat would close before you made it down three or four flights.”

Amy’s nose wrinkled. “David.”

“Am I being offensive?”

“Hostile work environment,”
Stuart said in a mock falsetto.

“Okay, we get it, it’s lockdown, we’re not going anywhere, ha ha ha,” Amy said. “So what’s the operational plan?”

“Whoa,” Nichole said. “Before we start talking about plans … David, you do know who’s here, right?” She motioned at Jamie.

Me? Jamie thought. Oh, you’ve got to love the Clique. God forbid I sit in on a meeting with any substance. Freaky as it was.

David tented his index fingers under his nose again. Raised his eyebrows slightly, then opened his mouth …

And there was a scream.

Not from David. From somewhere else. Beyond the walls of the conference room. Elsewhere on the floor.

Molly said, “God, Ethan …”

Ethan had glanced up at the weird thing above the door just before it happened. Thing was bone-white, cushy, the size of a fanny pack, and had a keypad and bright green digital display with the word
READY
. He turned around to look at the wall behind him—maybe there were more? His hand was still on the doorknob. As he turned, the door opened another inch.

He heard a clicking sound. A blast of mist hit him square in the face. His eyes burned immediately. It freaked him out.

So Ethan didn’t care how it might sound. He screamed.

He screamed like hell.

David and Molly exchanged glances, and David said, “We’re going to have to check that out.”

“Wait,” Amy said. “Was that
Ethan?”

Jamie stood up. He looked outside, in the haze of the summer morning, scanning for planes. He couldn’t help it. He’d worked in a building in Lower Manhattan on 9/11, right at Broadway and Bleecker. His office window had faced the Twin Towers; he’d been taking a leak when the first plane hit. Jamie had walked back to his office and saw, with a start, that the upper floors of the North Tower were on fire. Someone screamed.

The scream, the blaze: forever entwined in his memory.

He’d tried calling Andrea, who worked uptown. No luck. Circuits were jammed. Jamie called his old college roommate in Virginia, who was able to get through to Andrea. While he was waiting to hear back, the second plane hit. He could hear the roar even blocks away.

The scream reminded him of that morning.

“Sit down, Jamie,” David said.

“I don’t think we’re safe up here,” Jamie said. Only later, as he thought back over the events of the morning, would he understand that he was momentarily gifted with some kind of precognitive blast. A small part of his brain knew what the other parts would slowly come to experience:
We’re not safe up here.

“Sit down
now,”
David commanded.

Amazingly, Jamie found himself sitting back down. What had he planned on doing, anyway? Check the windows for burning skyscrapers?

David cleared his throat, staring at a bag of Geneva cookies that was closest to him.

“I’d hoped to have more time to explain, to set your souls at ease a bit, but I guess that’s not to be.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. Jamie could swear David’s hand was shaking.

“Truth is, I’ve failed you.”

Nobody said a word.

Nobody even reached for a cookie.

This is bad, Jamie thought. He wondered if his most recent résumé was stored on his computer at work, or at home. He just hoped there was some kind of severance package to see them through a few months of job hunting.

“Most of you know the truth about our company,” David said, “but for the two of you who don’t, I apologize for the shock you’re about to receive.”

Someone gasped. Jamie didn’t see who.

“We’re a front company for CI-6, which is a government intelligence agency,” David said. “We are being shut down.”

Jamie found himself locking eyes with Stuart. We are
what?

Stuart didn’t look a bit surprised.

“You should be doing to me what I’m about to do to you,” David continued.

“Oh, no.” Roxanne gulped. “You’re going to fire us.”

David gave her a tight-lipped smile, then a shake of his head. “No, Roxanne, I’m not going to fire you. I’m going to
kill
you. You, and everyone else in this room. Then I’m going to kill myself.”

“David,”
Amy said.

“Molly? The box, please.”

It was there in front of Molly—all of a sudden, it seemed. Jamie hadn’t noticed it before. He’d had his eyes on the cookies. Like everyone else.

Molly opened the box, which was a plain white cardboard mailing box. She parted some Bubble Wrap, and lifted out a gun. With something bulky around the barrel.

David put his hand out.

Molly was shaking. Hesitating a moment before she handed over the weapon to her boss.

But she did, like a good employee. Then she bowed her head slightly.

David pointed the gun in the general direction of his employees. With a minor flick of the wrist, the barrel could be pointed directly at any of them. Jamie felt his forehead break out into a sweat. He wasn’t sure he was actually seeing any of this, but of course, he was seeing it. Because it was real.

Unfolding in front of his eyes.

“What I want you to do,” David said, “is mix a little champagne and orange juice together. Each contain a chemical that, when combined, is an extremely effective poison. It is also completely painless. You will lose consciousness within seconds, and that will be it.”