False Gods

By J. D. Kinman

The CEO of a national retailer is murdered, paving the way for his number two man to take over while even more jobs are eliminated or outsourced and employees’ pay and benefits are slashed to the bone. But on Election Day, a young employee in a small New York town launches a bold and daring plan that will help the employees take back their company. The giant retailer is caught by surprise and by the time they grasp what is happening, the plan is solidly in motion and the senior executives are powerless to stop it.

In Texas, a business professor challenges his students to find a way for small businesses in America to not just survive in the recessed economy, but to actually grow and thrive. One group of students comes up with a simple but brilliant idea and strategy that once implemented is so wildly successful that it spreads across the country in a matter of days. Big retailers and service providers begin watching their sales plummet and they’re bewildered as to why their stores have become all but empty with Christmas just a few weeks away.

As the money flows away from big business and into the hands of small and independent businesses, panic in the upper echelons of America’s top corporations turns to anger, then to revenge. The young people who started this now find themselves targeted for harassment, assault and even murder by those who will do whatever it takes to keep their financial empires intact.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483544793

Book preview

(NRSB)

ONE

SHE’D NEVER KILLED ANYONE BEFORE, but this wasn’t going to be just anyone.

Peering out of the stolen taxi’s windshield, Lynnette Trang tightened her grip around the steering wheel. Downtown Chicago was bristling with cops and whenever one got anywhere near, her anxiety level rose even higher. Next to her on the bench seat of the well worn Ford Crown Victoria was a picture, still in its frame. In it, she was clutching the arm of her husband while standing in front of the Gateway Arch in St. Louis. In between the smiling couple was a teenage girl, their daughter. It was a rare vacation photo because such times had been scarce for this first generation American family whose parents had fled Vietnam after Saigon fell during the previous century.

A tear made its way out of her eye as she recalled the memory of their daughter, then the more recent memory of her husband. Their ashes sat in ornamental urns above the fireplace mantel. The daughter had become sick shortly after her husband’s employer had slashed the health benefits plan at the national retail pharmacy where he worked as an assistant manager. Besides drastically reducing the benefits, the employer had passed along the skyrocketing cost of health care premiums to the employees making it unaffordable for most. The Trangs had tried desperately to find the money to battle their daughter’s cervical cancer, but even in the tight knit Vietnamese community the recessed economy had caused everyone to suffer and there was simply no extra money to be had.

It was an unseasonably cold and overcast September day when their daughter finally succumbed to the cancer at just sixteen years of age. Lynette’s husband took it the hardest, feeling he had failed as a father in not being able to provide for his daughter. But then, just ten months after her death, he found himself downsized—laid off—from the retail pharmacy chain that was, had been, his employer. He’d worked for the company for over twenty years, starting as a cashier when he was in high school. But after the company decided to restructure itself in order to pay more attention to Wall Street and their shareholders rather than Main Street and their customers and employees, raises in pay became either insulting or non-existent. The first year of restructuring saw Trang getting a raise of less than two percent while his healthcare insurance costs rose over seventy-five percent. Fuel and food costs were up. Everything was up except for his take home pay. Then came the day he was told the company no longer had a place for him.

Dejected, he’d called his wife and told her the news, then wandered around downtown Chicago in a daze. He missed his daughter, he’d let down his wife, he had no more money and he had run out of hope. When he saw a Chicago Transit Authority bus speeding up to beat the light at Michigan and Superior, without thinking, he simply stepped out in front of it.

* * *

Andrew Bartholomew Sterns was having a great day. He’d fled his headquarters corner office for a rare lunch in solitude on the Magnificent Mile in downtown Chicago. His national retail pharmacy’s stocks were up by over ten percent, the board of directors had approved another thirty percent raise in salary for him, and this year’s cash bonus looked to easily top fifteen-million dollars. Throwing down his linen napkin and pushing himself away from the eighty-five dollar lunch that he would bill back to the company, he stood up and stretched.

The media had beaten the living hell out of him for his slashing of employees and benefits, but he no longer cared. He was now wealthy beyond any and all dreams he ever had—and was about to become even more so. The latest round of layoffs and salary reductions he’d ordered were putting over three-hundred million dollars back into the general labor and compensation budget, of which he would take almost five percent in the form of an additional cash salary as a reward for tightening the company’s labor belt. Even better, he reminded himself, the new budget restructuring for the company’s store and pharmacy managers eliminated almost half of their bonuses—and again, he and select senior executives would rake off a handsome percentage of that as a reward for being so fiscally conscious. Imagine that, he marveled. You get a raise for slashing other people’s raises and a bigger bonus for raping other workers’ bonuses! Only on Wall Street.

It felt good to be alone and without any of the usual ass kissing minions around. Only one person in the entire company knew where he was, and that was his secretary. Sterns pulled out his phone and gave her a quick call, assuring her that he was about to hail his driver and make his way back to the office. Efficient as always, Lori Trang promised to have all his messages waiting for him and reminded him of an operations meeting in the middle of the afternoon. Suppressing a grumble, Sterns assured her he would make it.

* * *

The text that appeared on Lynette Trang’s phone from her sister-in-law, Stern’s secretary, was simple: Be on lookout. He is leaving any minute.

* * *

Donald Jackson took one last swig from the water bottle and tossed it in the trash. Seeing the CEO of his former employer leave the restaurant, Jackson fell in stride with the rest of the early afternoon pedestrian traffic.

Around the corner, Sterns’ driver read the text on his phone with a puzzled expression. Park across the street, facing opposite direction. Normally his boss didn’t like to walk a single extra step unless it was on the treadmill at the Skyline Executive Athletic and Fitness Club. Ignoring the honks of protest, the driver swung the limousine in a wide arc across the six lanes of traffic, pointing north instead of south. With the car in park, he sat back and waited.

* * *

Sterns looked around in annoyance. He’d told his driver to meet him curbside. Hearing a honk, the CEO looked around and saw his car parked across Michigan Avenue from where he was now standing.

Idiot!

Muttering a curse, he began to step off the curb when a blaring horn from a CTA bus caused him to jump back. The driver of the bus glared at the executive and pulled over to let off her passengers. Sterns walked a few paces back and waited for traffic to clear. He was still steaming about his driver being parked across the street when he felt someone shove him off the curb into the street.

* * *

Lynette Trang was already accelerating as fast as the Crown Victoria could go when she saw Sterns stumble and almost fall, catching himself on the back of the looming Chicago Transit Authority bus, whose driver and passengers were unaware of the drama rapidly unfolding behind them.

* * *

Hey, watch out, asshole! the CEO snapped, putting a hand on the back of the bus and turning around to see who had pushed him off the curb. As he turned to look behind him, he saw an approaching yellow taxi cab. It seemed to be moving awfully fast towards him for as close as it—

* * *

Trang saw Stern’s eyes narrow, then open wide in fear. A split second later as the front bumper and grill of the stolen taxi crushed Sterns’ pelvis and midsection against the ten-ton bus, his body seem to bend and almost break and she saw his bulging eyes filled with terror only scant inches from her own on the outside of the now cracked and spider-webbed windshield. With no small degree of satisfaction, she watched the man gasp in agony, trying to scream but unable, then collapse on the hood, his intestines and spinal column crushed beyond any hope of repair.

Around her, people were screaming in horror while others had their cell phones out and were taking pictures. The bus driver, having felt the jarring impact, frantically hit the big red button on her console that would summon the police and emergency personnel then turned to check on her panicked passengers. The limo driver across the street jumped out of the car and weaved his way through the traffic which was unaware that anything amiss had just occurred. Donald Jackson, who’d shoved Sterns into the street, walked by the scene, and upon seeing the dead CEO of his former employer, smiled in grim satisfaction and continued walking south on Michigan Avenue while checking his watch. He had a job interview in another half-hour. Like so many others, after years of employment with the CEO’s company, he’d been downsized as part of the restructuring plan.

Inside the wrecked taxi, Lynette Trang’s expression remained neutral. She looked at the family portrait on the seat, and with tender gentleness, held it up for one last kiss. Setting the picture down, she reached inside her purse for the cheap .38 Special revolver she’d bought off a street thug and placed the muzzle in her mouth, then squeezed the trigger.

* * *

The editorials and news reports of the grisly murder of CEO Andrew B. Sterns praised the man as a pillar of the community, a family man, a good Christian and a visionary in the business world. His work and volunteer efforts for the hometown politician who made history by rising from mystery and obscurity to become President of the United States was lauded by the President himself. Analysts from Wall Street praised the man for his daring and courageous decisions in expanding the business, and fellow industry leaders mourned his passing.

However, of the almost two-hundred-fifty thousand employees still left in the company, few mourned the man’s untimely demise. Most considered it long overdue karma. Across the internet, more and more comments began appearing in the remarks and opinion sections of newspapers and television stations’ websites about the sheer hypocrisy of the man and his minions underneath him. In the blogs as well as social media sites including Facebook and Twitter, many called Lynette Trang a hero for avenging the death of her husband and daughter, which the majority of readers laid squarely at the headstone of the now deceased CEO.

The previous day’s trading on Wall Street saw a sympathy bump in the company’s stock price. But in the following days, as the masses began speaking up and taking their business elsewhere, the stock price began to drop. Around the country, other CEOs and high-ranking business executives took notice of the increasingly ugly mood and began hiring bodyguards and increasing their personal and home security. They cancelled public speaking engagements and luncheons and instead limited their face time to only the elected politicians and industry insiders that they knew and trusted.

Wall Street had no choice but to begin reflecting the changes with downward spiraling stock prices. Inside the New York Stock Exchange, the major players were perplexed. They were the Gods, after all, and they ran America’s giant corporations. They decided the economic fate of America, not the lowly workers and consumers. So why were the little people beginning to question them and worse, look for other places in which to spend their money? Surely it wouldn’t—couldn’t—last, right?

It didn’t really matter, they all agreed over their hundred-dollar dinners and two-hundred dollar bottles of wine. The little people could try their own exodus all they wanted. After all, they, the Gods, represented a Red Sea in a land in which Moses had yet to appear.

TWO

THE OBVIOUS BULGE OF A gun underneath the jacket of the man in front of him didn’t intimidate the pharmacist one bit. Nor did the size of the man’s companion, which was considerable—although much of it was because of too much time spent at the dinner table and too little time at the gym. Besides, he himself had a Springfield .45ACP concealed in a holster under his white lab coat. Being a registered pharmacist, Marlin Goode knew it made sense to be armed what with all the drug-crazed loonies running around. This was Gainesville, Texas, a small town about sixty-five miles north of Dallas. But it was on Interstate 35 and the big superhighway transported human trash as easily as it did everything else and some of that trash unfortunately stuck around town.

The two men’s business cards read real estate arbitration and negotiation but Goode was having none of it. For the last time, gentlemen, he explained. "My pharmacy is not for sale. Not now, and not anytime in the foreseeable future."

You’re getting old, the one with the gun pointed out. Don’t you want to retire?

Sure, Goode replied. And both my son and daughter-in-law are registered pharmacists and they’ll take over the business. I have zero intention of ever selling it to your cookie-cutter employer.

Well, that’s too bad, the big man said. We can open up a store here and then run you out of business, then you’ll wish you had sold to us.

You really think that? Goode laughed. My dad opened this pharmacy when he came back from Korea. We’ve had this drugstore since before both of you boys were even born. I’ve got third and fourth generation customers that sure as hell aren’t going to hop ship over to some national chain that imports everything from communist China and treats their employees like garbage. In case you boys haven’t figured it out, this is small town Texas and we don’t particularly care too much for your kind of business.

Behind the men, the bells above the door jingled as a couple of customers came in. Looking up, Goode saw two familiar faces approaching his counter—and he couldn’t help but smile.

Something funny? the smaller goon asked, the annoyance in his voice evident. This was the third time they’d come down to Gainesville trying to buy this particular pharmacy. It was an absolute gold mine that their employer desperately wanted. A perfect location, three generations of pharmacy customers and zero debt. They’d offered some decent money to this idiot and for the life of everyone involved, they couldn’t figure out why the stupid son of a bitch was being so damned stubborn. They were out of patience. Their orders on this visit were to get their point across by whatever means necessary and close the sale.

If you’ll excuse me, I have some customers to take care of, and—

We’ll decide when we’re through talking, the larger man said, not bothering to turn around and acknowledge the newly arrived customers. The pharmacy is closed, he said loudly, still facing Goode.

That is odd. It looks open to me, an accented man’s voice said. Are you still open for business, Señor Marlin?

Absolutely, Ramon, the pharmacist replied. These gentlemen were just leaving, weren’t you boys?

No, the other man said. We were actually getting ready to lock the doors so we could complete the sale of your drugstore.

You are selling your drugstore? Ramon Alvarez said. That is news to me. Turning to the man he’d walked in with, he asked, Have you heard anything about Señor Marlin selling his drugstore.

Not a thing. News to me, too, the man said. I think maybe these two gentlemen have their wires crossed, you suppose?

I think you are right, the Mexican agreed, walking up to the two men. In his early fifties, Ramon Ram Alvarez had broad, muscular shoulders and powerful forearms, flint-like dark eyes and a ponytail that ran just below his shoulders. He walked, talked and stood with an air of complete confidence and ability—the type born of hard-earned experienced. Why don’t you two let our amigo be and leave now.

Listen friend, I don’t think you’re in a position to be asking us to do anything and—

I am not asking, the Mexican said easily. "I am insisting or otherwise you are going to need some of the pain medications Señor Marlin sells here. Probably even some that require a doctor to prescribe them for you—because if you insist on being a pendejo, you both will end up seeing a doctor for the injuries you will receive."

The man who had the gun was looking at the Mexican’s companion. He had a very unsettling air about him. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, stood about five foot ten inches tall, looked to weigh around one-hundred eighty-five or so pounds, was extremely fit and radiated complete, total confidence. He was like a lion surveying his territory—acutely aware of his surroundings, completely without fear and with eyes that promised swift and severe violence if provoked. He’d seen this man somewhere before. As he shifted to make his gun bulge more obvious, the man in front of him smiled slightly—knowingly, even—and shifted his sport coat back a few inches on his right side. Sitting in a high-rise, quick draw holster was a Colt 1911 45ACP. The thug’s brain began processing even more rapidly until it finally clicked. Oh shit.

Marlin, do you want these two big city boys to leave your drugstore? the Mexican’s companion asked.

Well, Dillon, if you and Ramon would show them to their car, I would certainly be grateful, the pharmacist said.

You heard Señor Marlin, Ram said moving up to the big man and looking directly into his eyes. Leave. Now.

We’re leaving. We just wanted to make Mr. Goode here the best possible offer we could, and—

Save it, mister, Dillon told the pair. Get your asses out of here. If you come back, it’s going to get ugly.

Are you threatening us? the larger man asked, balling up his fists.

No, Dillon answered. "I’m promising you. The best thing you two assholes can do is get out of here and don’t come back."

The larger of the two men opened his mouth but his companion quickly shushed him. We’re leaving. Like I said, it was just a misunderstanding. The two men walked out the door without so much as a glance back.

After the bells quit jingling as the door shut, Dillon sighed and relaxed a bit. OK, Marlin. So what the hell was that all about?

* * *

The man with the gun was quiet as he concentrated on traffic. It was tricky as hell getting on Interstate 35 from the U.S. Highway 82 northbound access road thanks to the speeding eighteen-wheelers along with the Friday afternoon northbound traffic to the casinos just on the other side of the Red River. I can’t believe you backed down like that, the man’s companion continued to bitch. Three guys. We could’ve roughed them up, put some fear in their hearts and they’d be begging to sell that place before the weekend was over!

You didn’t recognize him did you? the driver asked as he accelerated on the entrance ramp.

Recognize who?

The guy with the Mexican. You didn’t recognize him?

Hey, I’m not a cop like you. I don’t have this police-trained memory. The guy didn’t look like anything special and I had him by at least four inches and a hundred pounds.

He would’ve handled you like a child.

Bullshit! I could’ve—

Just shut up a fucking minute, would you? the driver snapped at his partner. Do you remember two years ago when all those mass shootings were happening around the country? The muslims had put all these sleeper cells of shooters around the country and then started unleashing them in shopping malls and restaurants and public parks and stuff. In the first couple of weeks alone, over a thousand people were shot and over half of them died.

Yeah, I remember that. Who doesn’t? the big man replied, glaring out his window. I could’ve taken all three of those guys and never broke a sweat.

Do you remember what happened at the shooting on the campus of Tulsa University?

Remind me. Truth was, the big guy’s memory was often a steroid-induced fog until someone spelled things out for him.

There were four terrorists with fully-automatic AK-47s spraying the place down. This one guy in there was armed. All he had was a Colt .45 auto but he blew three of those towel-heads away. He got shot up in the process but survived. He’s the same guy that was with that Mexican back there. His name is Dillon Cole.

So what? I’m not carrying a gun. He wasn’t going to shoot an unarmed guy, and if he tried, you were there—

Listen to me, asshole! the driver said angrily. I did some digging on this guy after that. He and his wife adopted a teenage girl after he got out of the hospital. She was an orphan. Some guy at the children’s home she was living at tried to rape her. He was an iron-pumper like you—but even bigger, stronger and meaner. All-American offensive lineman until he flunked out of college. Our guy learns that his about-to-be daughter was assaulted by this guy and he travels out to east Texas, finds the meathead in a beer joint and proceeds to dismantle the big man. I mean, absolutely destroy him! There was a guy I know in the DEA who was there undercover. He said this Dillon Cole guy damn near killed the man.

The big man was looking through the windshield at the state line sign coming up welcoming them into Oklahoma. You have your gun, he pointed out.

A snort. "Yeah, and you have chemicals where your gray matter should be. Do you not remember me just saying this guy is a modern day Wyatt Earp? When I patted the side of my jacket where my gun is, the son of a bitch just smiled and did the same and that’s when I saw his Colt holstered up. If by some miracle I’d managed to get him first, that Mexican would’ve taken both of us down before we could’ve blinked."

The Mexican’s name is Ramon Alvarez, the cop continued. He used to be a freelance pistolero in Mexico when he was in his teens and twenties. He organized protection groups for the criminals and crooked politicians. But then he married some broad, got religion and jumped to the other side. He started training the Mexican federales and their shooters and running deep cover missions into the new heroin cartels that were springing up in Mexico. Now he lives around here on a ranch with Dillon Cole. I know Cole is a former U.S. Marshal and my buddy said he was a legendary manhunter. He is also former military, but nobody can find out with which service or exactly what he did. But he sure as hell didn’t learn those fighting or shooting skills being a Navy accountant.

The big man was now finally paying attention. So you’re saying if these two guys are standing in Marlin Goode’s corner, we might have problems?

The cop took out a cigarette and lit it. As he cracked the window and exhaled a stream of smoke, he looked over at the big man. "You know? Maybe you aren’t as stupid as you look."

* * *

The pharmacist walked over to his wall cooler and pulled out a couple of soft drinks. Handing one each to Ram and Dillon, he motioned over to the waiting area by his pharmacy counter. The big pharmacy retailers are trying to buy all us independents up, he explained. They’re gobbling up small mom and pop pharmacies all over the U.S.

What if you do not wish to sell? Ram asked, twisting the top off his soft drink and taking a long drink. They can not make you.

They threaten to come in here, build across the street from you and lowball you on price until you give in, right? Dillon tossed out, already knowing the answer.

You got it, Goode nodded. But it’s been different here.

How so?

I know for a fact that the big companies have been looking for land around here—the local realtors tell me every time one of them comes down to look for a place to build. They all have their prescriptions filled here, the pharmacist smiled coyly.

And?

The pharmacist smiled. Nobody will even give them out-of-town big-city realtors the time of day. They just smile and nod and then tell them their land isn’t for sale. So now this big Chicago outfit wants my patient list and corner lot here. They’ll tear down this building and build a new one. I’m just not crazy about that idea and neither is anyone else in town. This is Gainesville. We like our home-owned businesses staying right here downtown.

I agree, Dillon said. I saw enough of that crap when Vicki and I were living in the big cities. Dallas was bad enough, but those other cities were nuts. There’s a damn good reason why we bought land several hours outside of the city. Besides, I used to have to deal with these giant corporations back during my ad agency days. Because of those experiences, I make it a point to shop with as many locally owned businesses as I can.

I agree, Ram chimed in. I like keeping my money here at home with people I know.

Well, speaking of money, Dillon said, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Let’s get the girls’ prescriptions and get you paid so Ram and I can get back to the ranch. Three sick women is more than two healthy men should ever have to manage. The two men had driven into Gainesville to pick up antibiotic z-packs for their wives and the Cole’s teenage daughter. All three women had come down with a nasty head cold a few days earlier. Felicia Alvarez, Ramon’s wife, was a registered nurse but now the tables were switched and it was her husband who was waiting on her hand and foot, as was Dillon with his wife Vicki and their daughter Brittany. I appreciate you getting these things filled as fast as you did, along with the other things on the list.

That’s what we’re here for, Carter reminded the two men. Let’s see these big-city pharmacies try to give that kind of service. Doesn’t happen.

As the two men gathered up the prescriptions and other items they had purchased, Dillon turned around at the front door. Marlin, if those two boys come back you give me or Ram a call.

I’ll do that. Now you boys get on out of here and go take care of those sick girls you have at home.

THREE

CAM CARTER WAS AWOKEN BY a low growl. Rolling over, his eyes focused on a mixture of fur and fangs. Before he could react, the animal leaped and the one-hundred and fifteen-pound Akita had a paw on each side of Cam’s face. Grumbling, Cam reached over to check the alarm clock. Noting that he was the only one in bed, he pushed away the big Japanese dog and sat up, bemoaning the crackle and pops his protesting bones made. Padding over to the walk-in closet, he pulled on a windsuit and a pair of jogging shoes that he now used mainly for fast-walking. Seeing the shoes come on, the Akita began barking excitedly. Shaking his head, Cam couldn’t help but grin at his furry buddy. We do this every morning, rain, snow or shine and you still get fired up, he pointed out to the happy dog.

Making his way into the kitchen, Cam’s wife Barbara was on her second cup of coffee and perusing the morning news via her Apple MacBook Air—a birthday present from Dillon, Vicki and Brittany Cole. Leaning over for a peck on the cheek, Cam glanced at the screen. Instead of the usual Drudge Report his wife scanned in the morning, he saw several financial pages pulled up. Grabbing a mug and pouring himself a cup of coffee, he pointed at the screen. What’s up?

I’m looking at the AHS stocks, Barb said, sipping at her coffee and reaching over to give the Akita an ear rub.

Who? her husband asked absently, himself glancing at the front page of the Wall Street Journal. Cambert Allen Carter was in his mid-fifties and after leaving the Army, where he was a Green Beret medic, he put himself through school and began climbing the corporate ladder. He now occupied a spacious corner office high above the Manhattan skyline where he oversaw the financial liabilities of The Richmond Group, a worldwide financial services corporation.

America’s Health Stores, the huge pharmacy retailer who’s CEO was killed in Chicago a few weeks ago, Barbara said.

No sympathy for that prick, Cam noted, adding a dash more sugar to his coffee.

Did you ever deal with him?

Several times. The first was after that family in Arizona sued them for a wrongful death when one of their pharmacies screwed up the instructions on a prescription. He was a complete ass about the whole deal and kept demanding that we fight the family and keep putting them off until they ran out of money so that no attorney would touch them. The company’s legal team wanted to lay the blame on the patient for not looking at the medication closer and realizing the dosing error.

I remember that, Barb frowned, setting down her coffee. The family were recent immigrants and had trouble reading everything on the label—and the woman was over seventy-five years old.

They print those things out in about forty different languages, you know, Cam pointed out. "But the real issue stemmed from just how big of a sweatshop the AHS pharmacies have turned into and that’s what I advised Sterns to strongly consider. Told him if it went to a jury, get ready to hand over a blank check. I then told him if that happened, we’d drop the entire company as a client which would in turn cause them to go into a high-risk pool. That would mean Lloyd’s of London would be the only company big enough, besides us, to insure them. And Lloyd’s will cost you out the ass. Sterns had a shit fit on the spot. The woman that died meant absolutely nothing to him except a loss of dollars. The company and the world both are better off with him permanently gone."

Well, the AHS board of directors is replacing him with someone just as bad—maybe even worse. It’s his number two guy.

Aris? Roger Aris is getting the driver’s seat? Cam asked in disbelief.

Yeah, Barb agreed, shaking her head in disgust.

What’ll the Street say about it, her husband asked.

They’ll love it. Another hard-ass who’s been advocating more slash and burn at the middle and lower ranks while pushing overseas expansion and increasing their debt load. If you thought they were a sweatshop under Sterns, you haven’t seen anything yet.

Damn. That means at some point in the near future, I’ll end up having to deal with this asshat. Wonderful.

You can always retire like me, his wife pointed out. You don’t owe The Richmond anything. You’re vested, we have no debt and we’re in great shape financially. How much longer are you going to keep banging your head against the same wall? It’s starting to cost you your hair.

I’ve got one more crusade left in me, Cam said, reaching up to grab the Akita’s leash. I just don’t know what it is yet. But when I find out and get it done, then yeah, I think I’m calling it quits.

Good, his wife said. Then maybe you could shave your head and take up scuba diving.

* * *

The president exhaled through his nostrils, the acrid smoke of the just-lit Marlboro swirling around him. Putting his feet up on the historic antique desk in the Oval Office, he looked over at his chief of staff. The numbers suck.

Roderick Grisham stared back. Yes, they do.

And I’ve got an election in just a few weeks.

Yes, you do.

The Marlboro suffered another mighty inhale as the president angrily waved his hand. What are you, a fucking parrot? I need some answers!

Grisham looked at the man sitting in front of him and not for the first time silently wished he’d never been corralled into taking this job. He had come to fame and the attention of the Democratic party back in the early 90’s by getting an unknown governor from Arkansas and his ugly, foul-mouthed wife into the White House. He briefly served as their chief of staff during the mid-term elections—he’d done so because unlike the arrogant fraud in front of him, his previous bosses would actually listen to him. He shook his head slightly and looked down at his notes. Unemployment is in double-digits—

Not any more. We fixed those numbers to reflect just under nine percent.

That’s the U3 figure, the president’s chief of staff pointed out. "You know as well as I do, and certainly as well as the rest of the economists and analysts, that the U6 is almost twice as high—and that it’s the actual unemployment rate, not just the percent of those drawing unemployment checks."

The president simply studied his cigarette in way of reply.

And then there’s the price of gasoline—it’s doubled, and almost tripled since you took office.

Too many hurricanes and other natural disasters, not to mention that damn BP spill in the Gulf, the president retorted.

"That’s bullshit. You’ve killed every drilling proposal that has come across your desk since the day you were inaugurated. You had one hell of an opportunity to create over ten thousand jobs and cut the price of a gallon in gasoline in half, but you screwed that up too when you killed the pipeline project from Canada. Your incessant and constant ass-kissing to OPEC has made the United States the doormat when it comes to our energy policies and any global power or influence we had when it came to energy is gone."

The president angrily stubbed out his cigarette. There’s more to this mess than simply jobs and energy—

"You really are a complete imbecile, Grisham snapped, reaching into his portfolio for a document he’d prepared the night before. When trucks, trains, ships and airplanes can’t afford fuel or have to pay twice as much for it, that raises the price of goods—all goods ranging from groceries to clothes to cars to appliances. But when consumers can’t afford the increase in price, businesses have to eat that increased cost and that means cutting your other big expense which is labor. So, Mister President, people end up getting laid off so that businesses can continue to sell goods without an overly harsh markup of purchase price. Jimmy Carter didn’t understand that either."

My poll numbers are still decent! the president shouted.

"Your poll numbers—your actual poll numbers—are dog shit, Grisham shot back, flipping through a deck of printouts. You’re the first president since these things have been tracked to have his approval rating fall below thirty-five percent. Congratulations, the chief of staff said with obvious sarcasm in his voice. You and Congress finally have something in common to talk about.

* * *

At the Keeling House, one of the largest brokerage firms on Wall Street, Howard Keeling hung up his phone and turned to the other person in his office. With an unmistakable smugness in his voice, he announced, Well, it’s a done deal. Our two people on the board of directors for AHS will push the vote to the majority we need to get Roger Aris in the CEO’s seat.

How much did that cost us? his senior principle asked.

Five million each.

Jesus Christ, Howard! Are you out of your mind?

Relax, Keeling said, reaching in his humidor and pulling out a contraband Cuban cigar, then gesturing to his partner to pick one out for himself. I’ve already spoken to Roger. Next week, we’ll coordinate a press release about the company’s new acquisitions and then we’ll lead the stock rally. Before the week is over, we’ll initiate a split in the stock, short sell it and use that to pay our two board members. Then when the price climbs back to what we paid for it before the split, our commission alone will be over twenty-million, and that, my friend, is just for starters.

Howard, if the Securities and Exchange Commission gets wind of this… the other man warned. I hope you’ve got an exit strategy.

We won’t need one, trust me, Howard Keeling assured his partner. There are only five of us in on this deal. The only way the boys and girls at the SEC will get anything is if one of us breaks down and talks. And that, he said, lighting his cigar and taking a victory puff, isn’t going to happen.

We’ve got to be damned careful.

I agree. But don’t spend your time worrying. Nothing is going to go wrong.

The partner was reflective for a moment, then lit his own cigar. Yeah? Well that’s what the guys at Enron thought, too.

FOUR

IT STARTED WITH A BASIC intro to business class, filled mainly with freshmen and sophomores at the College of Business Administration building at Texas Tech University. The professor of this particular class was an anachronism in the world of academia—he had actual real world business experience and lots of it. The mid-term assignment he dished out every semester was always the same:

In a world of ever-merging corporate giants and challenging economies, how can the small business not just survive, but thrive?

Dr. Craig Anders stressed that rare was the business whose success, or failure, rested upon just one individual. Even sole proprietorships relied upon financing, vendors, utility and service providers and more. Therefore, for the purposes of this assignment, the students would work in groups.

That suited Cody Lanier just fine. An athletic standout from Gainesville, Texas, Cody had been offered baseball scholarships at Oklahoma State University, Texas Tech University, and University of Nebraska. Lubbock offered the best prospects for finding a good part-time job and he liked the laid back attitudes of West Texans. So Texas Tech it was and now in his second year he was formally beginning his business education.

Sitting at a round table in the basement of the new business administration building, Cody looked at his group. Since he had a job at a local feed mill, it was assumed he knew more about small business than they did and that made him the de facto leader. Only one other member had a job working for a small business, and not surprisingly, it was she who began taking notes for the group. Okay, Cody said. Today is Tuesday and we’ll meet again here after class on Thursday. Let’s have some ideas and any research you can find to back up your ideas and we’ll put it all on the table then. Sound good? A round of nods signaled agreement with him amidst the sounds of laptops being closed and backpacks being zipped shut as the students prepared to trek across the campus to their various destinations. Cody already had a few ideas and he looked forward to running them across his boss at the feed mill. He also had two special guests coming to see him this weekend for the football game between Texas Tech and New Mexico. Even though it was a non-conference game, the two schools had been rivals for over fifty years and always played each other tough. Cody smiled at the thought of who was coming to see him because one of them knew business very well and had the bank accounts and assets to prove it. The other guest he very much looked forward to seeing, but for completely different reasons.

* * *

Feeling better? Dillon asked.

Starting to, his daughter replied as she accepted the steaming mug of homemade soup Felicia Alvarez had made for lunch. Felicia was the first of the women to get back on her feet shortly after the azithromycin z-pack began kicking in. While Brittany was starting to look and feel better by the hour, Vicki was still in bed and taking the longest to get better. The problem was that his wife didn’t do well with antibiotics and stubbornly resisted taking them, which gave the bug she’d picked up a fertile host to run, romp and play in. Felicia promised Dillon that if need be, she would start blending the antibiotics in with Vicki’s food that evening. A longtime registered nurse, Felicia Alvarez knew all the tricks.

Are you going to be well enough to go to Lubbock this weekend for the game and to see Cody? Dillon asked.

I think so. I had breakfast this morning and it really helped. This soup will too. Maybe you can walk with me a little bit later on to help me get loosened up? I’m feeling really tight and crampy.

Dillon nodded. We can do that.

Thanks, Dad. I love you, Brittany said, yawning and setting her empty mug down and then snuggling closer to her father. I think I’m going to take a little nap, she murmured drowsily, nestling her head on Dillon’s shoulder.

Looking down and watching his daughter’s gentle breathing, Dillon pointed the remote at the television and tuned to the Sportsman Channel.

* * *

What do you mean the guy won’t sell? Roger Aris growled at the person sitting across from him.

Just what I said—he isn’t selling, Marco Delgado told the CEO. I sent my best team down there three times, and all three times they reported back that he refuses to sell.

The America’s Health Stores newly minted chief executive swore as he leaned back in his chair and gazed out the window of his large thirtieth floor corner office. Lake Michigan was white-capping he saw. Two years ago, when Aris had been senior executive vice president of AHS, he had brought in Delgado, a former FBI agent who worked Organized Crime, to head up Unconventional Acquisitions, a unit Delgado himself had set up and organized to be financially and physically invisible from the rest of the company. The unit was not located in the AHS building, but rather out of a suite of offices on Wacker Drive across the river and was disguised as a corporate security firm.

History had shown that simply waving a pile of cash in front of small business owners didn’t always work when it came to getting them to sell. Sometimes they needed different forms of persuasion, of which the methods could range from the legal—though not exactly ethical—such as hostile takeovers, making investments in neighboring competitors, negative smear campaigns, finding environmental violations and then reporting them or even offering cash settlements to the employees to simply quit and walk out. The not-so-legal and outright illegal methods had included threats of violence, physical assault in order to scare owners into selling, hiring drug-dealers and other dregs of society to hang around the business in order to scare off the existing customer base, and in the really stubborn cases, simply burning the business to the ground then buying the charred lot at salvage rates from the insurance company. How far did your guys go with Marlin Goode? the CEO asked as he flipped through the file.

They were right at the point of roughing the old man up when a couple of customers came in and—

A couple of customers? You mean your team couldn’t handle—

Let me finish, Delgado said. These weren’t ordinary customers and in fact, we now have a whole new set of problems.

Explain.

"You remember the terrorist shootings from a couple of years ago, right? And you remember the one in Tulsa where a guy decided to fight back and killed three of the terrorists by himself? His name is Dillon Cole. And guess what? He was one of the two customers that walked in yesterday. The other was his friend and business partner, a guy by the name of Ramon Alvarez. Just our luck—they live nearby and do a lot of business with Goode Drugs."

Those names mean nothing to me, Aris said.

Trust me. Alvarez and Cole are two men we do not want to mess with, and if they are friends with Marlin Goode, then my suggestion is quit trying to buy Goode Drugs. Leave them alone and buy a lot elsewhere in Gainesville and then build your new store. You can then start a price war and gather most of his customers.

Roger Aris glowered. "Marco, you may have been a king shit FBI agent but you don’t know jack shit about business."

Delgado’s eyes narrowed. How do you figure?

"It’s in your team’s own report! When your Chicago cop was negotiating, his partner outright stated that we’d build from the ground up and run them out of business. Goode’s response was to laugh in their faces and explain how his pharmacy was three generations old and has been doing business in downtown Gainesville longer than AHS has even been in Texas. In case you haven’t noticed, our primary competitor has a store in Gainesville and their sales suck—they’re hemorrhaging money, but they’re stuck there because nobody will buy them out and they’re upside down on the lease. Why the hell would we want to get in the same position? I want that goddamned Goode Drugs and I don’t care what it takes. I want it!"

* * *

Well, isn’t this cute.

Huh? Dillon’s head snapped up, only to notice the living room was dark except for the light of the television. Shaking his head slightly, he looked at the clock and saw it was now early evening. Next to him, his daughter stirred sleepily, murmuring something unintelligible. On the other side of him was Dutch, the Doberman Pinscher the Coles had imported from the Czech Republic when the dog was a few months old. Dak, a German Shepherd—also imported from the Czech Republic—was on the floor stretched out in front of the couch.

One big happy family, Vicki said, shuffling over to the couch and shooing the Doberman off so that she could sit down next to her husband. Leaning over on his other shoulder, the blonde-haired former reporter and retired public relations executive snuggled closer. I think the meds are working, she announced. I’m feeling almost human and I’m hungry.

Well that’s good, her husband replied, because I’m hungry, too. Anything in particular you want?

I’m not sure, Vicki said, still a bit groggy from just having woke up. I know I don’t feel like cooking and I definitely don’t feel like getting dressed and going out. So you’re going to have to cook.

While Dillon was contemplating how to handle supper, the intercom buzzed. Señor Dillon? a female voice asked. "I have a big pot of my pollo and dumplings for supper. I will send Ramon over with it. Do you think the ladies will be eating tonight?"

You’re a godsend, Felicia, Vicki called out to the intercom box that allowed the Coles and the Alvarezes to have instant communications between their two homes. "Thank you very much!"

How are you feeling, Vicki?

I’m starting to feel like a human being again—I think the z-pack antibiotics are really working.

Very good, the registered nurse said. And how is our little girl?

Brittany had woken up with all the conversation and she called out, "I’m feeling a lot better, Aunt Felicia and I’m hungry, too. Chicken and dumplings sounds awesome!"

The Coles heard Felicia Alvarez chuckle on the other end of the intercom. OK that settles it, she declared. I am back to feeling almost one-hundred percent so I think we have beaten this cold bug. I will send Ramon over with your supper.

The Coles lived on a four-hundred plus acre ranch between Gainesville and Sherman in north Texas. They had purchased the ranch for pennies on the dollar from a cropduster who’d run afoul first of the Environmental Protection Agency, then the Internal Revenue Service. The acreage included a 3500-foot paved and lighted runway, a small taxiway and underground fuel tanks for diesel, aviation gasoline and regular automotive gasoline. Dillon and Vicki were pilots and owned several small general aviation airplanes and had dreamed of having a hangar home. Upon purchasing the ranch, they designed and built a comfortable four-bedroom, three bath living quarters in the upper level of the 7200-square foot hangar. Ramon and Felicia Alvarez had built a more traditional house on twenty-five acres of land deeded to them by the