Frankly, Heckman Flax nauseated Aidan. Talk about a sharp contrast to his days as a Marine on active duty. In the military there had been a sense of real purpose, a common goal of annihilating the enemy, doing good, forming a brotherhood. And Wall Street? It was the worst of the worst. There was nothing decent or patriotic about individuals attacking their own team members—and all for the almighty dollar. It was screw or be screwed. Friendship was for losers.
Working in this jungle made Aidan’s “other” life that much more appealing, and a hell of a lot more rewarding.
But he had personal responsibilities that he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—walk away from. He needed this job for the obscene amount of money Heckman Flax paid him, for the “cover” it provided, and for the advantages his position gave him to pursue his ideals.
Thinking of his primary responsibility, he picked up and studied the only personal item in his entire office. It was a photo of a four-and-a-half-year-old hellion. She was the one who had transformed all facets of his life and turned it totally upside down.
Abby. His little girl. His daughter.
He hadn’t known of her existence until social services showed up at his door, with the necessary proof and documentation, and placed her in Aidan’s arms. He’d been shocked to the core. But none of that mattered now. Abby’s mother, Valèrie, was dead, and Aidan was all Abby had.
Nothing in his life had prepared him for becoming a single dad. There was no field manual. No Special Operations Parenting training. Just his instincts, wits, and anything he could read from supposed experts. And talk about losing a battle—he was losing this one each and every day in every possible way as little Abby wrapped him around her tiny little finger.
It appeared that former Marine Captain Aidan Devereaux was suddenly not so tough anymore, at least where his precocious daughter was concerned.
A smile curved his lips. Abby could wreak more havoc in an hour than a cave full of Taliban fighters or a conference room packed with corporate lawyers.
His tender musings were interrupted by the ringing of his secure cell phone.
His smiled vanished. “What’s up?” he answered.
“I need to see you.” Terri Underwood had an unmistakably authoritative tone to her voice. A former analyst for the National Security Agency and now a freelance security consultant, she had no time for bullshit small talk. She knew more about PRISM—the US government’s not-so-secret data collection and spying efforts—than the people running it. She knew every nuance of the massive information-gathering behemoth, and even where a trap door existed so she could sneak into its vast repository of information without being detected.
Aidan relied heavily on Terri’s clandestine genius to use PRISM for a secret purpose—ferreting out variations in human communication patterns, variations that were the precursors to tragic or even catastrophic events.
“We’ve got a high-risk situation,” she told him now.
Aidan glanced at his watch. “Give me a half hour to wrap things up. Then I’m on my way.”
Los Altos Hills, California
23 February
Friday, 7:45 p.m. local time
“Vance, there’s something wrong. I know it.”
Susan Pennington was pacing anxiously around Vance’s massive walnut desk, which seemed diminutive inside the expansive, well-appointed study.
Vance didn’t answer. He was deep in concentration, squinting at his computer screen and studying an Excel spreadsheet that Robert Maxwell, the CEO of NanoUSA, had just forwarded to him. As VP of Manufacturing, he was pressed to review the data tonight. That way, he and Robert could have their closed-door meeting in the office at seven a.m. tomorrow.
“Vance!” Susan repeated, this time more adamantly. She might have her husband home, but his mind was still locked into the round-the-clock work schedule that comprised his life. He’d be at it till way past midnight. And she needed his attention now.
With a resigned sigh, Vance removed his glasses and eased back in his leather chair, studying his wife’s stricken expression.
“Susan, it’s only been three days since she called. She’s pissed. She didn’t like our reaction to her grand announcement that she’d be blowing off our annual family gathering. She’s still been texting us every day at the same time to let us know she’s okay. So what is it you’re worried about?”
“It’s not like Lauren to hold a grudge,” Susan answered. “She’s always about making up and moving on. This time’s different. Even when I call her, my calls go straight to voice mail. She’s clearly ignoring me. And her texts are cryptic. They sound more like a travel guide than like our daughter.”
“Like I said, she’s pissed at us. Maybe there’s a guy in the picture,” Vance suggested. “You know how Lauren is. If she’s `in love’ yet again, she’ll be totally consumed with God knows who. It would explain everything—including why she wants to stay in Europe rather than joining her family for our once-a-year vacation. Hormones trump skiing.”
Susan rubbed her hands together and considered that. Vance wasn’t wrong in his assessment. When Lauren fell for a guy, it was hard, it was fast, and it overshadowed all else. After numerous failed relationships, Lauren had stopped sharing the details, waiting until the love affair was over and then defaulting to: “It didn’t work out.”
Could that be what this was about?
She blew out her breath. “I suppose that could explain it.”
“Of course it could.” Vance slid his glasses back on his nose and returned to his work. “Why don’t you make yourself a cup of chamomile tea to unwind and then go upstairs? I’ll join you as soon as I can.”