Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(2)

Not only did my brother accurately predict the importance of cybersecurity, he was one of the first geniuses on the scene. As security evolved from muscles and guns to a cyber arms race, he and Dad—plus Max’s college roommate—began writing the code and designing the tools that keep captains of industry safe and their data secure. They also license a few of their toys to other security companies and probably the government.

It’s the most successful company that you’ve never heard of.

In contrast, I’ve been a professional athlete for fifteen years. I make seven million dollars a year, and I’m basically the family slacker.

The elevator doors part on the sixth floor. I step out into a vast open space. This is no typical C-suite of plush offices. It looks more like a Silicon Valley startup, with brightly colored furniture and a big kitchen along one wall. There are offices up here, but the majority of the floor space remains open for collaboration and for testing whatever The Company needs to test. Weapons, maybe. Or detection devices. Facial recognition software imbedded in sunglasses. Tiny drones disguised as dragonflies. A phone signal jammer that looks like an ordinary pencil eraser.

Fun times on the sixth floor. I’m just here for the tacos.

My brother is sitting in his office, talking a mile a minute into his earpiece, his hands typing furiously at the same time. The office window looks normal until you happen to glance at the computer screen. Its display looks black, but that’s only a trick. The glass in his office window blocks light waves from his monitor so that nobody passing by can read what’s on his screen.

The first time he showed me that glass in action, I thought it was amazing. “Jesus, really?” I’d said, ducking in and out of the office to see the difference. “You’re getting a patent for that, right?”

“No fucking way!” Max had looked appalled. “Only losers get patents. You have to disclose too much information. Patents are for suckers.”

If we didn’t look vaguely alike, it would be hard to guess we share a gene pool.

Dad’s office door is open, but he’s not inside. So I scan the wide-open areas, looking for his silver hair.

But it’s busy up here. Two young women are perched on an indescribable piece of furniture. It’s a bright salmon-colored sofa that’s shaped like a cresting wave. They’re having a discussion which involves wild gesticulation and frequent references to a laptop on the table in front of them.

Then there’s the two guys who are testing some kind of electronic device over against the wall. One of them is standing with his arms and legs spread, while the other one waves a hand-held gizmo at his body. I can’t make any sense of it. But there’s a ringing sound, and the two guys let out a whoop and high-five each other in an obvious nerdgasm.

And people think my job is weird.

I finally spot my father at the other end of the space, inside a conference room resembling a glassed-in tank. Dad’s assistant—Shelby—spots me approaching and opens the door. “Come in, Eric!” she says. “He’s in a feisty mood today, though. Careful.”

My father has been in a feisty mood for seventy-six years, and we both know it. “Hey, pops. What’s happening?”

“Eric.” He stands up and gives me a bear hug. My dad is an affectionate man. Part of the reason his firm grew so fast (even before my genius brother got involved) is that he’s such a magnetic person. He knows everyone in New York City, and he’s not afraid to hug ‘em all. “Great to see ya. Shame about game seven.”

“Isn’t it?” I try to keep my expression neutral, but it’s going to be a while until I feel okay about it. We lost in the last game of the final round. We were literally one goal away from the Stanley Cup. I played on an aching knee, with a barely healed shoulder. I gave it everything I had, and my everything wasn’t quite enough.

“Sit, sit, sit!” Dad offers me a conference room chair like it’s a royal throne. Although, given the money they throw around, it might cost as much.

I sit down and lean back into the leather seat. “Where’s this taco joint, anyway? Is it in the neighborhood?”

“Listen,” Dad says. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Hmm?” I’m busy sizing him up, because I haven’t seen him in a while, and he’s getting on in years. He was forty when Max was born, and forty-two when I came along.

But I have to admit he looks as heathy as ever. He’s dressed in khaki pants and a button down, but there’s a very fit body under the starched fabric. He has a closet full of the same J. Press blue oxfords, which the housekeeper irons each week and rehangs in his closet.

The scent of Niagara shirt starch—the kind in the spray can? It’s the scent of my childhood.

“You look good, Dad. You still working out?” Ten years ago I set him up with a personal trainer for his birthday. I was twenty-five and making seven figures a year and it still seemed to both of us like an extravagant gift. But now he and Max could buy and sell me ten times over.

“Twice a week!” Dad crows. “But listen—this favor…”

“I’m on vacation,” I say preemptively. “Our season lasted as long as a season can last, so I only get a few more weeks off. I plan to enjoy them.”

“A few weeks,” my dad says slowly. “We only need one. Two, tops.”