Page 42 of Factory Thief

Normally, these guys are cool. Why shouldn’t they? They have it fairly easy. They keep nosy people, homeless, and other undesirables out of the tech campus. Preventing corporate espionage, their ostensible goal, doesn’t happen every day; it’s often a distant afterthought.

I used to listen to them talk and it was clear that, as far as they were concerned, this job was meant to be, more or less, an early retirement of sorts. Great hours, great pay, easy job. Easy life.

Only their Xtera bosses are extra greedy, and sometimes that greed means these retired rent-a-cops have to get their hands dirty. Or bloody, as the case may be. Most of them are ex-military, many are ex-special forces. None of them really expected to kill anyone after they put on a three-piece suit and a shoulder-holstered automatic pistol.

Mr. and Mrs. Z sit up front of the van, with Mrs. Z driving. They have guns as well, though they don’t have them drawn. Given their cold, military efficiency, I’m guessing this isn’t the first time those two have done something like this for Xtera.

Outnumbered four to one. There could be more cars following us as well, for all I know. My situation seems pretty hopeless.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Shut up.” Mr. X smacks me with the barrel of his gun hard enough I cry out.

“Hey, ease up on the guy,” Mr. Z says from the front seat. “Livingston wants him in one piece…for starters.”

They share a sinister laugh while Mr. Y shifts nervously beside me. I direct my query at Mr. Z’s mustachioed face this time, since he seems to be in charge or, at least, hold some sway over the others.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To see Mr. Livingston. He wants to have a little chat.”

A chill runs down my spine.

Why does he want to see me?

I don’t think what he really wants is a heart-to-heart talk.

But then again, he could have them dispose of me without taking the time to see me.

No matter what his intentions, I’m in deep trouble.

The van takes a twisting path through the valley to Atherton. Goes to prove crime does pay plenty. You could fit four of my first apartments into one of the living rooms of those houses. The micro-mansions give way to more sprawling estates as we pass through a guarded gate.

I don’t have to be told which one is Livingston’s place. The armed guards standing outside the ornate wrought-iron gate kind of give it away. The company logo is embroidered on their uniform.

I peer through the windshield and see it all until Mr. X smacks me with the gun and shoves me back against the side of the van.

The van trundles down a private drive, passing beneath delicately arched trees sculpted to form a covered bridge above the asphalt. We roll up before the manor house and the van lurches to a stop.

Armed men patrol the grounds in groups of two. I’ve never seen so much security before, except maybe in movies about the White House. The van doors open, and they drag me out of the back. I’m herded inside the house and taken directly up a flight of stairs to the second floor.

They force march me down a marble hallway. The one maid I see cleaning the floors pretends blindness as we pass. I take it prisoners and armed guards aren’t out of the ordinary in this household.

I’m pushed into a room with only a single window and chair.

The bars over the window give me a stab of panic. This might look like just another bedroom, when viewed from the outside, but I know the truth. It’s a prison cell.

I don’t want to go back to prison, new or old. I can’t. Even if Livingston decides not to kill me, I won’t. Now that I think of it, I don’t want him to turn me over to the authorities either. If he did, I’d be sent right back to Sandpiper Cove. Probably with an extra five to ten years stitched onto my sentence, which, of course, would be served in solitary confinement…

I can’t go back. There’s no way I can go back. I’d rather die.

They use more zip ties to secure my ankles to the chair. These aren’t your twenty-for-a-dollar garden variety, either, but law enforcement issue. The only way out is a sharp knife, and I’m fresh out of those.

I’m so glad I didn’t bring Victoria with me. If I had she’d probably be right here in this cell with me. Oh God…what if I never get to see her again? It’s worse than the panic of returning to prison. Much worse.

I can’t just deal with it.

I don’t want to go back to jail, but I don’t want to die either.

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