Page 76 of Code Name: Atticus
Then I deleted both messages. No digital trail while we were here, even encrypted ones.
When Brenna emerged, she was wearing a dress that managed to be both conservative and sexy as fuck. Knee-length, with nothing flashy about the cut or color, but the way the fabricmoved when she walked made me want to strip her out of it. Her hair was pulled back, and she’d freshened her makeup.
“Will I do?”
“You’re devastatingly beautiful,darling.”
She crossed to me and settled her hands on my chest. “Feeling any better about being here?”
“Yes, and no.”
She nodded as if she understood, and if not, she accepted the answer as the best I could give at the moment.
When we arrivedat the lodge just before eighteen hundred hours, it hummed with activity. Morrison held court near the fireplace, naturally, where the light and positioning made him the gravitational center of the room, but we approached Kodiak and Emma first.
“Ah, the Nolans and the Mitchells,” Morrison said, crossing over to greet us.
“David, I’m sure I speak for my husband and our friends when I say your graciousness in inviting us is so appreciated,” Brenna said, briefly touching his arm in a way that made my shoulders seize.
“Wait until tomorrow. I think you’ll find our sessions particularly enlightening.”
Liu appeared at Morrison’s shoulder with the timing of someone who’d been waiting for his cue. The man moved like smoke—there, then not, then suddenly beside you.
“Welcome,” he repeated. “We’re so pleased that you were able to join us.”
While the rest of the group engaged in small talk, I surveyed those already assembled in the lobby. Several held cocktails, but I hadn’t spotted a bar. Not that I’d be partaking tonight.
“Come,” I heard Morrison say. “I’ll introduce you to some fellow guests.”
The next half hour was about strategic mingling disguised as a cocktail party. Morrison and Liu had clearly coordinated—Morrison handled executives with back slaps and bourbon, Liu focused on engineers with quiet intensity, while Castellano, when he appeared, worked the money people with evangelical fervor.
Every conversation followed the same arc. Weather and wine turned into discussions about work, which became complaints about regulations, which became something darker. The frustration in the room was real, palpable, like kindling waiting for a spark.
“ITAR is killing us,” one executive muttered into his second scotch. “By the time we get approval, our competitors have already shipped.”
“The Chinese don’t have these constraints,” added someone else. “They’re implementing our patents while we’re filing paperwork.”
“Sometimes I wonder if we’re just rearranging deck chairs,” said a woman who kept checking her phone. “Following rules while the ship sinks.”
I made appropriate sounds of agreement while cataloging faces, noting who leaned into the complaints, who pulled back, who was drinking heavily, and who stayed sharp.
Thirty minutes later, Morrison positioned himself by the fireplace for the second time. Conversations gradually died as people turned toward him.
“Friends,” he began, the word rolling off his tongue in a way that made my skin crawl. “Welcome to what I hope will be a transformative weekend.”
He talked about innovation strangled by bureaucracy, talent buried by regulations, and the frustration they all shared. Butunderneath was something else—evaluation. He was taking the room’s temperature, noting who nodded, who frowned, and who leaned forward.
“But tonight,” he concluded, “is about getting to know each other. Shall we adjourn to dinner?”
The Canyon Room was set up with round tables of eight, with strategically arranged place cards. Brenna and I were seated at Morrison’s table, while Kodiak and Emma were at Castellano’s.
Vague topics of conversation with double- and triple-meaning continued throughout the four-course meal.
After dessert, when Brenna excused herself to the ladies’ room, Morrison appeared at my shoulder. “Walk with me?”
He led me out to the terrace, where he lit a cigar. “Join me?” he asked. Adding, “Your wife’s portfolio shows real vision,” when I politely declined.
“She sees opportunities others miss.”
