CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Where in the fuck is the money?" growled the man staring at the five individuals running his computers.

"It was hidden, sir. Hidden better than anything I've ever seen, and now we're trying to get the virus off that they planted."

"That's two now," he growled. "Two that you couldn't get into and two that planted viruses in our systems!"

"Three, sir."

"What?" he frowned.

"Sorry, but the shelter in New Orleans, we never got into them, and our guys never checked in. I think they ran with their paychecks. Warriors for Warriors should have been easy, but it wasn't. Something big was stopping us."

"Find a way around it," he said.

"Sir, I don't think there is a way around it. I think we need to look at another business, something we can get into." He stared at the geek he'd plucked from a junior college, paying him more than he could possibly imagine. As he walked closer, the young man scooted his chair backward.

"You think so, huh? You think I should give up on businesses where I know for a fact there are millions? Millions, you fucking idiot! Do what I fucking tell you!"

"Hey, I'm trying," he said, standing from his chair. "You're asking us to do the impossible, and we're working as hard as we can."

His boss stared at him, then pulled a pistol from beneath his arm. He was dead. Firing three times, he was gone before he hit the floor. The four other men just gasped, turning away from the blood-soaked floor.

"Anyone else want to bitch about this? Anyone?" They all shook their heads. "Then get to fucking work! On your break you can carry him out back and put him in the dumpster.

"I'll do it now," said one of the men.

"No. You won't fucking move," he seethed. "You'll sit here and smell his stench until your break. Now find me the fucking money!"

He stormed off toward an office at the end of the large room, slamming the door as he went inside. Seated against the wall, cleaning his fingernails with a long knife, was his partner.

"You won't get shit out of them if you treat them that way," he smirked.

"Really? You're so fucking smart; why don't you go talk to them? They fucked up, Mark. They were in and fucked up. Those assholes that were in New Orleans should have been in and out and gotten me that money. It's privately funded by some rich dick."

"There's plenty more, Tim. You're pushing that team out there, and you don't want to have to start all over finding a new team." His partner stared at him, practically shooting daggers at him.

"Maybe if you got off your fucking ass and found new blood for me, I wouldn't be pushing them so hard."

"Yes, you would," he laughed. "You enjoy it. Look, go after all the weak-ass charities you want, but do me a favor and stay away from military charities."

"Well, well, well," chuckled Tim. "Don't tell me you've got a soft spot for the dicks that kicked your ass out. They screwed you over, Mark. They knocked you down and left you to die."

"I was a prick to my team," he frowned. "I'm old enough now to see that and know that I was the one who fucked up. I deserved what they gave me. I did my time. But leave them alone, Tim. Go after all the others."

"Fine. Fine, I'll take what I want from all the others. But if something falls into my lap, don't think I won't take advantage of it." Mark stood, his legs cracking as he did, reminding him of just how old he really was.

"You're gonna fuck this up, Tim. You've got more money than Midas and yet you still want more. Just what the fuck do you spend it on? You live in a shithole apartment, drive a ten-year-old car, and dress like a rapper from the eighties. Where is all your money?"

"I'm good with my investments," he smirked, sitting back down behind his array of computer screens. "I know where to invest and how to invest. One day, all those assholes who fired me from investment companies, banking, and real estate will look my way and ask me for money. And you know what I'm going to say?"

"What?"

"Fuck off."