2 A Month of Mondays Read Free Page B

his feet become lead. He blinked hard and stared at
the macchiato in his hands. Absently, he threw it in the trash. He looked back
up to see Hallie staring at him. The look of pity on her face turned his stomach.
    As if in another world, he heard
the elevator chime. The doors opened with a thud.
    “We’re the last ones up. Maybe we
should go.”  She seemed nervous. He caught her glance over his shoulder. His
sense of danger seemed muted, but he could not ignore the signs. Something here
wasn’t right.
    “How can I be sure this won’t be
my last trip on this elevator?”  He asked. Hallie stood inside the elevator and
smiled back as she leaned forward to stop the door from closing.
    “You can’t.”
    “Well, I guess that will be the
best answer a man could ask for.”  He entered and deliberately turned his back
to Hallie, looking back out toward the lobby to see what had concerned her
earlier. He noted several employees from other floors walking or standing and
talking. No one stood out. He cursed his sudden numbness. It was sure to get
him killed. He crossed his arms across his chest. His right hand made a fist
and his left hand was shaped into a blade, his fingers doubled over.
    As the doors closed, he became
acutely aware that as an assassin, he would have already pulled the gun out and
had it to the poor sap’s skull. Hallie had not moved. Too bad. She had her
opportunity. He would have to teach her a lesson.
    He led with his left hand,
sweeping it under to hit her in the solar plexus. At the same time, he turned
his hips and prepared to drive his right fist at her temple. The only problem: 
she was not there. He felt something small and hard at his right pit. He froze,
his hands held out ridiculously before him like he was doing some sort of
elevator kata.
    “Put your hands down, you idiot.”
    “I’m sorry...”
    “Shut up!  Don’t talk right now. We
don’t have much time.”  She seemed nervous. He could not understand why. He was
the one that was going to die.

Chapter 3
    Money Can't Buy You Love
    Clarence gazed out into the factory, impressed by the
orderliness of the operation. Machines and equipment moved inexorably,
performing repetitive tasks. Men and women in yellow plastic caps and white
smocks lifted, pulled, pushed, and inspected product. The thick walls of the
office and the glass kept the majority of the noise to a minimum. Still, he
could hear people mumbling, machinery clanking, and hydraulic presses hissing. Behind
it all was the rhythmic sound of metal being stamped, pressed, and cut.
    "We are not talking about an insurrection like John
Brown at Harper's Ferry, here, Mr. Brookhaven. The current atmosphere is not
ripe enough for a rebellion to be successful," George H. Beckford, III
said.
    Clarence did not turn. He understood Beckford's reluctance
to involve his company in their plans. Granville Arms was a supplier of weapons
to military units world-wide. Their largest customer was the US government. Granville
supplied dozens of state police forces, National Guard Armies, and even provided
some specialized weapon choices to the Navy SEALs and the FBI.
    Being a government vendor had its perks, but also its
dangers. Exposure to federal inspectors, local and national corruption, and the
never-ending meddling of anti-gun lobbyists created a nervous atmosphere. Beckford
knew on which side his bread was buttered.
    At the same time, Clarence knew that their proposal was very
tempting.
    "We do not expect you to fall on your sword,
George," Clarence said. He watched his reflection in the glass. He could
see George sitting uncomfortably behind a large oak desk behind him. Clarence
imagined that George sat at that desk maybe a few hours per year. It did not
seem to fit him. "We do not even need your money. We have that. We need
your cooperation. We need your supply lines. And we need your secrecy."
    "Secrecy. That does not come cheaply," he replied
in a huff.
    Clarence turned then, a puzzled