“My back? It’s fine.”
“Good.” He turned to walk away, then glanced at me again. “You’re welcome,” he said, and vanished into the forest.
SHARK TANK
The Morgan residence was patrolled by a security guard. At what level of wealth did one require a home security guard? Actually, Gabriel knew the answer to that, having dug deep into Morgan’s finances while looking for ammunition to use against him.
Morgan was rich. A juvenile term. At Gabriel’s age, he should be more specific with his terminology. But he’d been young when he set his sights on his future goals, and that was the wording he used, at least to himself.
He could not achieve “rich”—it was for those who came from money, though it allowed for the occasional entrepreneur. Gabriel’s goal was “successful.” Wealthy and very successful.
Morgan’s wealth came from both family money and his business, and it far exceeded anything Gabriel could hope for. It did not, however, warrant a roving security guard.
One problem with the rich was that they lacked basic survival skills. Morgan considered himself a shark, devouring anything that got in his way, but he was a shark in a tank, relying on others to keep him safe. The rich bought their fancy locks and security systems and, it seemed, even security guards. Yet it was like wearing a breastplate into battle—it still took only one good stroke to lop off your head.
And so it was here. The guard was useless. Stationed a hundred feet away from the house, at the gate. Patrolling the grounds every twenty minutes. Once Gabriel determined the schedule, he waited until the guard returned to his post and then scaled the back fence. Two minutes later, he was knocking on the front door.
Morgan answered. He stopped short, and his gaze shot to the guard post.
Gabriel waved at the manicured spruce behind him. “While I’m loath to criticize gardening choices, may I suggest that’s a very poor place for a shrub?”
Morgan cursed under his breath as he realized that the tree blocked Gabriel from the guard’s view. Then Morgan’s hand slid up the wall.
“You can certainly summon the guard,” Gabriel said. “I’ll understand if you’d like him to be privy to our conversation. While my size is no fault of my own, some men find it intimidating.”
Morgan’s lips tightened, and his hand moved away from the intercom. Such a fool. There was nothing wrong with being a shark in a tank—Gabriel supposed it was a fine and comfortable life—but one should have the good sense to see the glass walls and realize one’s limitations.
“May I come in?” Gabriel asked.
Morgan nodded and moved back. As Gabriel entered, he heard a noise on the steps and looked up to see an older woman eyeing him with suspicion. It didn’t matter how fine his manners or impeccable his dress, when women like this saw him, they backed up clutching their purses. Which was not an unwarranted reaction, all things considered. Ten years ago, he’d have salivated walking into a house like this, mentally running through all the most likely hiding places for valuables and mapping out the most efficient route for snatching them. He didn’t miss those days, but admittedly there were still times when he looked at a woman’s necklace or a man’s watch and his brain threw out a dollar figure—not the cost but how much he could fence it for.
“It’s Olivia’s lawyer,” Morgan called up to her. “On business.”
“At this hour?”
“It’s barely eleven. Everything’s fine, Mom. Go back to bed.”
She retreated, but slowly, still eyeing Gabriel, her expression less fear than warning now. Gabriel turned his back on her.
“May we speak in another room?” he asked Morgan.
Morgan waved him into a parlor or some such room designed for sitting, which neither of them did. They walked to the middle and faced each other.
“If you’re here to intimidate me . . .” Morgan began.
“In your own home? With your mother and your security guard at hand? That would seem unwise.”
Gabriel kept his voice soft, free of emphasis, but Morgan still tensed at the mention of his mother and his guard.
“I would like you to stop contacting Olivia,” Gabriel said.
“I’m sure you would. The answer, as I said, is no.”
“Let me rephrase, then. I insist you stop contacting her or I will obtain a restraining order, which I will publicize.”
“If you do, I’ll tell my side of the story, and it will be clear who is the victim here. I will also send a copy of that file to every reporter in my contact list.”
Gabriel took out his phone. “In that case, I’ll e-mail you my list of journalist contacts. Please send copies to all of them. Some would be very put out if they were excluded.”
Morgan studied him, squint-eyed. He probably thought it made him seem tougher, but he only looked as if his contact lens had slipped.
“Don’t bluff, Walsh,” he said. “I’ll call you on it.”
“Go ahead. What you’ll discover is that most reporters have heard every allegation in that file. While I’m sure most suspect there are kernels of truth, rooting them out has proven too much trouble. It is established fact that I have been persecuted and maligned by false accusations since I passed the bar exam. Unless you have a video of me bludgeoning prostitutes to death—and expert witnesses to guarantee the veracity of the recording—no one’s going to touch it. But I’m sure you know that. So let’s discuss your backup plan.”
“Backup plan?”
Gabriel lowered himself onto the sofa. “Don’t play coy with me. If you are an expert at this game, as you claimed, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. The file is the decoy; as was my threat about McNeil. Naturally, you have more, as do I.”
Morgan’s squint deepened. “You’re saying that if I send out the file, you’ll retaliate with some other blackmail.”
“Certainly not. I gave you permission to send the file. The difficulty comes if you refuse to leave Olivia alone. Then I will be forced to reveal what other intelligence I’ve gathered on you.”
“I will not leave Olivia—”
Gabriel sprang to his feet and had Morgan against the wall before the man could blink. He pinned him there, feet barely touching the ground, his shirtfront gathered in Gabriel’s fist, pressing into his windpipe.
“Good.” He turned to walk away, then glanced at me again. “You’re welcome,” he said, and vanished into the forest.
SHARK TANK
The Morgan residence was patrolled by a security guard. At what level of wealth did one require a home security guard? Actually, Gabriel knew the answer to that, having dug deep into Morgan’s finances while looking for ammunition to use against him.
Morgan was rich. A juvenile term. At Gabriel’s age, he should be more specific with his terminology. But he’d been young when he set his sights on his future goals, and that was the wording he used, at least to himself.
He could not achieve “rich”—it was for those who came from money, though it allowed for the occasional entrepreneur. Gabriel’s goal was “successful.” Wealthy and very successful.
Morgan’s wealth came from both family money and his business, and it far exceeded anything Gabriel could hope for. It did not, however, warrant a roving security guard.
One problem with the rich was that they lacked basic survival skills. Morgan considered himself a shark, devouring anything that got in his way, but he was a shark in a tank, relying on others to keep him safe. The rich bought their fancy locks and security systems and, it seemed, even security guards. Yet it was like wearing a breastplate into battle—it still took only one good stroke to lop off your head.
And so it was here. The guard was useless. Stationed a hundred feet away from the house, at the gate. Patrolling the grounds every twenty minutes. Once Gabriel determined the schedule, he waited until the guard returned to his post and then scaled the back fence. Two minutes later, he was knocking on the front door.
Morgan answered. He stopped short, and his gaze shot to the guard post.
Gabriel waved at the manicured spruce behind him. “While I’m loath to criticize gardening choices, may I suggest that’s a very poor place for a shrub?”
Morgan cursed under his breath as he realized that the tree blocked Gabriel from the guard’s view. Then Morgan’s hand slid up the wall.
“You can certainly summon the guard,” Gabriel said. “I’ll understand if you’d like him to be privy to our conversation. While my size is no fault of my own, some men find it intimidating.”
Morgan’s lips tightened, and his hand moved away from the intercom. Such a fool. There was nothing wrong with being a shark in a tank—Gabriel supposed it was a fine and comfortable life—but one should have the good sense to see the glass walls and realize one’s limitations.
“May I come in?” Gabriel asked.
Morgan nodded and moved back. As Gabriel entered, he heard a noise on the steps and looked up to see an older woman eyeing him with suspicion. It didn’t matter how fine his manners or impeccable his dress, when women like this saw him, they backed up clutching their purses. Which was not an unwarranted reaction, all things considered. Ten years ago, he’d have salivated walking into a house like this, mentally running through all the most likely hiding places for valuables and mapping out the most efficient route for snatching them. He didn’t miss those days, but admittedly there were still times when he looked at a woman’s necklace or a man’s watch and his brain threw out a dollar figure—not the cost but how much he could fence it for.
“It’s Olivia’s lawyer,” Morgan called up to her. “On business.”
“At this hour?”
“It’s barely eleven. Everything’s fine, Mom. Go back to bed.”
She retreated, but slowly, still eyeing Gabriel, her expression less fear than warning now. Gabriel turned his back on her.
“May we speak in another room?” he asked Morgan.
Morgan waved him into a parlor or some such room designed for sitting, which neither of them did. They walked to the middle and faced each other.
“If you’re here to intimidate me . . .” Morgan began.
“In your own home? With your mother and your security guard at hand? That would seem unwise.”
Gabriel kept his voice soft, free of emphasis, but Morgan still tensed at the mention of his mother and his guard.
“I would like you to stop contacting Olivia,” Gabriel said.
“I’m sure you would. The answer, as I said, is no.”
“Let me rephrase, then. I insist you stop contacting her or I will obtain a restraining order, which I will publicize.”
“If you do, I’ll tell my side of the story, and it will be clear who is the victim here. I will also send a copy of that file to every reporter in my contact list.”
Gabriel took out his phone. “In that case, I’ll e-mail you my list of journalist contacts. Please send copies to all of them. Some would be very put out if they were excluded.”
Morgan studied him, squint-eyed. He probably thought it made him seem tougher, but he only looked as if his contact lens had slipped.
“Don’t bluff, Walsh,” he said. “I’ll call you on it.”
“Go ahead. What you’ll discover is that most reporters have heard every allegation in that file. While I’m sure most suspect there are kernels of truth, rooting them out has proven too much trouble. It is established fact that I have been persecuted and maligned by false accusations since I passed the bar exam. Unless you have a video of me bludgeoning prostitutes to death—and expert witnesses to guarantee the veracity of the recording—no one’s going to touch it. But I’m sure you know that. So let’s discuss your backup plan.”
“Backup plan?”
Gabriel lowered himself onto the sofa. “Don’t play coy with me. If you are an expert at this game, as you claimed, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. The file is the decoy; as was my threat about McNeil. Naturally, you have more, as do I.”
Morgan’s squint deepened. “You’re saying that if I send out the file, you’ll retaliate with some other blackmail.”
“Certainly not. I gave you permission to send the file. The difficulty comes if you refuse to leave Olivia alone. Then I will be forced to reveal what other intelligence I’ve gathered on you.”
“I will not leave Olivia—”
Gabriel sprang to his feet and had Morgan against the wall before the man could blink. He pinned him there, feet barely touching the ground, his shirtfront gathered in Gabriel’s fist, pressing into his windpipe.
