Night's Favour (26 page)

Val was pulling back.

He gripped the thing’s claw with his hand, his knuckles white.
 
The muscles in his biceps —
When the hell did Val get biceps?
 
Those are bigger than mine!
— bulged.
 
The creature heaved, roaring into Val’s face.
 
Slowly — almost imperceptibly — it was winning.
 
It was starting to draw Val’s arm’s straight.

Val screamed back at it, jerking his arms, buying himself a little more time.

John looked around and saw a rifle on the floor.
 
He grabbed it.
 
It’d been a long time since he’d last been to a rifle range, but it was like riding a bike.
 
Just point, and shoot.

Empty.
 
He fumbled through the wreckage for something, anything —
a clip, hell, just a bullet
—

The creature roared again, then with a heave tossed Val across the room.
 
John saw his friend go flying into a wall, bouncing off and landing heavily on the ground.
 
The creature flexed its arms wide, roaring in challenge.
 
The soldier who’d been doing all the shooting looked at his rifle, then tossed it aside.
 
The creature came striding through the room towards him, smashing rubble out of its path.
 
The man scrabbled at his belt, pulling out something small and round.
 
The creature lifted him up in one hand, easy as if he was a rag doll, grabbing the soldier’s arm with a clawed hand.

The soldier’s other hand was clear.
 
His fist opened, showing a small ring with a pin attached —

The wall was blown apart by the grenade’s explosion, rubble scattering around.
 
The creature roared in pain —
that thing’s still alive?
— as it flailed with its one remaining arm.
 
Blood leaked down its side.

John’s eyes went wide as it watched the bleeding slow, then stop.
 
The thing shuffled around, growling, as the rent in its side began to close over.

His hand felt the cool touch of metal.
 
John risked a glance down, catching a glimpse of red through the dust.
 
He picked up the red clip, holding it up to the light.
 
There were still rounds left in it.
 
He held it under the rifle, fiddling until it slid home with a click.
 
John’s hand found the safety, fumbling until he flicked it off.

The creature was using its good arm to sift through the wreckage, until it found something, lifting it —
God, it’s got Val
— into the light.
 
Val coughed, opened his eyes, and looked at the creature.
 
They stared at each other, the creature chuffing.
 
Val looked down at his waist, held firm, then at the creature’s torn side, and finally back up into the thing’s eyes.

“Hey, asshole.”
 
Val and the creature both turned to look at John.
 
He squeezed the trigger, the gun bucking and kicking like it was trying to escape.
 
John held the weapon down, resisting the rise of the recoil to the ceiling, and watched the creature twist under the fire.
 
It dropped Val, roaring in pain, and — holding its good arm up to cover its head — ran out through the damaged wall.

John let the rifle fall to the ground, then picked his way over to Val.
 
He held his hand out to his friend.
 
“Hell of day.”

Val grabbed the offered hand, getting to his feet.
 
“Yeah.
 
Hell of a day.
 
Are —”

“They’re fine.
 
They’re both fine.”
 
John looked around the destroyed reception area, wiping the sweat from his face.
 
“Beer?”

“Best idea you’ve had all day.”
 
The two friends walked out of the waiting room, into the sunlight beyond.

Neither of them noticed Captain Tim Spencer pull himself from the dust.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Elsie looked out the window, her back to the room.
 
She ignored the men behind her with — she liked to think she’d cultivated it — a studied indifference.
 
Someone behind her cleared his throat.
 
It was probably Smythe; the man couldn’t help himself.
 
Barnes wouldn’t have said anything, of course.

“Ms. Morgan, we’d like to discuss the, ah, significant cash sums you’ve been diverting to your special projects.”
 
Yes, it was Smythe.
 
She understood the necessity of having a Chief Financial Officer.
 
She didn’t understand why he thought he had a hand in the decisions of the company.

“Special projects, Mr. Smythe?”
 
She didn’t turn around.

“Yes.
 
Ah.
 
There’s been a significant, as I said, significant cash injection into a private third party.”

“Ebonlake Associates.”

“Ah.
 
Yes.”
 
There was a pause.
 
“So you’re fully aware of this?”

Elsie turned away from the window.
 
“There’s nothing that goes on in this company that I’m not at least partially aware of, Mr. Smythe.”

The man looked down at the folio in his hands, then back up.
 
“Well, Ms. Morgan, the spend doesn’t appear to be aligned —”

“Aligned?”
 
She stepped few paces forward.
 
Despite the boardroom table between them, Smythe took an involuntary step backwards.
 
“As the majority shareholder, I have the good fortune to decide what the company is aligned to.”

“Ah.
 
Of course.”
 
Smythe tried on a deprecating smile, looking sideways at Sam Barnes for support.
 
Finding none, he turned back to Elsie.
 
“It would be much better if we adopted a good governance approach.
 
Flew this up the flagpole with the shareholders, get some support.
 
We might find some alternative ways to, ah, invest.”

“Such as?”

“Well.
 
Perhaps if you could tell me what, ah, Ebonlake are helping us with..?”

“I see.”
 
Elsie looked at the man’s folio, then at his suit, and back to his face.
 
“You’ve come in here to discuss my expenditure with a private contractor.
 
To offer counsel?”

“Yes.”

Elsie tapped her fingernails against the boardroom table in front of her.
 
“You want to offer this counsel without knowing what they do?”

Smythe cleared his throat again.
 
“Ah.
 
Well — ah.
 
It’s just that the expenditure is so significant, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a more —”

“How much is the core upgrade to your finance system projected to cost this year?”
 
Elsie took a seat at the boardroom table.
 
“‘Core upgrade.’
 
That’s what you called it on the memo.”

“Ah.”
 
Smythe opened his folio to check the figure.
 
Elsie had no doubt he knew exactly how much it had cost.
 
Men who looked into papers, or their phone, or any other distraction — those men were uncomfortable in their situation.
 
They used their papers as a shield.
 
“Here it is.
 
Ten million dollars capital, with a reduction in operational spending of four hundred thousand per annum.”

“Ten million?
 
And how many graduates could we get per year for that, amortised over the next five years?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How many graduates, Mr. Smythe?
 
Ten million is a significant sum.
 
I can’t help but wonder if we grabbed another floor in this building, and stacked it high,”
 
and here Elsie raised her hand above her head, “With fresh-faced graduates…
 
Surely it would be cheaper?”

Smythe opened and closed his mouth.
 
“Ah.
 
Ms. Morgan, I’m not sure you fully grasp —”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s just that — ah.
 
I’m certain, ah, that we could do the financials with sufficient, ah, manpower.
 
But it wouldn’t be —”

“The best way of solving the problem?”
 
Elsie looked at the nails on her left hand.
 
“Exactly my point.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“No, Mr. Smythe, you don’t.
 
When I give you a job, I trust that you know how to do it.
 
That you’re the subject matter expert in that area.
 
Are you?”

“Am I..?”

“The subject matter expert.
 
In corporate finance.”

“Of course!
 
My qualifications —”

“Yes, yes.
 
Your qualifications are very impressive.”
 
Elsie leaned forward.
 
“They tell me you know everything there is to know about net present value.
 
Whether or not a core system for finance is a good one.
 
I trust that you have done your due diligence on this ‘core upgrade.’
 
That it’s the best way of solving the problem, and that we can afford it.”

“Of course, Ms. Morgan —”

“I haven’t finished.”
 
Smythe clapped his mouth shut.
 
Elsie nodded.
 
“That’s your job, you see.”

Smythe sat in silence a few moments.
 
The poor man was ill suited to this kind of conversation.
 
The trick with keeping people off balance was to do the unexpected.
 
With Smythe — in his comfortable office, with his spreadsheets and forecast models — anything approaching a normal human conversation was unexpected.
 
He tried again.
 
“My job, Ms. Morgan?”

Elsie looked away from him.
 
“Smythe, my job is different to yours.
 
I get to set the strategic direction of the company.
 
I’m in charge of taking risks, promoting change, and deciding which new markets to enter into.
 
I’ve been successful at building the company.
 
Twenty years, give or take.
 
We know where Biomne was going before I took over.
 
It was almost bankrupt.
 
We had the executives paying company bills with their personal credit cards.
 
We were one month away from not making payroll.”
 
She allowed herself a small smile, then turned back to Smythe.
 
“My job is different to yours, as I said.
 
I set the direction.
 
Your job — well.”

“Yes, Ms. Morgan —”

She slammed her hand on the table.
 
Smythe jumped.
 
“You get to tell me if we can afford it!”

Smythe’s eyes were wide, his lips pressed into a line.
 
“I — I —”

“So, Mr. Smythe.
 
Can we afford it?”

“I —”

“Pull yourself together, man.
 
Can we afford the expense?”

Smythe looked back down to his folio, then back up.
 
“Of course, Ms. Morgan.
 
The company’s cash flow is robust.
 
We have significant reserves —”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“As I said, there’s not much that goes on here that I’m unaware of.
 
But there’s much you’re not in the loop on.
 
Developments, and strategies.”

“If I was —”

“If you were, you’d pepper me with questions about the direction we were taking.
 
If it was in the company’s best interests.
 
If there wasn’t a better way.”
 
Elsie paused.
 
“I don’t take kindly to questions about my competence.”

“I wasn’t —”

“Of course you were.
 
You booked this meeting to challenge expenditure with a private contracting firm.
 
Without knowing anything about it.
 
You saw the figure on the books, and it jumped out at you.
 
You naturally thought that any significant expense needed to be managed.
 
By you.”

Smythe rallied, trying the deprecating smile on again.
 
“Exactly, Ms. Morgan.
 
Naturally, as you say.”

Elsie nodded.
 
He’d walked right into the trap.
 
“Except only the greatest kind of idiot would think that they knew whether an expense was significant simply by the size of it.
 
The Ebonlake account?
 
I want you to forget about it.”

“I — forget about it?”
 
The smile faltered, then fell away from his face.

“Mr. Smythe, the money we waste here in stationery alone dwarfs the Ebonlake account.
 
These are the things I don’t have time for — the details, the tiny incidentals.
 
I didn’t hire you to question my strategic decisions.”
 
She softened her voice slightly.
 
“I hired you because you’re brilliant.
 
At the details.
 
At finding out the small ins and outs.
 
There’s an army of people out there who think they can pull something over on me.
 
But not you.”

“Not me?”

“No, Mr. Smythe.
 
Because I know how much you care.
 
It’s why you brought this to me.”
 
She watched the play of emotions across his face.
 
Men were so delightfully transparent.