Albert Rothchilde wanted to break something. On days when he leaned towards self-reflection, he knew that he was a tad spoiled, had a wee temper, and wicked little sadistic streak. The perfect solution would be to find a whipping boy. Someone that he could keep in a cage and beat whenever he felt lousy.

Perhaps someday in the future. When the billions started rolling in, there was very little you couldn’t buy.

But for the moment, all he had was Captain Halloran. He made do.

“You fat, incompetent bastard.”

Halloran’s face reddened. He cleared his throat.

“You should have told us to watch your people earlier.”

“You should have figured it out yourself. It’s your job, you pathetic prick. You should have put my people under protection after Nikos was murdered. Have you checked on Julia?”

“She’s at DruTech, with Theena and Bill. We’ve got men there, watching the place.”

Rothchilde drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking. Halloran’s men had found Dr. Townsend and Dr. O’Neil, both dead. They’d also gotten word that Dr. Fletcher had been killed near his home in Barrington.

These were people that he still could have used, alive. And the two people he needed erased, Theena and Bill, were now under this idiot’s protection.

“The plan has changed. I want them dead. Theena, Bill, Julia, and Manny, when you find him.”

Halloran narrowed his eyes.

“I’ve done some bad things for you, Albert. But I’m not a hired gun.”

“You idiot. I’m not paying you to kill them. I have people for that, people who won’t fuck it up like you would. You just need to turn the other way. Do you have any sway with the Schaumburg Police?”

“I know the Chief. We’re friends.”

“When all hell breaks out at DruTech, the Schaumburg PD may be called. How much will you need to buy me some time with them?”

“Some people can’t be bought.”

“You’ll convince him.”

“And if I don’t?”

Rothchilde smiled blandly. “While I find it amusing to see that you still have a little bit of backbone left, you’re in too deep to back out now. If those people aren’t killed, I’ll go down. If I go down, you go down. How are cops treated in jail, Halloran? The lifers will swap you for cigarettes.”

Halloran shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was frowning.

“I’ll need money.”

“Name your price.”

“Two hundred fifty thousand.”

The number elicited a guffaw from Rothchilde.

“A quarter of a million dollars, to bribe a stupid suburban cop?”

“Captain Drury is clean. I need a big number to tempt him. It may not even be enough.”

Rothchilde observed Halloran. They both knew the number was ridiculous, but was the Captain actually trying to scam him, keep some of it for himself?

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. It was pocket change to what N-Som was going to bring in.

“I don’t have that kind of cash here, and I assume he won’t take a check. Come back in an hour.”

Halloran shuffled off.

Rothchilde swiveled around in his chair and eyeballed his Miró.

After this was over, there would be an unavoidable delay in the schedule. He needed scientists, discreet scientists, to take over the N-Som research. The FDA was going to be a washout, so the smart thing to do was take production to another country. Mexico, probably. Not nearly the same regulations there, especially if you had money.

It wouldn’t be the same as selling the drug legitimately in America, but he’d still make a fortune through internet sales. It would take years before the US could ban it from importation, and by then he’d have enough money to buy the Presidency. Plus there was Europe, Asia, the world market to exploit. And of course, good old Uncle Sam.

The Army wanted twenty-four-hour soldiers. It wanted them badly, and was willing to pay for it. Rothchilde would be able to use much of the altered N-Som paperwork to close the sale, confidant that the military wouldn’t care in the least about the FDA setbacks.

The only possible hurdle was the dreams—some of those N-Som dreams were pretty disturbing, and Rothchilde didn’t want to think about some three star General trying out the drug and reliving someone else’s violent death.

But Rothchilde had already planned for that. While it had proven impossible so far to synthesize N-Som, the source could be changed. Rather than harvest the neurotransmitters from the brains of dead people, Rothchilde planned to use aborted fetuses.

A second trimester fetus had the same brain chemicals that were needed to make N-Som, but it didn’t have any memories. Dr. Nikos had given Rothchilde a sample to try, and the results were enthralling. Not only did the drug keep you awake and aware, but the N-Som dream was the most beautiful, most content, most relaxing thing Rothchilde had ever experienced. He had actually gone back to the womb. The feeling was so good, he could easily triple the price of the pill and people would still demand it.

Rothchilde stood up and pulled back the Miró. It swung away on hinges, revealing his wall safe. He dialed the combination and tugged the door open.

The current situation was a setback, but only a small one. Once the rest of the team was dead, he could rebuild.

Rothchilde took out five stacks of hundred dollar bills and set them on his desk. Then he picked up his phone.

“Yeah.”

“Theena and Bill are at DruTech. So is another doctor, a chemist named Julia Myrnowski. I want her taken care of as well. The guard at the desk has a security card. You’ll need it to get to the basement level. There’s a slot in the elevator.”

“Will the guard give it to us?”

“No. You’ll have to kill him, too.”

He heard Carlos sigh. “Why don’t we just set the whole building on fire?”

“Don’t fuck this up, Carlos. No more mistakes.”

“You’re asking us to walk into a public place and start wasting people.”

“You won’t have any trouble with the police. I’ve already taken care of that.”

“I still don’t like it.”

Rothchilde frowned. He’d have to talk to Gino about this guy’s attitude.

“Be ready to go in ninety minutes. You get this done, there will be a bonus.”

“How much?”

“Triple.”

Rothchilde could picture Carlos, adding up all that cash in his greedy little mind.

“We’ll take care of it.”

“I know you will.”

He hung up. Rothchilde looked across the office to a framed photo on the wall, of his father, Albert Rothchilde Sr. He’d been a pitiless, terrible parent, but his business skills were brilliant in their ruthlessness. In one of his rare kinder moments, he’d talked to young Albert about wealth.

“The key to getting it is taking risks. The key to keeping it is avoiding risks.”

Diversification. Never put all your eggs in one basket. Which was true, and which also led to his untimely death. As the elder Rothchilde watched his son grow, he saw in him the same lust for power that he had. He’d groomed his son to be his successor, teaching him the ins and outs of corporate domination. He taught him too well, in fact.

On Rothchilde’s twenty-first birthday, he got in touch with some of Chicago’s disreputable element, and for a small cut they permanently ended the career of Albert Rothchilde Sr. and his wife, leaving young Albert a fortune.

Rothchilde smiled at his father’s picture. “Should have diversified.”

Then he picked up the phone and dialed Gerry Smith. If Carlos and his dumb partner failed, he would make sure the FBI seals the deal.