Jack Kilborn - Disturb

Nothing.

Bill frowned. The guy in charge of organizing everything, Dr. Townsend, had done an amazing job putting every relevant bit of information about the project into coherent, chronological order. Previous experiments had ended with a calculation of results and Dr. Nikos’s notes and conclusions. There were none to be found in this case.

Bill yawned. “Maybe back at DruTech.”

He took another sip of coffee and peeled off his socks, balling them up and taking them into the bedroom. As he undressed, he thought about the unlimited potential for this drug. Revolutionary didn’t begin to describe it.

A world without sleep. Where commerce existed twenty-four hours a day, and brilliant thinkers never became fatigued. There would be more time for work, to get things done, to make more money. And more time for play, to be with friends, to spend extra hours with loved ones. How much were those extra hours worth?

Bill knew. He knew more than anyone.

He yawned again, and glanced down at his coffee.

“You’re not doing your job.”

It was late, anyway. Tired as he was, he might actually sleep well tonight. Bill was just sticking his toothbrush in his mouth when the phone rang.

Theena?

She hadn’t come on to him again, after the scene in Manny’s bedroom, and had remained strictly business for the remainder of the tour. Their meeting ended with a brusque handshake. Had her flirting really been an act? Or did she really find him as attractive as he found her?

Bill picked up the phone.

“Dr. May?”

It wasn’t Theena. The voice was male, Midwestern, deep and cold.

“Yes? Who is this?”

“There’s a package for you in the hall.”

A click, and then Bill was left listening to the dial tone. He walked, warily, to the door. The peephole showed an empty hallway.

Keeping a firm grip on the knob, he unlocked the dead bolt and eased it open a crack.

There was a thick manila envelope sitting on his doormat.

Bill again peered down the hall, then snatched the envelope and locked his door.

It was unmarked, unsealed. Inside was a VHS videotape without any label.

Bill searched his mind for a friend or coworker that might pull a stunt like this, but he came up empty. No one he knew would do this. Especially this late at night.

He shivered.

Part of him didn’t want to play it, to put it away until the sun was out, until he had other people around him.

But curiosity overcame his trepidation. Bill popped the tape into his VCR.

After several seconds of black, a dimly lit room came on screen. It had concrete floors and walls. Possibly a basement. Bill could tell by the quality that it was home video.

“Come over here.”

The voice was off screen. Then two men walked into frame from the left. One had on a ski mask, and he was holding a gun to the back of the other man.

Michael Bitner.

Bill’s golf friend, the doctor who had been assigned to the N-Som case before him.

“Kneel down.”

Mike had some blood in the corner of his mouth, and his right eye was swollen almost shut. He looked terrified. His captor forced him to his knees.

“N-Som will get FDA approval.”

Mike whimpered. “Yes. I promise it will.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

The shot made Bill bite the inside of his cheek. Mike flopped sideways, twitched twice, then was still.

The tape ended.

Bill double checked to make sure the door was locked.

Then he called the police.

Jack Kilborn

Disturb

“How could he be gone? There was a cop outside the door.”

Captain Halloran scratched his graying mustache and shifted his bulk in the chair, which was small for him and seemed too low to the ground. He shouldn’t have taken the seat when offered. It hurt his back, his knees, and made him seem fatter, older and less important that he actually was. Halloran knew Rothchilde had bought that chair for those very reasons-his own was higher and wider, with armrests that ended in polished mahogany knobs, like a throne.

He didn’t like Albert Rothchilde. The man was whiny, arrogant, and spoiled. Whereas Halloran earned his rank by busting his ass for twenty plus years, Rothchilde was simply born into the right family. Halloran knew the guy wouldn’t last two minutes on the street.

But this wasn’t the street. This was Rothchilde’s twenty-two room house, the one that was featured in People Magazine. Halloran glanced at some stupid painting hanging behind Rothchilde’s desk. Rothchilde had casually mentioned its worth during a previous meeting, and then chuckled saying he’d bought the Mayor for less.

To make matters more uncomfortable, Rothchilde was completely right. Halloran’s men had screwed up. All Halloran could do was grit his teeth and bare the storm.

“The Officer said he’d gone to get a cup of coffee. When he came back, Manny was gone.”

“Coffee?” Rothchilde smiled, but his beady eyes showed no trace of amusement. He was a thin man, almost skinny, with soft hands and slender fingers that were always carefully manicured. His hair was black, parted on the side, and his hawkish nose and slight overbite reminded Halloran of a rat.

“This man is worth over a billion dollars to me, and you lost him for a fifty cent cup of coffee.”

“The guy just had surgery. Who would have thought he’d get up and leave?”

“How do we know he left? How do we know he wasn’t taken?”

Halloran tried to sound like the authority his title represented. “Couldn’t have happened. Patient in the room across the hall saw Manny steal some clothes from a drawer. He called the nurse, but too late.”

Rothchilde let out a slow breath. Truth be told, Halloran was afraid of him. It didn’t matter that he could break Rothchilde’s skinny little canned-tan body over his knee like a broomstick. Rothchilde’s power was greater than physical. The President of the United States took his calls. So did the capos of the biggest families on both coasts.

“We need him found, Captain.” Rothchilde used the rank as if it tasted foul in his mouth. “Whoever killed Dr. Nikos obviously wanted Manny dead too. We can’t let that happen. It would cause an unforgivable delay.”

“We’ll find him.”

“Then why is your fat ass still sitting here?”

Halloran ground his teeth. The extra money wasn’t worth it. He should tell this bozo off right here and now.

Instead, he left the office and went to check on the search for Manny.

Albert Rothchilde watched him go. Insulting Halloran was normally a fun activity, but there was no joy in it today. There was too much at stake.

Rothchilde swiveled around in his leather chair and stared up at his Miro. He found the use of color garish, and didn’t think the composition was correctly balanced. But it was a Miro, and status couldn’t be much more symbolic than that.

If things went according to plan, he’d be able to plaster every wall of his mansion with Miros. That was frivolous yet lofty enough to make people talk about him. He could make his home the largest Miro museum in the world.

But that was only the beginning. Art was a hobby. Rothchilde wanted power. He wanted American Products to expand, for his corporate empire to grow.

And grow it shall. Perhaps he would become big enough to take over Microsoft. Or Disney. General Motors might be fun to run. He imagined launching a new sports car, calling it the Rothchilde GT.

“Maybe I’ll buy it all.”

Rothchilde had his people come up with projected sales figures for N-Som. It staggered him, and he’d been around money all his life. With a conservative estimate of only ten percent of the US population taking the drug, Rothchilde would be making nine billion dollars a month. Of course, more than ten percent would take it. Within five years, half the population of the world would be taking it. And that didn’t even include the proposed military contract, which would make him richer than the combined fortunes of the next seven runners-up.