They gaped at him.
“Bob.” Marcia looked pained. “I don’t think you are taking these proceedings very seriously.”
“You’re right about that.” He’d had enough, so he stood. Straightening the crease on his Brooks Brothers suit pants, he said, “We all know this is fucking bullshit.”
Marcia choked on her spit.
“Everyone in this room.” Bob indicated the boardroom and the larger office outside its glass walls. “And all of them out there know we work for an insecure, stupid old man who thinks the answer to eternal youth lies in the pussies of younger women.”
“Bob.” HR shot to her feet. “We do not allow language like that in this workplace. We also do not—”
“It’s funny you should say that, Cameron.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Because we cover the tracks of a man who has said and done so much worse.”
Legal straightened. “That is merely hearsay and slander. This office categorically denies that the opinions you have expressed—”
“Shut the fuck up, Stevie.” Bob had a margarita and an early retirement waiting for him. He quoted a new favorite. “The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on.”
Marcia sputtered. “I don’t understand.”
“The worm is turning, Marcia.” He braced his palms on the gleaming table. Condensation misted around his hands. “And we all know you’re going to do fuck all about it.” He leaned closer to make sure they all got the next part clearly. “I know where all the bodies are buried, Marcia, literal and figurative. You’re not going to fire me. You’re going to release a statement saying I suffered a mental breakdown.”
Stevia glared at him. “You signed an NDA and governmental confidentiality agreement.”
“Sure did.” He sneered. “But I don’t care.”
Stevie blinked at him. “You will be imprisoned for sharing state—”
“Don’t. Care.” He straightened, smearing his palms across the table and leaving streaks. “I don’t give a crap what you tell the media or my coworkers as long as you keep paying me.” This moment had been a lifetime in the making and the shock on their faces was glorious. He took a moment to revel. “Check mate, Marcia.”
He opened the door and strode through the office like the conqueror he was. There were no keepsakes in his cubicle that he wanted. No unremarkable reminders of a bland lifetime in service.
In the parking lot, he climbed behind the wheel of his sensible sedan. It no longer fit him. Scrimping, saving, planning for the future, and it was all worthless now.
He caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. Red flashed over his irises, and he smiled. “Let it all burn.”
Somewhere in Africa
His view had grown more interesting. From his eyrie, he had a perfect vantage point for watching the riots running through his city. His advisors told him the capital was only a reflection of what was taking part in the whole country.
Drifting smoke from one of hundreds of fires momentarily obscured the scene.
His new assistant took her place beside him. Her voice like honey and smoke, she said, “What will you do?”
It wasn’t really a question, as they both knew he waited only to discuss his options with her. She was the only one he could trust.
Behind them, his desk was littered with demands and threats to cease his current course of action. Overseas, the white oppressor threatened to withdraw aid and call in their loans. The white colonizer who had raped his lands and now charged him interest on loans to repair the damage they had done.
They hinted at military action, but that was merely a bluff. This was Africa—the dark continent. Here, chaos was the driver of life. They never understood that, the colonizers. Always, they tried to force their norms and rules, their religions and their education on his continent. They never bothered to ask what was needed before they sent their strangling aid. They dressed it up as morality and got to gloat in self-righteous philanthropy, but all the time it disguised their true motive. Their never ending, voracious greed.
What happened outside his window—this was Africa. His Africa.
“What do you suggest?” Their Africa. She understood like no other.
She slid her hand into his and smiled. “Let it burn.”
Somewhere in France
The Degas was not enough. In and of itself, it was magnificent, breathtaking, incomparable. But the itch beneath her skin had started again. The empty walls on either side of the Degas taunted her.
So many. So many beautiful pieces tossed amongst the rest of humanity like pearls to swine. Whereas she, who truly saw how spectacular they were, she had to make do with the few treasures she had amassed. Her incomplete collection chafed. Those pieces belonged here, with her, the one who understood that their monetary value was nothing on their soul-stirring glory. On canvas, in marble and stone, in glass and in metal, so much quintessential life created by masters to reflect the human condition back to troglodytes who merely wished to add their appeal to their Instagram feed.
Her assistant handed her a glass of 1841 Veuve. He caught sight of her expression and chuckled. “You’re thinking.”
“Perhaps.” She was always thinking, and they shared a smile.
He had come to know her so well, and what he could do to her body as they lay together in her fifteenth century bed defied description.
“Let me guess.” He sipped from his flute and let the flavor play over his palate. “You are thinking that your collection does not adequately reflect you.”
“Am I?” It still irked her at moments that he presumed to know her so well.
“Yes.” He laughed and toasted her. “A woman of such fascinating complexity deserves all the best of everything. And you appreciate the best as so many do not.” He cocked his head and studied her. “And I concur. You should have the best, the rarest. The most unobtainable.”
He made her feel like that woman again—alluring, irresistible, limitless. “Which is?”
“You have options.” He spread foie gras on a toast point for her. “Many options. You are constrained only by the limits of your daring.” He brushed her hand away and fed her the morsel. “And your daring has no constraints.”
She chewed and swallowed. He was right. Indicating the empty space to the left of the Degas, she said, “Do you know what would work there?”
“I do.” He grinned.
And they would make it happen. She clinked her glass with his. “La Jaconde.”
“And if we can’t get it.” He smirked. “We let it all burn.”
Somewhere in London
The barman walked beside him down the abandoned, derelict tunnel. They didn’t exchange names or even acknowledge their relationship. Friendship didn’t seem a large enough word for what they shared. Knowing each other’s names carried a risk both of them understood.
The abandoned sanatorium was perfect for their needs. On either side of the dingy, debris-strewn corridor, rose the occasional moan of despair or the soft rise and fall of hopeless weeping. A few still banged against their locked doors and demanded release or answers. It had become the soundtrack to his life.
This hadn’t been part of his plan. He would never have dreamed on such a large scale, but he was no longer alone in his vision.
