Chương 19: Chapter 17: The Price of Growth

Safeguard Electronics stood in Hartford's industrial district, in one of those neighborhoods where trucks rattled over broken asphalt from dawn onward and the air smelled of machine oil and hot metal. The factory itself was a squat brick box with peeling paint and rust-streaked drainpipes. Harold Bennett had insisted on meeting the buyer in person. I understood.

When you sold something into which you had poured thirty years of your life, you wanted to look the new owner in the eye and see who would be carrying it forward. Ginny Corrigan climbed out of the car beside me. James's younger sister was a short, red-haired Irishwoman in her mid-thirties, with a sharp gaze and an even sharper tongue. How this freckled woman managed to make hardened businessmen accept her terms remained a mystery to me, but the results spoke for themselves. Harold met us by the gate.

He was a gray-haired man in his early sixties, with tired eyes and hands worn rough by work.

"Mr. Miller." He shook my hand firmly, then nodded politely to Ginny.

"I'll admit, I didn't expect anyone to take an interest in my little factory. Thank you for coming in person. It means a great deal to me." We spent the next hour walking through the shop floor. Twelve men worked at the machines, most of them around Harold's age. The air was thick with the smell of rosin, machine oil, and heated plastic.

"How many units do you produce in a month?" I asked, stopping beside one of the workstations.

"Three thousand, when everything runs smoothly." Harold spread his hands.

"We could make more. The capacity is there, but the orders aren't. The major chains don't want to deal with a small operation like ours." I picked up a finished detector and turned it over in my hands. Bulky, angular, with exposed screws and a shell made from cheap beige plastic. Early seventies design, if not late sixties.

"What does one unit cost you to produce?"

"Five dollars and fifty cents, all expenses included," Bennett said with noticeable pride.

"We wholesale them for eight. Retail runs twelve to fifteen." I nodded without comment. Phineas would cut the cost by half, or close to it. I had no doubt about that. A better design and improved electronics would let us charge more as well. Distribution would not be a problem; we already had access to every major retail chain worth mentioning.

"Mr. Bennett." I carefully returned the detector to the shelf.

"Let's discuss the price."

"I believe three hundred and fifty thousand is fair for trained specialists and a functioning production line." I shook my head.

"Come now, Mr. Bennett. This equipment is fifteen years old at best. Your customer base consists of roughly two hundred small stores, half of which, I'd wager, are late with their payments. For three hundred and fifty thousand, I could build a new plant from the ground up. But I think the finer details are best left to this charming lady." Ginny took over, and I followed the discussion with only half an ear. I was more interested in watching the men assemble the detectors.

They worked quickly and in perfect rhythm, their movements polished by years of repetition. I ended up standing there longer than intended, almost hypnotized by the process. From the negotiations, I caught Ginny bringing up everything down to the crack in the wall beside the loading bay. The talks stretched across three meetings over the course of a week. I attended only the first and the last.

Ginny worked methodically and without mercy, though from the outside it looked as though she were simply having a friendly conversation. She collected details, asked innocent questions, then used every answer to our advantage. The son who had refused to continue the family business and moved to California to pursue a career in film. The wife who had spent five years trying to convince Harold to retire. Deal with merchants, and you'll leave with the clothes sold off your back.

In the end, we settled on two hundred thousand dollars: one hundred thousand immediately, with the rest paid over six months. When we shook hands to finalize the agreement, Harold studied me with open curiosity.

"Mr. Miller, forgive an old man's bluntness, but could you tell me at least a little about what you plan to do?"

"I won't reveal all my cards, but I can tell you this: your life's work is in good hands. Within a year, detectors from this factory will be installed in every other home in America." Harold gave a doubtful grunt, though I could tell he liked the sound of it.

"I don't know whether you'll pull that off, but I admire the ambition." For a time, we stood in silence, watching the workers continue at their stations.

"You know, Mr. Miller," Harold began again, his voice more relaxed now, "I opened this plant in 1947. Came home from the war, married my Margaret, and decided I was done working for other men. Took out a bank loan, found this building sitting empty, and started from nothing.

"At first, we made basic electrical components. Then sensors. Eventually, smoke detectors. Thirty years, Mr. Miller. For thirty years I came here every day except Sunday." He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered me one. I shook my head.

"Were those thirty years difficult?"

"Some were." He exhaled a stream of smoke and stared through the shop wall as if he could see the past beyond it.

"I remember the fifties as the best years. The country was growing. Building. Everybody needed everything. We had more orders than we could fill. Eisenhower was in the White House, the dollar was strong, and it felt as though things would stay that way forever.

"I bought a house in a good neighborhood. Margaret had Tommy. And I thought, there it is, Mr. Miller. The American dream they promised us." He flicked ash from the cigarette and shook his head.

"Then came the sixties. Kennedy was shot, and as far as I'm concerned, everything went to hell after that. I can't explain it properly, but the country changed after Dallas.

"Then Vietnam. That whole mess. Boys left for war and came back… different. Some never came back at all. My foreman Steve—you saw him today, at the soldering station—his son didn't come home from Da Nang in '68. The kid was nineteen. Steve walked around like a ghost for six months. I thought I'd lose him too."

"I'm sorry for his loss," I said, knowing the words were worth very little.

"Yeah." Harold drew more deeply on the cigarette.

"Then came these goddamn seventies. Nixon and Watergate. A president lying to the whole country's face and recording himself doing it, almost as if he wanted to get caught.

"I voted for him, Mr. Miller. Twice. And when he stood in front of the cameras and said he wasn't a crook, I believed him. Then it turned out he was exactly what everyone had accused him of being." He spat onto the concrete floor.

"The oil crisis in '73 nearly killed the plant. Gas rationing, lines around three blocks, people fighting over a gallon of fuel. Inflation ate everything we earned. I raised prices and lost half my customers. Lowered them again and nearly went bankrupt.

"For three years, I balanced on the edge. I thought I'd have to shut the place down and go back to working for someone else, just like when I was young."

"But you survived."

"I survived." He nodded without much pride.

"Fired twenty people. Cut my own salary to nothing. Margaret took a cashier's job at a grocery store even though I begged her not to. Had to swallow my pride, but the plant stayed open." Harold smoked the cigarette down to the filter and crushed it against the edge of a metal drum.

"Then recently, I woke up and thought: maybe that's enough. Maybe it's time to know when to leave. The economy seems to be recovering, but I no longer believe tomorrow will be better than today.

"Margaret has been saying for years that she wants to see the ocean every morning. Wake up, step onto a porch, and watch the waves. She waited thirty years for me to finish playing factory owner. I think she has earned her ocean."

"Florida has good beaches."

"So they say." He nodded.

"There are places down there where old men like me gather together. Play golf, fish, and tell one another how the grass used to be greener." Ginny cleared her throat discreetly, reminding us of the time.

"Mr. Bennett." She gave him her practiced smile.

"We should be going. The documents will arrive tomorrow, assuming the arrangement still suits you."

"It does, it does." He stroked his mustache.

"You know what? Since you came all the way to Hartford, stop by Sam's. It's a diner on Main Street, just past the old fire station. Sam makes ribs so good you'll lick your fingers clean. I mean it. I've had lunch there every Saturday for twenty years."

"Thank you for the recommendation," I said.

"We might do that." We said our goodbyes, and I promised that every worker would keep his job. Harold nodded with visible relief. That mattered to him—perhaps more than the price itself. Marcus waited in the car across the street from the plant. My tinted Mercedes looked distinctly out of place among the trucks and pickups. He stepped out to open the door for us.

"Did it go well?" he asked quietly as I climbed into the back seat.

"Better than expected," Ginny answered for me, settling in beside me.

"Two hundred instead of three hundred and fifty." Marcus nodded and took the driver's seat.

"Where to now, boss? Back to New York?" I watched the brick buildings drift past the window and thought about the ribs Harold had praised.

"You know what, Marcus? Take us to Sam's. Main Street, just beyond the old fire station. We'll celebrate the purchase. It's been a long time since I went anywhere without business attached." Marcus glanced at me in the rearview mirror with mild surprise but said nothing as he turned the wheel. Sam's was exactly the kind of place I had imagined: a small diner with wide windows, red leather booths along the walls, and a heavyset man in a white apron working behind the counter.

Elvis sang something about lonely hearts from the jukebox in the corner. The customers were local. Truckers in plaid shirts. Factory workers from the surrounding blocks. An elderly couple sharing a slice of apple pie. We took a booth by the window. Marcus sat where he could see both the entrance and the parking lot. A plump waitress in her fifties approached almost immediately. She had a kind face and a pencil tucked behind one ear.

"Afternoon, folks. What can I get you?"

"Three orders of ribs," I said.

"And three coffees. Mr. Bennett recommended the place."

"Harold?" She smiled.

"He sends everyone here. Good man. Sam! Three ribs for friends of Harold's!" While we waited, I watched the street outside. Huge American sedans rolled past, seventies monsters that drank gasoline by the bucket and occupied a lane and a half: Fords, Chevrolets, Chryslers. Two teenagers in enormous bell-bottoms and shoulder-length hair listened to a transistor radio on the corner. A woman in a bright geometric-print dress pushed a baby carriage.

Across the street, the marquee above a movie theater advertised a new Clint Eastwood film.

"What are you thinking about, boss?" Ginny asked, interrupting my thoughts.

"How beautiful your freckles are," I replied with perfect seriousness. Ginny froze for a second with her mouth slightly open, clearly caught off guard and unsure how to respond. Then she laughed and waved a hand.

"Thank you, David. You do know how to surprise a woman." The ribs really were excellent. The meat fell from the bone without effort, the sauce was sweet with just enough heat, and the portions were so enormous that even Marcus, who usually ate for two men, could not finish his.

"Harold wasn't lying," I said, pushing my plate away.

"They're worth licking your fingers for."

"I'll tell Sam." The waitress topped off our coffee.

"He'll be pleased to know even the important guests approve." By the time we stepped outside, the sun had begun to set, painting the sky above Hartford in shades of pink and orange.

"Home now?" Marcus asked, opening the car door.

"Home," I agreed.

I spent the night at the training compound, in the room I had finally managed to move into. I had given security clear instructions: wake me only if something truly serious happened. Someone was now shaking me hard by the shoulder, while my body, exhausted from training, flatly refused to return to consciousness.

"Boss." The duty officer sounded agitated.

"Jacob's on the line. Says it's urgent." Sleep vanished instantly. Muttering a curse, I got up and stumbled toward the telephone in the dark.

"Good evening, Jacob."

"Evening, boss. We had an attack in Brooklyn. Looks like they recovered from what happened outside the office and decided it was time to move beyond intimidating employees. An armed group hit the warehouse on Flatbush."

"How many?"

"There were ten. They chose the warehouse where Alpha was on duty, so now there are ten bodies. We can't call the police. This goes well beyond anything we could call reasonable force. The boys saw that they were armed to the teeth, took their positions, and engaged to kill." I punched the wall. Pain flared through my knuckles.

"Any casualties on our side? Witnesses?"

"No witnesses that we know of. It's late, and the district is industrial. Our people don't have a scratch."

"What about evidence?"

"The boys are working on it. We'll do it properly. By morning, the site will be clean."

"Did you call Angleton?"

"He called me. Said there was no need to panic yet. Whoever sent the men will be occupied with other problems for a while. He planted something for them, though he didn't say what. He also said we'll need to pay a visit to some guy they call Tony Matchstick."

"Fine. Keep me informed. Do you need more men?"

"Not yet. We have it under control. As far as I know, the other warehouses are well protected too."

"They are. Security has been reinforced everywhere."

"Understood. I'll report back." I hung up and stood in the darkness for several minutes, putting my thoughts in order. Ten bodies in one night. At least none of ours had been hurt. The boys visited Tony Matchstick the following day. He turned out to be the minor leader of a street gang, the sort of degenerate willing to take any dirty job without asking unnecessary questions. Angleton questioned him personally.

From what I was later told, the young man was crying by the end of the conversation and confessing to everything he knew, along with quite a few things he probably didn't. We gained little useful information. Another severed thread, another operation routed through front men and disposable intermediaries. Tony did mention a rumor that someone had been looking for people willing to abduct an employee from our company. He knew no details. Angleton said he had already known about the kidnapping.

His men had intercepted the information earlier. What interested him were the smaller details Tony had ignored but which, to an experienced eye, formed a recognizable pattern. He even told Bagley where to dig next.

Phineas arrived at the plant carrying a case of tools and a notebook filled with diagrams, formulas, and God knew what else. For two days, he wandered through the shop floor, disassembling detectors down to the final screw, questioning workers about every stage of assembly, taking measurements, and constantly scribbling in his notes.

I saw him stand beside a single machine for half an hour, studying the assembler's movements, then move to another station and ask the worker to repeat the same operation several times. On the fourth day, he dropped a stack of drawings onto my desk.

"Here." He tapped the top diagram.

"The main problem is the design of the ionization chamber. Right now, it consists of seventeen separate components that must be assembled by hand in a specific sequence. A mistake at any point, and the chamber either works incorrectly or does not work at all. That gives them an eight-percent rejection rate, which is obscene for mass production." He flipped the page and showed me his version.

"I rebuilt the design from the ground up. Seventeen parts become nine. The outer electrode and the chamber housing are combined into a single stamped component. That removes three parts and two soldering operations immediately.

"The inner electrode clips into place instead of being fastened with screws. The assembler needs no screwdriver, only his hands. The ionization source fits into a guided socket, so inserting it incorrectly is physically impossible." I studied the drawing. Even to my untrained eye, the construction was simpler and the assembly sequence more logical.

"Production cost?"

"Three dollars and fifty cents instead of five-fifty. A thirty-six-percent reduction per unit. Most of the savings come from reduced labor and fewer purchased components."

"Defect rate?" Phineas produced another sheet, showing the production line with red-pencil notes.

"At present, they use a linear process. The part moves from station to station, with one operation performed at each. The problem is that quality control happens only at the end, once the detector is fully assembled. If a defect occurs during the second operation, it isn't discovered until the twelfth. Everything added in between becomes waste." He traced a finger along the diagram.

"I propose splitting the line into three modules, each followed by an inspection. Module one assembles and tests the ionization chamber. Module two installs and tests the electronics. Module three performs the final casing assembly and full inspection.

"Defects are caught early. Only one module needs to be reworked rather than the entire detector. I also designed basic positioning jigs. An assembler physically cannot install a component at the wrong angle or in the wrong location."

"Investment?"

"Roughly twenty thousand. New worktables with jigs, three intermediate testing stations with simple measuring equipment, and modifications to the soldering stations. Once implemented, the rejection rate should fall to one percent, perhaps lower." He set aside the factory diagram and produced another drawing, this one of the detector itself.

"And the important part. I added something no one else in the market has: battery self-diagnostics." The diagram showed a small additional module integrated into the main board.

"A simple circuit using one transistor and a voltage divider. It continuously monitors the battery, draws less than a microamp, and has effectively no impact on operating life. When voltage drops below a critical threshold, an LED begins flashing once every thirty seconds.

"The owner sees the warning and knows the battery must be replaced. Not after the detector has already gone silent and stopped protecting the house, but several weeks in advance." I smiled. Phineas in his natural habitat. Two days of work, and the competition was already a year behind.

"How long to reorganize production?"

"Two weeks. We need new molds for the casing, the assembly jigs, modifications to three workstations, and worker retraining. The men there know what they're doing. They'll learn the new process quickly. It's easier than what they use now."

"Do it." By the end of May, the new Aegis Sentinel rolled off the production line. Compact and clean, it had a smooth white case with rounded lines instead of the old angular beige monstrosity. The battery indicator sat on the front panel. Ceiling installation had been simplified as much as possible: two screws instead of four, with slots that aligned almost intuitively.

Our sales department commissioned an instruction sheet filled with simple illustrations understandable even to someone who had never held a screwdriver. The marketing received the same attention. A new box with a strong visual design. Quality packaging. Clear descriptions of every function. Proper positioning through our relationships with retail chains. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

The first stores ordered a few thousand units each as a trial, waiting to see how an unfamiliar brand performed. Within a week, the repeat orders began. Another five thousand. Another ten. The Sentinel disappeared from shelves faster than we could deliver it, and I realized it was already time to consider expanding production.

The second factory cost us two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. It was sold by a widow whose husband had died of a heart attack, leaving her with a functioning enterprise and no idea what to do with it. Ginny handled the negotiations carefully, without her usual pressure. The widow was grieving and confused. Squeezing every cent out of her would have been not only unethical but shortsighted.

Margaret had initially named two hundred and fifty thousand, based on something her husband had once said, but accepted our offer quickly, grateful that the process was fast and uncomplicated. The factory was considerably better than the first. The building was more spacious, with higher ceilings that allowed for proper ventilation and lighting. The equipment was newer; some machines had been purchased only two years earlier. The workforce was larger and younger.

The average age on the shop floor was below forty, and the employees were ready to learn. The customer base was stronger as well. Instead of small neighborhood stores, the factory supplied hotels, office buildings, and restaurant chains. Regular maintenance contracts provided steady income even during slower periods.

Phineas arrived a week after the deal closed and implemented the same improvements he had made at Safeguard within ten days: modular assembly with intermediate testing, positioning jigs, and the redesigned ionization chamber. The transition went even faster here because the workers learned the new system immediately. Once both factories reached full capacity, output nearly tripled compared with what they had produced under their former owners.

We could satisfy the rising demand and begin building warehouse inventory for seasonal peaks. The Aegis Sentinel continued gaining momentum. Retailers increased orders. Wholesalers from other states began contacting us. More and more often, I caught myself thinking that we would soon need a third plant.

Our not-so-little war was going less predictably. There were too many directions from which an attack could come, and we often found ourselves defending. But whenever we had an opportunity to bleed the enemy, we took it. Alpha went out frequently, sometimes two or three times a week, and every operation required us to scramble the trail with care. We worked so that the gangs blamed one another.

We left evidence pointing toward rival groups, used weapons associated with specific organizations, and occasionally planted items marked with someone else's symbols. Sometimes we simply sent loyal police officers to conduct a raid. In general, we kept feeding the fire until everyone was at war with everyone else. Rumors about us began spreading through the criminal underworld anyway. We had knocked out too many teeth to remain unnoticed. Some whispered about a new power that ignored the established rules.

Others spoke of men in black who appeared from nowhere, did what they had come to do, then vanished just as quickly. For now, they were only rumors. Vague, contradictory stories. But sooner or later, someone would put the picture together. One of our raids stayed with me more than the others. The information came from Angleton. His people had traced a chain leading to a transfer site in Brooklyn's industrial district.

On paper, the abandoned warehouse belonged to a freight company that had gone bankrupt years before. In practice, it served as a holding point for human cargo. Undocumented migrants brought in from Mexico and Central America passed through the warehouse on their way to final buyers: illegal brothels, private households seeking servants without papers or rights, and ordinary monsters who wanted to hold power over another human life. Haynie developed the plan in two days.

Surveillance showed that six to eight men were stationed inside at all times, with several more guarding the perimeter. They were well armed but careless. In all their years of operation, no one had ever attacked them. The police had been paid. Rivals knew whose territory it was. The victims were too terrified to resist. The operation took place at three in the morning on Tuesday. I heard the details after training, when Haynie caught me on my way to the showers.

I had just finished working through combinations with Applegate when he appeared at the edge of the floor and silently nodded toward my office. Yes, I had an office there too. It mostly sat empty. We walked down the corridor while I wiped sweat from my face with a towel. Haynie said nothing until the door closed behind us.

"We used two teams," he began as I poured myself a glass of water.

"The first entered through the roof and removed the perimeter guards without a sound. The second, led by the twins, waited by the loading doors in case anyone tried to run."

"Resistance?"

"Minimal. They weren't expecting us. Security was relaxed. Billy took out the two men by the entrance. The rest didn't understand what was happening until it was over. Less than four minutes from the first shot to complete clearance." Haynie stopped speaking, and I noticed a slight change in his normally impassive face.

"What did you find?" I asked, setting down the glass.

"Twenty-three people in the basement. Women, men, several teenagers. Locked up like livestock. Filthy. Starved. Some had been there for weeks, waiting to be sold.

"One girl looked about fourteen. Her arm was broken, and no one had even bothered to set it." He fell silent.

"The boys have seen plenty, boss. But this…" He shook his head.

"Eddie sat in the van for half an hour afterward and couldn't speak. Billy said that if any of those bastards had survived, he would never have forgiven himself."

"Did you call an ambulance?"

"Anonymous call from a pay phone three blocks away. We waited until we heard the sirens in the distance, then left. The police will find twenty-three survivors and ten bodies that lead nowhere." I nodded. Haynie turned toward the door but stopped with his hand on the frame.

"Boss," he said without looking back, "when you first told us what all this was for, I listened, but I didn't really believe you. Pretty words, I thought. Another man in charge giving speeches about higher purposes.

"But nights like this… after nights like this, you start to understand." We later learned that the team had found a safe in the foreman's office. An old mechanical model, which the boys opened with a small explosive charge. Inside were cash and something more useful: folders containing compromising material on several mid-level city officials. Photographs. Receipts. Recorded conversations. Everything went straight to Bagley, who put those gentlemen in such a tight grip that none of them dared object.

There was also around two hundred thousand dollars in cash. It was far from the first time we had found money or confidential information during a raid. With every operation, our public relations department somehow gained more useful acquaintances. Greer himself had no real idea why so many doors suddenly opened for him without effort. All I had to do was hand the latest folder to Bagley. He handled the rest. Some people he frightened. Others he bought.

A third group simply had the facts laid out before them until they understood that cooperation was in their own best interest. We did not kill everyone we encountered during raids and skirmishes. Many of those taken alive were recruited, then returned to the criminal world as our people, greatly expanding our network of informants. Smaller amounts—ten or twenty thousand dollars—were accumulated in different safes, including several at the training compound.

The money was clean in the sense that it had never entered any official ledger and could therefore be used to purchase unregistered weapons or pay the criminal network of sources. We already had around one hundred thousand stored that way. If necessary, whether because of an inspection or something worse, it could all be destroyed without leaving a trace. Larger amounts, such as the current two hundred thousand, went through Hood. I did not ask for details.

The old man preferred operating independently and reporting only the result. In broad terms, however, the process looked like this: part of the money moved through fictitious consulting contracts with shell companies Hood maintained for precisely that purpose. Another part appeared as refunded overpayments on old supplier invoices. The remainder entered gradually as cash payments from retail customers who supposedly purchased large shipments directly from our warehouses.

When Hood finished, two hundred thousand dollars became legitimate corporate revenue, on which we honestly paid taxes. Chen suspected nothing. At least, she said nothing, and Chen was not the sort of woman who remained quiet when the numbers did not add up. So we were doing something good, defending the company, and turning a profit at the same time. On top of that, our growing informant network was steadily strengthening our position in the underworld.

By every rule of a war of attrition, we should have been losing strength. Instead, we were gaining it. The security division continued expanding, though I refused to sacrifice quality for numbers. Every candidate required the guarantee of at least two people already serving with us. Not merely a recommendation. A guarantee meant the sponsors accepted personal responsibility for the man they brought in. Only then did the full investigation begin. Bagley dug into the candidate's past.

Angleton checked for connections to criminal organizations or competitors. Hood examined his financial history for debts or other vulnerabilities. Those who passed were sent into a month-long training course. Hard training. Hard enough that some left voluntarily after deciding the work was beyond them. Cooper ran them on the range. Applegate hammered close combat into them. Haynie taught tactics and teamwork.

Candidates with special skills—communications, demolitions, medicine—received the basic general course and then underwent additional testing in their field. Victor personally examined every man who claimed explosives experience. Only after all of that were recruits admitted to active duty and permitted to work contracts. After the grenade attack outside our office, many people learned what our security division could do. The story spread through New York business circles.

The security team of an office-supply company had not merely stopped an armed assault but done so without taking a single casualty. Contracts arrived in such numbers that Jacob only had to select the best ones. Warehouses. Offices. High-value transport. Personal protection for businessmen who had reason to be afraid but preferred not to involve the police. Our men gained experience in real confrontations, while constant training and good equipment kept serious injuries rare.

New income allowed us to expand and purchase better gear. Better gear kept our people intact. Intact people earned still more money. A closed circle, only one that worked in our favor. The influx of personnel allowed us to close almost every weakness in our security system. Every site now had enough guards to repel a serious attack and hold until reinforcements arrived. Patrols followed unpredictable routes. Communications worked without interruption.

Had I been one of the gangs, I would have thought ten times before approaching any of our properties. The odds of leaving alive were becoming increasingly poor. The war was making us richer, but I cannot say I was pleased about it. The constant tension was exhausting, especially since I had originally intended the company to remain entirely legitimate: manufacturing, sales, contracts, expansion. Everything within the law, with no dark stains on the books.

Of course I had managed to step directly into this mess instead.

The first shipment of personal alarms arrived from Hong Kong in mid-July. Twenty thousand units packed in cardboard cartons, each wrapped carefully in tissue paper to prevent damage during transit. Small, bright, available in red, white, and blue, with the Aegis logo embossed into the plastic. Including manufacturing, shipping, and customs, the cost came to one dollar and fifty cents per unit. I took one from the box and turned it over in my hand. Pleasant weight. Smooth plastic.

The button clicked cleanly beneath my thumb. I pressed it. A piercing shriek tore through the warehouse, loud enough that the guard by the door grabbed his ear and swore.

"One hundred and forty decibels," Phineas said, standing beside me with obvious satisfaction.

"Louder than a jet taking off. The battery will last thirty minutes under continuous use or several hundred short activations.

"The manufacturer followed our specifications exactly. I personally tested the first hundred." Corrigan was already negotiating with the retailers. Walgreens showed interest first. Their buyer saw a sample during a meeting and immediately recognized its potential. Women's safety had become a growing topic in the press, and retailers were searching for products that could be marketed around it. They ordered ten thousand units for a trial, placing the alarms beside the cash registers in fifty East Coast stores.

Shelf price: seven dollars and ninety-nine cents. Our wholesale price: four-fifty. A week later, the same buyer called.

"Mr. Miller, we have a problem," he began. I prepared myself for returns or customer complaints.

"What problem?"

"We've run out. In all fifty stores. Some locations sold their entire stock in three days. Can we get another fifty thousand by September?" I said yes, hung up, and immediately called our contact in Hong Kong. I tripled the current order and negotiated the option for emergency production increases if demand rose further. The factory agreed to dedicate a separate line to us in exchange for a guaranteed purchase of one hundred thousand units by the end of the year. Meanwhile, Bagley found another mole.

He placed a thin folder on my desk. A photograph had been attached to the cover. A young man, perhaps twenty-five. Fair hair. Freckles across his nose. An open face of the sort usually found on people with nothing to hide. Danny Sullivan. An office worker from our original recruitment period, he had been with us almost from the start. I remembered him. Competent. Always clean and neatly dressed. He seemed to know how to approach any assignment.

The kind of employee no one noticed because he simply did his job well and without noise. His older brother, Kevin Sullivan, owed an Irish gang roughly fifteen thousand dollars in gambling debts from cards and horse racing. Once they learned where the younger brother worked, they decided information was more valuable than waiting for money Kevin did not have. Danny had no access to anything critical, but he had still done damage. Names and home addresses of several employees. A rough outline of office security.

Even information about some of our partners. I chose not to punish him. I saw neither purpose nor profit in it. Instead, I used a simpler and more useful solution. That same night, our people visited the men who held his brother by the balls. A small group operated from a West Side bar. Six men under someone named Sean McGinnis. We neutralized them quickly and nonlethally.

Before their superiors could react, we collected everything of value: ledgers recording debts, signed notes, blackmail files on borrowers, and the cash in the safe. Then we withdrew. The following morning, the police raided the bar after an anonymous report of illegal weapons. The officers found precisely what they had been promised, along with several additional items we had planted. Naturally, the men were released almost immediately, but the damage had been considerable, and the trail was suitably confused.

The Sullivan brothers were free. But I did not keep traitors inside my company. I called Danny in and explained the situation without unnecessary words. He and his brother would leave New York that day. Anywhere. I did not care where. If they ever returned, they would learn what pain meant. I had enough connections to put both of them behind bars for a very long time. By evening, the brothers had loaded their belongings into a car and headed west. I never heard from them again.

Production grew week by week. Both detector plants reached full capacity and now produced twelve thousand units a month. Warehouses barely had time to accept the finished goods before they left again for distributors. Personal alarms arrived from Hong Kong in a continuous stream, and I was already negotiating with the factory about reorganizing one line entirely around our needs. Phineas completed the automobile-alarm prototype in the meantime.

He brought the device into my office and placed it on the desk with the expression of a man who knew he had created something special.

"Here." He indicated a compact block with wires extending from it.

"The basic layout is standard. Sensors on the doors and hood, an impact sensor, a siren. But this is the important part." He opened the siren housing and revealed a small compartment inside.

"Backup battery. Independent power for forty minutes of continuous operation.

"A thief cuts the wires under the hood, assumes he has disabled the system, and calmly opens the door. Then the siren starts screaming because it doesn't care that the wires were cut. It has its own power source.

"By the time he understands what went wrong, the entire street is watching." I picked up the device, judging its weight and compactness.

"Do any competitors offer this?"

"No one. I checked every system currently on the market. Standard alarms shut down if power is cut. Some manufacturers add extra protection around the wiring, but that's a half measure. A backup battery inside the siren solves the problem completely.

"I also added a delay circuit. The alarm doesn't trigger the instant the door opens. It gives the owner fifteen seconds to disarm it. The delay can be adjusted between ten and thirty seconds." We filed the patent application that same day. Salazar personally ensured the claims covered every possible variation of the design, including options competitors might invent a year or two later. At the same time, Corrigan closed a major deal.

Ace Hardware signed a regional agreement to supply detectors to three hundred stores across the Midwest. The terms were good, and the volume was significant. More importantly, the contract opened the door to national negotiations if we performed well during the first six months.

The gangs made another mistake and stepped into one of Angleton's traps. His people had been monitoring communications among several organizations for three weeks. Eventually, the picture became clear enough that the old man could say with confidence where the next strike would land. The target was Chen. The moment Angleton told me, I ordered her removed from her home under a plausible pretext. Chen, naturally, understood nothing.

When two of our men appeared at her door and asked her to come to the office immediately to verify several documents, they later told me that the look on her face contained extremely precise instructions about where they could go and what they could do there.

"Mr. Miller," she said over the telephone once she was inside the car, "I understand that you are paranoid, and I usually tolerate it with professional patience. But dragging me out of my home at nine in the evening over documents that can wait until morning is excessive.

"Explain what is happening, or I am turning around and going home."

"Do not turn around," I said.

"Simply ask the driver to pass your building in approximately half an hour." She did. She saw police cars with flashing lights. Neighbors gathered on the sidewalk. An ambulance beside the entrance. She saw two men in handcuffs being escorted toward a patrol car and two others being loaded onto stretchers. Our people had been waiting inside her apartment. They entered an hour before the predicted attack.

When four gunmen forced the door and stepped inside expecting to find a defenseless woman, they met someone entirely different. Two attackers went to the hospital with fractures and concussions. The other two went to a police station, where I had already ensured the charges would be handled correctly: breaking and entering, attempted assault, and unlawful possession of weapons. It is probably unnecessary to say how grateful she became for her employer's paranoia.

In business circles, Chen had heard stories about gangs targeting senior executives, abducting them or their families, and demanding money. She had always dismissed such talk as exaggeration. Scare stories for the impressionable. Then four armed men came for her. At last, we identified who had been behind the attacks of the previous months. Angleton placed the file on my desk, and I saw a name I had expected for some time. But knowing the enemy's name and being able to strike him were entirely different things.

We had to continue defending ourselves and fighting the war because there was still too much we did not know: the structure of his organization, his sources of money, his ties inside the police and city government. Striking blind meant risking a survivor who would return twice as dangerous.

Jennings dropped a stack of documents onto my desk.

"Good news and bad news. Which would you prefer first?"

"Bad."

"Magnavox holds the foundational patents for ionization smoke detectors. Technically, we are infringing on their intellectual property." I leaned back in my chair. It was not exactly surprising. The detector market was hardly new, and someone was bound to have secured the underlying technology before us.

"How serious?"

"They could file suit and seek an injunction against production. Or, more likely, demand licensing fees of two to three dollars for every unit sold." At our current volume, that meant hundreds of thousands of dollars a year flowing into someone else's pocket. Money that could have funded expansion, research, and personnel.

"And the good news?" Jennings allowed himself a satisfied smile.

"Magnavox has no real interest in smoke detectors. It is a side business for them, an incidental asset collecting dust in their patent portfolio. Their focus is television and consumer electronics.

"I conducted preliminary negotiations, and they are prepared to sell us an exclusive license for the northeastern United States."

"How much?"

"Fifty thousand up front and one dollar per unit sold. Compared with the alternative, it's a gift."

"Take it." The agreement closed within two weeks. Salazar personally checked every clause to ensure the license was truly exclusive and that Magnavox could neither change its mind nor sell the same rights to someone else. Our own intellectual-property portfolio continued expanding as well. The backup battery for automobile alarms. A system linking smoke detectors so that when one activated, every other detector in the house sounded as well. The retractable badge cord. Correction tape. Cold lamination. And more.

Anything we manufactured or developed became a patent application. Phineas complained that he spent more time describing inventions to lawyers than designing them, but I saw the light in his eyes whenever another patent received approval. Representatives from other companies began approaching us after failing to get around our patent wall. They were forced to purchase the right to use our technology. The licensing income began as a thin but steady stream. Given time, it promised to become a river.

Especially since I intended to acquire quite a few more things.

Of course, I lost people too. No matter how good you were, a stray bullet could end your life at any moment. A coordinated attack had taken place recently, with professional mercenaries and street trash striking in two locations simultaneously. One team attacked the office. We repelled them cleanly, without a scratch on our side. The second group hit a Brooklyn warehouse, and according to the men, that fight had been genuinely bad.

Someone compared it to Vietnam and said he would not have been surprised if the attackers had arrived with a tank. Fire came from every direction. Our people had to abandon the perimeter, retreat to the main building, and hold it for nearly twenty minutes until reinforcements arrived. We won. The enemy lost a considerable number of men, though many escaped. We lost one. I stood in the morgue and looked down at Danny Collins. A middle-aged man who had seen enough suffering for three lifetimes.

Vietnam, then several years drifting nowhere, then odd jobs that barely kept him from bankruptcy. His son was due to be born soon. His wife was seven months pregnant. He used to say that working for me had finally brought a good stretch into his life. Now he lay beneath a white sheet on a metal table, and no good stretch mattered anymore. We would take care of his family.

Danny's wife would receive the full insurance payment, monthly support until the child reached adulthood, all medical costs covered, and assistance with housing if necessary. That promise held our people together. Every man knew the boss would not abandon them or the families they left behind. Every one of them had seen that I kept my word. I hoped Danny knew that too. Wherever he was now.

"Can we start acting more aggressively?" I asked Angleton without looking away from the body. The old man waited before answering.

"Silver­mane did not appreciate you humiliating him or damaging his reputation. But if you think we have caused him any meaningful harm, you are mistaken.

"The Maggia is not street trash. It is an organization with decades of history and connections at every level of government. Even with my experience, I find it difficult to understand how organized crime on that scale was allowed to establish itself in this country and sink roots so deeply." Jacob, standing near the door, spoke as well.

"Don't put too much of this on yourself, boss. The boys understand. After losing a fifth brother, they're angrier and more united than ever. No one is thinking about retreating." Angleton exhaled through his teeth before continuing in a different tone.

"But there is something we can do now. I hear you've been fighting a respectable war of connections yourself, David." All I could do was nod. I had never imagined that so much filth could be poured onto one company through bought officials, corrupt inspectors, and judges on someone's payroll. Tax audits. Health inspections. Fire commissions. Licensing problems. It all fell on Aegis without pause.

Fortunately, Whitmore and Holloway protected me at a respectable level in Albany and Washington, while another circle of acquaintances handled the smaller attacks inside the city. Even so, I had to keep my hand on the pulse constantly. It consumed time and strength I could not spare.

"Anyway," Angleton continued, "I have an idea for making Silvermane uncomfortable. A pin in a sensitive place, so to speak." The idea was good. It required every connection I had and a considerable amount of money, but the result was better than expected. Angleton's people discovered that the Maggia controlled several warehouses in the docks used for contraband: weapons, narcotics, counterfeit liquor. We anonymously fed the information to the FBI with enough supporting detail that they could not ignore it.

Through Holloway, I made certain the case went to an agent with an impeccable reputation rather than one of the men on the Maggia payroll. The raid occurred a week later. Three warehouses. Twenty arrests. Three million dollars' worth of confiscated goods. The newspapers called it one of the largest blows against organized crime in years. Silvermane lost more in a single night than destroying our entire company would have cost him. At the same time, we worked on other fronts.

We gave Maggia rivals information about delivery routes, guard schedules, and weaknesses in their logistics. We did not neglect the traditional Italian families either. Through a chain of intermediaries, we even managed to damage relations between the Gambinos and Bonannos. It did not lead to open war, but the tension increased. Resources that might otherwise have been directed against us now went toward surveillance of one another and preparation for possible trouble.

The Irish Westies were delighted to use the information we gave them. They hated the Italians and welcomed any opportunity to strike. The gang war reignited. Shootings. Arson. Disappearances. New York's criminal underworld descended into chaos. Many people tried to benefit from it. Including one fat bastard I had never forgotten. By that point, Wilson Fisk had accumulated substantial power. He had absorbed several smaller gangs and built a network that grew like a malignant tumor.

While the old powers tore at one another, he methodically occupied the open territory, taking control of neighborhoods, people, and businesses left without owners. I had to work hard to prevent him from expanding too quickly. Information to rivals. Anonymous tips to the police. Setting loose anyone whose interests he had damaged. Anything to slow him down.

The personal alarms became the season's surprise hit. Small, bright, and inexpensive, they made an ideal gift for a mother, grandmother, daughter, or girlfriend. Give the Gift of Safety. That was the slogan we used, and it struck exactly the right note. Women bought the alarms for themselves. Men gave them to wives and mothers. Parents put them into the Christmas stockings of teenage daughters. Every major drugstore chain ordered them by the tens of thousands, and shelves emptied faster than we could refill them.

Automobile alarms launched at the same time. The first production run consisted of two thousand units, built under contract at a factory in New Jersey. Western Auto ordered five hundred immediately for its stores. The rest went to smaller auto-parts retailers in and around New York. The reviews were excellent. Customers especially praised the backup battery.

"Finally, an alarm you can't defeat by cutting a wire!" One automotive magazine even ran a short article describing our system as "the first genuinely intelligent defense against vehicle theft." The entire office-supply line reached stores as well and increased revenue even more than expected. Adhesive notes continued generating steady profit, but page flags became the real revelation. Office workers across the country suddenly discovered that they could no longer live without them.

Correction tape slowly took market share from liquid correction fluid, while cold-lamination film found steady demand among schools and small offices. Every dollar we made went back into expansion. We purchased a fifth smoke-detector plant, this one in Pennsylvania. An old operation with good equipment and experienced personnel, sold by a young owner liquidating his inheritance. We expanded the sales department with four regional representatives covering the Midwest and South.

We opened a second warehouse in New Jersey because the first could no longer handle the volume. The remaining six months passed in the same rhythm. Expansion in every direction. Endless negotiations. New contracts. New employees. New problems, each demanding another immediate solution. By the spring of 1977, the machine had finally begun running smoothly enough that I could take half a step back and simply watch the balance in our accounts increase week after week.

I took a bottle labeled SEDATIVES from the cabinet, shook three pills into my palm, and swallowed them with cold coffee. That period of my life was so exhausting that dark circles had settled beneath my eyes, and I had to cover them before important meetings. I had barely managed to build muscle despite my training. I now looked like a well-built man who exercised regularly, but given the intensity of the work, the results should have been far more dramatic.

The body simply could not recover when it received four hours of sleep a night and woke at every telephone call. Chen entered the office and stopped by the door, studying me.

"Mr. Miller, do you understand that everything here depends on you? I honestly cannot imagine the level of stress you are under, but as your employee, I am asking you sincerely: protect your health. Rest, at least for a while."

"Absolutely, Margaret. The first chance I get." I rubbed my temples and shut my eyes as another wave of pain rolled through my head. They had become increasingly common over the last few weeks. Then I looked at her more closely and noticed something I had not seen in a long time. A faint smile at the corners of her mouth.

"Did something happen? I haven't seen you in such a good mood for months."

"Five million," she said. At first, I did not understand.

"What?"

"Five million, Mr. Miller." She repeated it with a genuine smile, something so rare on her face that I nearly stared.

"In the company accounts. You did it." I leaned back in the chair and looked at the owl figurine on the shelf. It seemed to be staring back at me, equally stunned. Five million. Mother of God. Finally. A year and a half of blood, sweat, sleepless nights, and war on several fronts at once.

"Not me. We did it." Chen accepted the compliment with a slight nod, but the curiosity in her eyes remained.

"And now? The promising new industry you mentioned?" I smiled.

"Get everyone together tomorrow." She looked at me with undisguised interest.

"At least give me a hint." I rose from the desk and walked to the window. New York stretched beyond the glass—the city that had tried to swallow me and choked.

"Tell me, Chen… have you ever played a video game?"