The Golden Crystal by Nick Thacker Read Free Book Online

wearing the Whittenfield Research logo on a blue button-down shirt, appeared and guided Bryce and Whittenfield to a seat toward the back of the plane. They were the only two passengers. This must be Whittenfield’s plane, Bryce thought.
    Promptly, the attendant brought forth two cocktails, a mix of some hard liquor and a fruit juice. Whittenfield shook his glass and took a drink. Bryce did the same, all the while examining the interior of the fancy plane. Its seats were rhubarb-colored, accented with a rich mahogany. The center of the fuselage had been stripped of the rows of seats and in their place a large, square room stretched toward the cockpit. A sign on the door facing Bryce said “Command,” and Bryce realized then that this plane wasn’t just a means of transportation for the rich businessman. 
    It was a mobile command center. 
    “So, Bryce, let’s dive in. I’m sure you have a lot of questions for me,” Whittenfield began, “and seeing as we have only eight hours of flying time in front of us, we’d better get started.”
    Bryce smiled, the obvious sarcasm not lost on him. “Mr. Whittenfield, I appreciate your hospitality here, and I am interested to get to know what it is exactly that your company does. However, it’s just…” Bryce fumbled for his words, hoping to not insult the man seated across from him. “I guess I just need the reassurance of knowing that this deal you offered me — it seems great; uh, amazing, actually — is going to turn out to be something…” he hesitated, not finding the correct words. Whittenfield held up a hand to interject. 
    “Captain Reynolds, I understand that this seems to be quite an unbelievable opportunity for you. However, I promise you that I am more than serious. In fact,” he said, reaching to a briefcase next to his seat and taking out a small netbook laptop, “I’ll go ahead and transfer the initial one million into an account of your choosing. Further, if you’re not satisfied with the position one week from now, I’ll request half of that amount be wired back to me, and we can go our separate ways. The half-million dollars remaining will be yours as a gift. Consider it the most lucrative workweek of your life.” With a smug grin, he turned the laptop to Bryce and waited for his response. 
    The plane started to taxi, only minutes away from takeoff. Bryce sensed that he was also only minutes away from a drastic change in his life. He leaned forward in his seat to enter the bank account information, and his new boss — James Whittenfield, Jr. — looked out the window, content. 

UNKNOWN
    HE BLINKED. NOTHING. AM I dead? He blinked again, and the blackness surrounding him slowly became an image. Blurry at first, but gradually more clear. 
    He had a splitting headache. Professor Jensen Andrews blinked again, and slowly tried to sit up.
    The pain in his side was excruciating, and it took him a couple of tries to fully prop himself up on one arm and look around. His was in a room — all metal, with no windows or furnishings except for a bed and small toilet in opposite corners. The toilet and bed frame were metal as well. The bed held a thin mattress with several springs protruding from the top. Finally, his eyes were drawn to the floor.
    It was made of double-layer reinforced steel, and the only break in its smooth surface was a small square window, no more than a foot in diameter. The window was reinforced with vertical steel bars a few inches apart. Clearly, he was not intended to leave. 
    Great.  
    Jensen looked down at his body to see what was causing the pain in his side. His shirt — a white, button-down with a pencil pocket — was opened to the waist. His lower torso was wrapped in a thick gauze bandage. The bandage had a small, round, dark stain, just to the right of his stomach.
    He had been shot. The recollection surprised him. The area around the wound was tender, but for the most part the pain was isolated to the immediate area.