1 Executive Lunch Read online

  Executive Lunch

  Mismanagement Meets

  Its Match

  Maria E. Schneider

  Copyright: © 2009 Maria E. Schneider

  8.12.11

  Print Version: 2011

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  A BearMountainBooks.com Production

  Book Summary

  Sedona is given the opportunity of a lifetime: play an up-and-coming executive with all the trappings of wealth with someone else footing the bill. The catch: find out who is stealing company funds before the criminals find out that their program is being debugged.

  Sedona runs into danger, the corporate glass ceiling, and an occasional chance at romance in her quest to figure out who is stealing money from Strandfrost. Unfortunately, Sedona is better at writing computer code than deciphering political vitriol, and if she doesn’t find a way to wade through the red tape and red herrings, she could lose both her job and her quarry!

  Executive Lunch

  Chapter 1

  The hallway at Strandfrost wound along the windows on three sides of the floor. This design ensured that everyone was equally deprived of a window office with the exception of the managers, who all sat along the north side in windowed offices. Since I was just a computer lab rat, I felt lucky to have any kind of office, even one without a window. In order to have a metallic nameplate with "Sedona O'Hala" gracing the door, I had to rip apart an old manager's nameplate and rig it with card stock.

  I was on my way to the lab when Sally Bunker, our adorable, very scatterbrained secretary screamed. If I hadn't had an armful of papers, I might have covered my ears. Sally was frequently what one might refer to as unprofessional, but she was so well liked that no one ever actually mentioned it.

  More worrisome, the next sound from down the hallway was remarkably whimper-like. Sighing, I headed around the corner. I expected to find Sally frantically plaguing anyone that wasn't already at lunch to help her speed-dial restaurants--she had probably forgotten to get Allen Perry, our overweight director, lunch reservations.

  I was not expecting a six-inch switchblade.

  I stopped short and stared. The papers I was carrying fell on the floor with a loud thump. "Ohboy." I should have minded my own business. It certainly would have been better if I hadn't heard Sally scream.

  At the end of the hallway, past the guy with the switchblade, there was a guy with a bull neck holding Sally against the corner window. He trailed a knife down her neck. A chunk of her long auburn hair, usually sprayed neatly into place, severed and fell to the floor.

  "Wha..?" While there might be some petty cash in the drawer, Strandfrost was a very ordinary computer company located in a fourteen-story office building outside the downtown area of quiet Denton, Colorado--an unlikely spot for a mugging.

  "You can't do that," I squeaked.

  The guy swore and looked over his shoulder at me. He screamed, "Beee…itch!" loud enough to wake Sally from the dead had he pushed her out the window.

  "Well, you can't," I defended meekly, looking at Allen. He was stuck against the wall next to his office, held quietly in place by a tattooed arm that reached out from the office doorway. The tattoo was a harmless sword. The gun in the hand attached to the arm didn't look so benign. Allen's beefy face dripped sweat from his receding hairline down his neck and cheeks.

  "Sedona--" Sally cried.

  For the first time in my life, I wished for a boring meeting to discuss options. Sally looked like she would be more than happy to go get the donuts.

  With great reluctance, I pushed my foot forward. The guy with the switchblade just looked at me and then at bull neck. He didn't stop me.

  The next step wasn't any easier, but I didn't think about it until I had scooted up behind bull-man. Weakly, I tugged on the hand holding Sally's breast. "Let her go."

  Incredulous, he swung my way, beady black eyes flickering hate.

  "Seriously." The plea came out in a squeak, not very persuasive. I stepped back and let go of the tree trunk that served as his arm. I scurried backwards, my knees knocking together hard enough to bruise.

  Whoever was behind Allen yanked Allen backwards into the office. Continuing to backpedal seemed like a good idea. I didn't need to wait around until the thug was finished with Allen and free to come after me.

  "You crazy bitch!" A look that shouted, "charge" came across bull-man's face.

  Sally slumped against the window, clutching protectively at her neck.

  Bull-man spread his feet and rolled forward, evil anticipation floating across his face.

  Sally's hazel eyes came alive for a moment, and she mouthed my name. "Sedona!"

  "Uh-oh." There was a very sinking feeling in what was left of my stomach. The first guy with the switchblade was still behind me. Drawing the only conclusion possible, I leaned down and kicked my left leg straight up backwards.

  My foot snagged a gun rather than a knife and knocked it into a high arc. It was just like in my old karate class, only then the weapons were plastic.

  I caught the gun. It was heavy. "Well." I blinked at the barrel pointing at my chest. Gingerly I turned it around and made it aim at something else. Backed against the windowed part of the hallway, there wasn't enough room to point it at both the bull and the guy that had been holding the gun.

  In class, the exercise was over. We bowed politely and went home. No one here looked ready to leave.

  "You want to play?" Bull-man smiled like it was Easter Sunday, and he had the prized golden egg, only instead of a harmless egg, he balanced a knife between two fingers.

  He was definitely the better target to point the gun at, but even with me waving it around, he threw the knife. It was like the games my brothers used to play, except they threw darts and they weren't all that lethal. Oh sure, if they had struck my eye I would be dead by now, but that didn't concern them much at ages eight and twelve. It obviously wasn't the number one worry of the guy throwing the knife either.

  I swallowed bile, dropped the gun and grabbed. Thinking of the game made me reach out for the knife. Human vision was just slow enough that by the time the knife was visible, the sharp blade was by, and the handle rested in my hand.

  I didn't expect to catch it.

  No one else expected it either. The guy that used to have the gun was mid-flight, arms wide, headed for my tiny, unprotected body.

  I kicked as hard as I could. He fell with a grunt, holding his private parts.

  "Help!" I screeched. I should shoot him, but I had dropped the gun. Where was it?

  Bull-man came straight at me. His hair looked like it belonged on a suit of armor, sticking straight up in some kind of plastered Mohawk. His dark eyes were devoid of anything but mean.

  I stabbed with the knife praying I'd miss, and at the same time praying I'd get lucky and get him the first try.

  I missed. He kept coming, running through the imaginary red blanket and right into me, the untrained matador. "Help!"

  The knife hit the bone in his shoulder. "Uuuungh."

  Mashed by his weight, my bones ground into sand, ready to become part of the glass behind me.

  The injury on his shoulder finally registered somewhere inside his bovine brain. He shrieked and stumbled backwards. "Aaaaaaaaagh!!!!"

  With the weight lifted, I melted to the floor. The gun was by my right hand. I couldn't shoot right-handed. I wasn't certain I was all that good left-handed either.

  Sally screa
med, "Oh my God, oh my God!"

  No one ventured around the corner of the hallway. Allen yelled 911, but something told me he wasn't dialing. I finally had a use for the marketing people with their ubiquitous cell phones, but their lunch hour was more like two and the fast-talking types were nowhere to be found.

  The sounds of sirens registered. "Plug her!" Bull-man screamed. He jerked a step or two down the hall, but stepped on his fallen buddy. Bones crunched. Bull's arms windmilled, and he went over backwards, landing on his bad shoulder.

  Since his buddy didn't have the gun, and his hand was now broken, it didn't take a genius to surmise Bull-man wasn't talking to the guy on the floor. I scrambled to my feet, using the wall to prop me up. "Uh…" It was the guy with the tattooed arm that had been behind Allen.

  He stalked me.

  "Eeee!" I tried to jump away, but the only place to run was after the thugs hobbling backwards towards the intersection and the fire exit. "Nnnn…nnn…"

  "Plug'er and let's beat it!" Bull-man grunted in pain but leaned against the wall, sadistically waiting to see my brains scattered across the window.

  I tried to swallow and couldn't. This guy wasn't stupid, but for half a second...I honestly don't know if I had a sudden brain tumor or an epiphany, but something was wrong here. Where Bull-man had an absence of presence, this guy looked different. His dark brown eyes were hard, but they looked regretful. Despite the evil sword tattooed down his arm, he didn't look much like he wanted to hurt me.

  "You--" My mouth dropped open in surprise, silencing the mewing sound in the back of my throat.

  He snarled, "Time's up," and threw himself at me, launching us both four feet down the hall. His arm behind me kept my head from cracking open, but he wasn't finished. He growled, pulled back his fist and took aim.

  Damned if he didn't give me time to defend myself. I was so stupefied, I didn't move.

  He pulled back, yanked me up and stuffed me at the window like a rag doll. "St..op," I stuttered. For a nice guy, he was playing rough. He put the gun in my chin. For longer than it takes an elevator to get up to the fourth floor I thought I was dead.

  His buddy yelled encouragement, "Nothin' but smear!"

  I hung there, already a body bag.

  He reached higher with the gun to smack my head. My arm, feeling like someone else's, blocked. He struck again. His arm was solid muscle and his blow had to have broken something. There was nowhere to back up to, but sliding sideways out from under his arm worked.

  Had he let me?

  He threw punches faster. I backed away, dancing over my own feet, blocking another punch that nearly shattered my jaw even with my defensive maneuver.

  I whimpered again, and he snarled, "Fight."

  I don't think his buddy heard. Did he want me to beat him? Was he crazy? He was six feet tall to my five-seven if I stretched in the morning. He must have gotten a false impression from my earlier luck.

  With a frustrated grunt, he reached for me again and struck pay dirt.

  "Ahhhh!" I screamed in rage. "You bastard!" I ripped his offending digits off my breast and plowed him over backwards. He hit the wall opposite the window and bounced, my head in his stomach. The gun dropped from his hand. I was pretty sure I hadn't hit him that hard, but I was going to. I put my hands together and took a magnificent swing.

  Crack!

  His head snapped backwards, denting the cheap plasterboard. His buddy stopped yelling and headed for the stairs. I fell to my knees. There wasn't enough air in my lungs to keep a gnat alive.

  The guy stumbled away from the plasterboard and ran for the exit. On the way, he knocked over Ross Canton, the head of marketing, just coming back from lunch. A doggie-bag full of leftovers flew through the air and splattered on impact.

  It mixed well with the blood and disaster.

  Chapter 2

  I was so sore, I missed work the next two days. That was fine by me. I was too embarrassed to show my bruised face anyway. Instead of being calmly led away to give a statement, I dissolved into a teary, hysterical mess.

  Because there were conflicting stories, someone insisted I be taken to a hospital. No one seemed to know if I was injured. Of course I was injured. I had bruises the length of my arm. One palm was cut, but I couldn't decide if that was from catching the knife or wielding it later. Someone had scored a hit on my eye, and my lip was split wide open. I was pretty sure that was from biting it in fear. I didn't remember getting hit in the mouth.

  When my eldest brother, Sean O'Hala, picked me up from the hospital, he figured it was my mouth that started it. "Did you insult somebody? Just because I'm a lawyer doesn't mean I can get you out of every trouble spot you create."

  "I am not discussing it," I grumbled out the good side of my mouth. "I told you on the phone that muggers broke into work. You're not the police so don't start with the twenty questions."

  "I'm calling mom and dad."

  "No you aren't!" I tried to glare at him, but it was impossible to do from the wheelchair that the hospital insisted he use to cart me out to the car.

  "Of course I'm calling them," he snapped, stopping the chair just short of his old maroon Accord. "You can't expect me to pick you up here and just neglect to tell them." He flapped his arms against his body. "You look like hell." He peered closely at my face and then carefully patted me on the head. My long brown hair matched his except for my highlights and the fact that his was military short while mine desperately needed to be collected into a ponytail.

  He jerked opened the passenger side door. "Get in."

  "They'll worry if you tell them." I heaved myself into the car. "They might even fly here."

  He gave the wheelchair to a nurse, and then walked to the driver's side.

  I stared out my window. My parents were great people. So were my brothers. They, and only they, were allowed to torture, tease and malign me. My father would have shot all three of the cowards, unlike his daughter. I still didn't know why I hadn't shot them. I knew how to use the gun. My father was a perfect shot. Sean, the only family member who lived in Denton near me, was also a good shot. I was lucky Sean didn't know all the details. He'd be getting his gun if the guys he knew on the police force had had time to give him the lowdown.

  Sean meandered through my sub-division as if he had never seen it before. He took extra turns and looked out both windows as though searching for the right address. When we finally pulled up to my house, he studied it before asking, "So. Got any food?"

  I rolled my eyes. "I've been working and just got released from the hospital, dummy." I got out, expecting him to drive away. He followed me to the front door.

  "We should go get your car from Strandfrost." Normally he squeezed my shoulders as a goodbye, but because of my current bruised condition he refrained.

  "I mentioned my car at the hospital."

  "I wasn't sure you were alert enough."

  "Uh-huh." He took my keys, opened the front door and came in behind me. My brown-tweed second-hand couch looked lonely across from the silent television. I didn't remember whether the place was picked up or not, but it was clean even by my relaxed, dusty standards. It was good to be home.

  "I have to use the bathroom," he decided.

  I folded my arms. "Just search the place."

  He disappeared into the main bedroom, his lanky form tracking quickly through my small, but treasured patio home. He took less time in the spare bedroom because it contained only a bed and was barely bigger than the hall closet. The closet took him longer because he actually checked the top shelf. He also opened the refrigerator, but then turned away in disgust.

  "You must be dating too much."

  I rolled my eyes again and sat before I could fall.

  As brothers do, he noticed. "You want to get your car?"

  "Sure." I didn't mean it.

  He shrugged and went out to the Accord. He came back. He had his gun case. My eyes flew to his. The worry lines were there, across his forehead. He had been so non
chalant…I was tired.

  “You remember how to load it?" Without waiting for an answer, he loaded it, unloaded it, checked the safety and showed me each move. "I won't come to the back door without making sure you know it's me." His eyes locked with mine, dark blue-gray to my greenish-gray, serious and needing some reassurance.

  "Yeah."

  He paused for a beat, and then put the gun back. "Why didn't…I heard you had one of the guns."

  I shrugged.

  Sean sat back against my black pillow cushions. "You know how."

  "I could have, but there wasn't time." Not to shoot, but to decide. I hadn't had time to make certain I could live with it. And the tattooed guy could have killed me several times over, but he hadn't.

  Sean handed me the case. "Brenda and I will bring your car by tomorrow."

  I should have known when he didn't bring his wife along that he was going to give me the gun. "Okay." I held the gun case like a lifeline. It gave me something to look at besides him. He patted my shoulder awkwardly. He squeezed, and I hoped he wouldn't hug me. If he did, I'd burst into tears, and then he'd really be worried.

  When he left, I wandered into my bedroom, still carrying the gun. The bed wasn't made, but I rarely did more than pull up the covers. Sean must have actually checked under it because the side I didn't sleep on had one corner of the ivory cotton bedspread stuck up on top.

  The gun was a heavy presence, the best protection a brother could buy. I sat on the edge of the bed and rolled over to put the gun underneath. I was only going to rest there a few minutes and then change for the night, but contrary to my expectations, it didn't take me long to fall asleep. Firefighters could have run drills in my living room, and I wouldn't have woken.

  * * *

  Morning arrived a little later than usual. There wasn't much point in doing more than call and reassure my parents. The weekend was another day away, but I didn't plan on going in on Friday anyway. Suzy Daniels, my best buddy, stopped by to get the scoop, and although she invited me over for dinner, I had to decline. "It's not that I don't want to go, but your five-year old might find my appearance rather frightening."