Free Take It Farther by Laran Mithras

CHAPTER 1
    Bob Patterson died. In fact, he died horribly. He had been
doing nothing unusual. Black Friday afforded him the opportunity to grab some
Christmas gifts early.
    He had waited patiently at the curb and crossed when the
"Walk" sign came on.
    A woman in her SUV, too busy texting, claimed she never even
saw him. She had been doing forty-eight in a twenty-five zone. Her SUV was
totaled. So was her life, after that.
    But poor Bob's body parts and Christmas presents were
scattered over a one hundred and sixty-one foot area. The coroner even scraped
a wet piece of his flesh off the plate glass window of Napa Auto Parts.
    Bob Patterson had been an executive at a company that cannot
be named.
    I'm Richard Franklin and I was promoted in his spot. I know
I might have waited another few years if not for the tragedy. Though I would
now be invited to the executive parties thrown by the head of the division,
Jacqueline Preston, I knew the Christmas event would not be a time of
rejoicing.
    I cannot name the company because we're big. Really big.
Very well-known big. So big our former employees tell the President of the
United States which positions they will accept in the administration. We run
things. We run almost everything the average Joe takes for granted.
    Having done a lot of the footwork on bundling derivatives, I
was now an executive who handled shutting down banks. Money is business and our
business was power. We took small banks, drove their stock under, then stepped
in and bailed out the depositors by buying the bank's assets.
    What the public didn't know, or if they had heard they had
dismissed without care, was that we bought those assets for five to ten cents
on the dollar.
    That's right. A million dollar cash deposit we picked up for
usually less than a hundred thousand dollars. The bad loans? That's what I used
to do. We bundled the bad loans and resold them to the public as investments.
    It is so incredibly easy to rip-off the public that we even
arranged our own bailout, and the executives went on vacations that made
Obama's outings seem like ghetto parties.
    Now I arranged the destruction of banks. My former duties of
bundling bad loans got handed to another bright ladder-climber who was probably
eager for me to die.
    But I was still young.
    My desk-phone chimed. "Mister Franklin?"
    I pressed the com-button. It was the voice of Jacqueline
Preston's personal assistant. "Yes?"
    "Mrs. Preston will see you now."
    "On my way."
    She was one floor up. I buttoned my jacket and swiped my
card for the executive elevator. Entering, I waited calmly while the doors
closed and it rose smoothly to the next floor.
    I was not nervous. I had been next in line and everyone knew
it. I knew Jacqueline and other than being a demanding division lead, she
wasn't anyone for me to fear. I did my job and did it very well.
    My phone chimed. Text message from my wife, Jolene.
"Love you." She often did that during the day.
    I put the phone back without answering. Wasn't a good time
as the doors opened and I was about to talk with the head of the division. I
would text her after.
    We loved each other, dearly.
    Carla, the bespectacled secretary with the severe bun, rose
from her spacious desk. She led me past the empty conference rooms reserved for
important takeovers and to Jacqueline's suite.
    The smooth heavy oak door was pushed open and I was
admitted.
    Jacqueline was standing at the window, a folder in hand,
looking down at the street eight stories below. Her smart gray business suit
went well with the auburn hair shot with gray. She was not a vain or phony
woman to dye her hair. She indicated a chair facing a monumental desk.
"Sit, Richard."
    "Thank you."
    "I didn't have to worry about giving you the promotion
speech when you moved into Bob's position. We're fortunate you worked with him
so closely."
    I looked down. It was the proper thing to do.
    "You're invited to the Christmas party, of course. I'll
have Carla put you on the invitation