Free Hostile Takeover by Shane Kuhn

each one dutifully—like a parent.
    Of course, strict adherence to the program creates a (false) sense of security that people will fight to protect with much greater zeal than they ever would the preservation of love. What’s the number-one reason people divorce? Money. If Fred Flintstone stopped bringing home the brontosaurus bacon, Wilma would have started banging Mr. Slate. The point is, Dr. Love had the partnership aspect of relationships dialed in. If someone worships money and possessions, fortune cookie says they will end up with the same species and both will protect the arrangement they have with their glorified roommate at all costs—at least for a time north of five years. Like I said, sinister.
    The anonymous client who greenlit Dr. Love tried to appear mysterious, but it’s easy to smell the ham on the hand of the seasoned bureaucrat, and dollars to doughnuts said it was the NSA itself that wanted him sucking dirt. They’ve had their share of raging tabloid embarrassments and it was a good guess that they probably didn’t want anyone to know about the technology they were using to turn the U.S. into the USSR, so a quiet snuff job was the order of the day to keep the tower ivory.
    Dr. Love’s well-documented reclusive, bordering on hermitical, lifestyle was a good indicator they had already tried to take him out—most likely on a number of occasions—and failed. He was rarely seen in public, and when he was, the grainy photos taken yielded such generic images that if you didn’t know who you were looking at, you could easily believe they were all of different people. He lived like Pablo Escobar, very difficult to pin down and almost completely inaccessible without breaching many layers of security. An execution scenario at the office was doable, but definitely the path of most resistance. And our deep-pocketed client was paying us handsomely for our ability to behighly discreet, so we wanted to impress them with our finesse and sophistication in order to keep the wheels greased on Uncle Sam’s gravy train.
    After spinning our own wheels trying to find an opening, an opportunity finally presented itself on a silver platter—Dr. Love’s annual sales and marketing meeting in Las Vegas. A corporate meeting! At a massive Social Networking Con no less! We couldn’t believe our luck. He would be out of his office cocoon and vulnerable to any number of potential attacks. This was going to be fun. Unfortunately, getting into the event as interns or employees was a long shot due to the fact that Dr. Love had a relatively small and loyal workforce—roughly four hundred people who had been there from the start-up days—and someone with his stratospheric level of paranoia would sniff out an unfamiliar face in a heartbeat.
    As we worked every possible access scenario, we kept hitting the walls we knew Dr. Love would have in place if he was a spook worth his salt. I was about to commence a time-honored ritual of beating my head against the wall, when Alice, in her sweet attempt to calm my nerves with warm affection and a cold drink, was inspired with a brilliant idea.
    â€œWe’re a match made in heaven,” she said, smiling and casually lighting a cigarette.
    â€œThat’s a little corny, but I couldn’t agree more, darling,” I said, taking a drag.
    â€œNo, dummy, we can get into the Dr. Love Con if we’re one of his Match Made in Heaven couples.”
    â€œLike those slack-jawed breeders he had on Oprah ?”
    â€œExactly. Every year, he invites ten guinea pig couples to the meeting who have passed the five-year mark and that he feels are great success stories. Then he parades them around like 4-H livestock, wines and dines them, and brings them up onstage for his keynote address. We’d be joined at the hip with Dr. Love!”
    â€œJust when I didn’t think it was possible for me to love you any more, Alice, you drop