Melissa Good - Tropical Storm

Dar sighed. “Honestly, I wish I could, but I’m right in the middle of a mess down there. I can’t afford the time.” She gave him an honestly regretful look. “I’ll take a near-future rain check, though.”

“Hmm.” He glanced at her shrewdly, tactician’s mind working. “Hey, why don’t you come up for Christmas?” He cocked his grizzled head at her.

“Have a real holiday…tree, maybe some snow, the works, huh?”

Tropical Storm 45

The tall woman was caught off-guard. “Maybe I will,” she murmured softly. “Thanks for the invitation, Gerry.”

His gray eyebrows waggled, and a smile of mild military triumph crossed his face. “Anytime, rugrat. Now g’wan and get outta here, before your pinch-butted Norwegian out there throws a shoe.”

“He’s Dutch,” Dar corrected wryly.

“Dutch, Norwegian…I’m a soldier. What in blazes do I know about all those neutral countries?” he countered, with a grin. “I can tell a German from a Frenchman and an Italian from a Jap.”

Dar, who could distinguish between Miami’s several dozen ethnic Latin groups without difficulty, just smiled back. “Nice seeing you, Gerry. Give my best to Mary and Jack, all right?”

“I sure will,” the general promised. “Have a good flight, and take care of yourself, hear?”

“I will.” Dar picked up her folder and glided out the door, straightening her shoulders as she spotted Weyhousen approaching from the window where he’d been pacing. Without a word, she handed him the folder, which he almost dropped.

“What is…” His eyes scanned the contents, and his jaw tightened. “That son of a bitch.”

Dar exhaled. “Post them. I’m taking off.”

The man looked at her bitterly. “What did it take to get this? You do him on top of his desk?” he asked sarcastically. “Easy for you—just go in and show him a little ass, is that it?”

For a frozen moment, Dar struggled with the urge to strike him. It showed in her pale eyes, she knew, because Weyhousen backed off a step, and she concentrated on her breathing, holding down the fury which threatened to overwhelm her. Finally, she took a breath. “You know, Peter, for someone who has to take twice-weekly impotence drugs, you sure are hung up on sex.”

Dar had concluded long ago that medical files and ex-hackers were useful things. “Maybe you should get some pointers from the old boy?” Without waiting for an answer from him, she turned and simply left.

“DAR, WHEN ARE you leaving?” Maria stood in the doorway, her bag slung over her shoulder. It was Friday night, at the end of one of the worst weeks the secretary could remember. She watched her boss with concern. The dark-haired woman was seated behind the large wooden desk with the fading sun behind her. “Dar?”

“Hmm?” The executive glanced up from her monitor, giving the woman a wry look. “I’ve got to finish up this damn financial report, Maria. It’ll be a few more hours yet.” Her desk was scattered with fanfold reports, most of them custom, most of them with her login displayed prominently on their top sheets, indicating she’d run them herself. “It’s called burying the bodies, Maria. I’ve got to hide two rank disasters, and still make the numbers come out right. I think I’ve got one covered, but if Travel and Transportation doesn’t come up with their numbers in about an hour, I’m going to have to drive down there and beat them out of them with a baseball bat.”

She sat back and reviewed the spreadsheets for the dozenth time. It was like building a puzzle that had too many pieces. You had to pick which one you used, and the pickings were getting ugly tonight.

Of course. Dar glanced at the folder containing the Associated files. It would be easier just to claim the entire account as new business in the applicable areas, and de-structure the cost side by disbanding the company.

Easier, and it would make the numbers work on top of it, allowing her to go home after almost thirty-six straight hours of working on the project.

She wouldn’t need to hide anything else, and T and T’s numbers wouldn’t matter.

In fact, twice she’d done just that, her fingers hovering over the Submit keys, and then she’d backed off, for reasons she really didn’t quite have a handle on. Maybe it was the persistent optimism of Kerry’s notes, as the young manager worked and reworked her numbers, getting closer and closer to the goal Dar had set. A goal which was probably irrelevant by now, unless a miracle happened.

She knew she should just call the damn woman, and tell her to give it up…go home, and just reconcile herself to the unpleasant reality of the situation, but every time she punched the Dial button, her eyes fell on the latest of Kerry’s plans, and she stopped, and went back to searching her spreadsheets yet again.

The phone buzzed, and she slapped it. “Yeah?”

Duks voice came through the line. “T and T’s numbers just processed.”

Tropical Storm 47

He shuffled some papers. “They suck.”

Dar closed her eyes as she hit the Refresh on her page, and did not open them until she heard her hard drive stop churning. The bottom line blinked at her, and she felt an overwhelming weariness settle on her shoulders. “We need to fire someone over there,” she commented tiredly.

“Mmm,” Duks agreed, his voice sounding equally tired. “Too late for this quarter, though. I’ll make you a list of my favorite candidates for the Burger King line.” The VP Finance, one of Dar’s closest allies, was a pragmatist if anyone was.

“Thanks, Dukky,” the tall woman replied. “All right. Is Mariana still there?” Mariana Sartis was the VP Personnel, who worked hand in fist with Dukky, and, some said, was sleeping with him. Dar didn’t care and thought they made a cute couple, but company rules were company rules.

“She’s right here.”

“I’m going to have to cut all of Associated loose, Mari,” Dar said quietly.

“You might as well start setting up the packets. Queue the work lists to me.”

“All right, Dar,” the lightly accented voice answered. “They never really transitioned, so it’s just a matter of W4 notification.”

“I know, bastards won’t even get two weeks.” Dar exhaled. “Let me go finalize this. You’ll get an update in a little while.”

She hung up the phone and stared at the screen, pulling her alternate plan to the foreground and processing it. The bottom line flickered, then resolved, and she gave it a little nod. “Sorry, kid.” She took a deep breath, and picked up the phone, dialing a number and waiting. Anyone who thinks it’s all glamour never had to do this, she mused, then straightened as the phone was answered, and she heard Kerry’s soft voice.

“Associated Synergenics, Kerry Stuart.”

“Ms. Stuart.” Dar paused to gathered her thoughts.

“Oh, hello.” Kerry cleared her throat. “Listen, I know you’re getting close to your deadline, but I think I’ve got it. It took forever but I finally found some slack in the facilities budget.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Stuart. It’s just not going to fit in with our plans,” Dar said quietly. “It was a good try, and you were on the right track, but it’s not going to be possible.”

Dead silence stretched out for a moment. “You son of a bitch.” Kerry’s voice was strangled, with either rage or tears, Dar couldn’t tell. “I hope you go straight to hell, because that’s exactly where you belong.” The phone slammed down, and the line went dead.

Dar quietly replaced her receiver and let her hands fall to her thighs. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d been told that, and probably wouldn’t be the last, but after thirty-six hours with no sleep, her emotional defenses were in tatters, and it hurt. It got past her carefully cultivated and hardened attitude, and she let her head rest against the high-backed chair with her eyes closed tight as the silence of the mostly empty building settled over her.

Finally, she got up and opened her top drawer, taking her keys out and throwing her jacket over her shoulders. She had till midnight to close the books. Right now, all she wanted to do was find some empty space, and salt air.

48 Melissa Good KERRY SLAMMED HER chair back and stood, pacing over to the wall and staring at it. She let her anger build until it was at the breaking point, then she let it loose, slamming her fist against the drywall surface with a crunch.

The painful shock raced up her arm, and she pulled her hand back to see a baseball-sized dent in the wall that did little to release her fury.

“Lowdown piece of godforsaken—I can’t believe she did that,” she fumed, letting her head come to rest against the abused wall. “A whole week of killing myself, for nothing. For nothing!” She knew she didn’t have to worry about anyone hearing her, as she was alone in the building. She’d sent the rest of the staff home early, hinting that she might have good news for them on Monday.

It had been going so well. Her last two drafts had gotten cautious praise from Dar, and she’d allowed herself to hope that she’d actually be able to pull this off. Everyone had left in a good mood, and she’d heard several groups planning get-togethers out in the Grove or at Bayside, which was one of her own favorite spots.

She sat down on the edge of her desk and felt like crying. Then she decided she was just too tired and too mad to do even that. “Might as well get out of here.” She picked up her things and left her desk the way it was, covered with draft proposals and stacks of reports, not even looking back as she shut the door.

For a while, she just drove around aimlessly, taking I 95 down past the city center to see the lights come on as dusk dropped over the city. The sun setting in the west sent a wash of tropical orange light across the tall buildings, reflecting off the glass-mirrored surface. The sky was layered with clouds, and each layer took on a different pastel shade—from burnished orange, to pink, to lavender—as they spread across the horizon.