Flanagan checked his tie one last time in his office bathroom. It looked as straight as

  it ever was going to be. He wished he didn’t have to make this play in front of his

  peers. Most of them would not be happy he was not dead.

  He stepped out into his office. Miss Rich, Westwood, Coutri, and Detective Dern

  were waiting on him.

  “The meeting is getting ready to start in the boardroom,” said Miss Rich. “Rydell and

  Courtland just arrived according to Larry.”

  Flanagan nodded. Larry was the front desk man. He knew most of the employees on

  sight, if not by name. If he had seen Rydell coming into the lobby, then Rydell was

  coming to the meeting.

  That meant everything was on. This might be their last chance to get him out of the

  company and strip his shares from him.

  “So he’ll be whipping them into a froth to sell in ten minutes,” said Flanagan.

  “Everybody thinks I’m dead, right?”

  “Yes,” said Dern. “No one knows about the attack on your townhouse except for the

  wise guys involved. We locked the papers out of it for the moment. All we have to

  do is get him to admit that he thought you were dead for whatever reason.”

  “All right,” said Flanagan. “I doubt that will happen. Let’s see what we can do when

  he calls the meeting to order.”

  They waited in Flanagan’s office until the temporary secretary from the pool came in

  and said Mr. Rydell had gone by. Flanagan nodded, picked up the paperwork he had

  stolen from Courtland and stepped out into the hall. He led his entourage down to the

  board room and waited at the door to listen.

  Rydell was in the middle of his spiel for selling the company now that Flanagan was

  dead. Courtland stood by his side. Bruises decorated the proxy agent’s face from the

  punches he had been given. Some of that might have been from the car ride in the

  trunk.

  Flanagan smiled.

  “He just admitted knowing I was dead,” said Flanagan.

  “I heard,” said Dern. “Let’s go in and see what else he can tell us before I arrest him.”

  Flanagan pushed the door open and stepped inside the room. Dern and Westwood

  remained by the door, while Coutri followed Flanagan to the table. Miss Rich took

  her spot by the door to record the meeting for later. A small writing desk had been set

  up for that for her.

  “How’s it going, fellas,” said Flanagan. “Looks like I didn’t get an invite.”

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” said Rydell.

  “Really,” said Flanagan. “What do you mean?”

  “I heard there was a gun battle at your townhouse,” said Rydell.

  “From who?,” asked Flanagan. “I did have some problems, but I don’t remember a

  gun battle. Are you sure I was home?”

  Rydell froze. He looked around the room. All eyes were on him.

  “Let’s talk about this paperwork my associate took from Mr. Courtland last night,”

  said Flanagan. There was no point in telling the board about his armor. He wanted to

  keep it secret, and he doubted he would be able to do that if he told everyone present

  about it. Hopefully using it to rescue Miss Rich would keep her quiet about it. “It

  looks like you want us to sell our stakes in the company and make you the sole owner

  under a new company name. No one here would be at the helm of the new company,

  but it would have all of our assets. How was that supposed to work?”

  “What are you saying, Frank?,” asked one of the board members, T.S. Wannamacher.

  He owned a small stake in the company, but he owned small stakes in a lot of

  companies. That made him the wealthiest man on the board as far as Flanagan could

  figure.

  “Once you signed over your stakes, you’re out,” said Flanagan. “The company has

  some government contracts coming in, and is about to double our profitability, maybe

  triple it. Once Rydell controlled it all, he would rake in the dough, and the rest of you

  would be out on the street with less than five percent of what we’re looking at making

  in the next few years.”

  “Let me see this paperwork,” said Wannamacher. He held out his hand. Flanagan

  walked around the table and handed the contract over. The elderly financier flipped

  through the pages, going over the boilerplate with a finger. “It looks like Frank is

  right. There’s no option for us in the new company.”

  “Rydell promised a stake in the new company,” said one of the other board members.

  “It’s not here,” said Wannamacher. “If we had gone ahead with this, we would have

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  lost everything we had invested in the company, and got nothing to replace it. I think

  we should consider removing Rydell from the board.”

  “You can’t remove me,” said Rydell. “I own more of this company than anyone here.”

  “We can vote to remove you from the board, and take back your stock so you own

  nothing,” said Wannamacher. “As it is, it looks like you committed some crimes that

  the government might need to talk to you about with this deal.”

  “We’re going to want to talk to him before that,” said Dern. “I’m really interested in

  why you thought Mr. Flanagan would be dead and unable to attend this meeting.”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” said Rydell. He glared at Dern.

  “I think that you do,” said Dern. He moved his lapel on his coat to show his badge.

  “The city of New York is going to want to know why you tried to blow up someone

  in New Jersey, and then tried to have them killed in their own home. And then the

  New Jersey State Police are going to want to know what you know about such

  bombing and a shooting in their territory. And then the FBI is going to want to know

  why you are crossing state lines. So you’re going to have to come downtown so we

  can talk about all of this.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Rydell. He reached under his jacket. He had forgotten that

  Flanagan was on the other side of him. A grab to keep him from pulling a weapon

  turned into a struggle that pushed against the table the board used.

  Dern and Westwood stepped in. They grappled with Rydell, disarming him with a

  little effort. The detective pulled out cuffs and secured them around the wrists of the

  attempted murderer.

  “You still haven’t won,” said Rydell. “I’ll have the last laugh and ruin all of you at

  the same time.”

  “Do you have anything to say, Mr. Courtland?,” said Dern. He pushed his captive in

  a chair.

  “Not really,” said the agent. He looked at his feet.

  “Sit down, Mr. Courtland,” said Dern. “I’ll see if the District Attorney will cut a deal

  with you over this.”

  Flanagan rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t thought Rydell would try to pull a

  gun and shoot at them.

  He should have.

  The man had fallen silent. He kept looking at the clock. Why? What was he waiting

  on?

  “Can you take care of him?,” Flanagan asked. “I have to go somewhere for a little bit.

  I’ll come down and press charges on him when I get done with this other job.”

  “No problem,” said Dern. “As soon as some uniforms get here, I’ll take my catch

  down to the 27th Precinct for booking.”

  “I’ll meet you there to swear out a statement,” said Flanagan. “Could you drive me,

  Miss Rich?”

  “Yes,” said the secretary. She handed her notebook to Westwood to keep as she stood

  up.

  “I have to go somewhere,” said Flanagan. “Thanks for listening to things. I’ll call

  another meeting when we’ve settled with the government. I’ll have accounting

  estimate earnings on those contracts then.”

  He fled from the conference room and headed for his office. His armor was in his

  closet. He felt that he might need it before too much longer. He grabbed the bag, as

  Miss Rich paused in the door.

  “We have to head out to the factory,” said Flanagan. He threw the bag on his

  shoulder. “I’m going to have to change on the way. You drive.”

  “Does this have something to do with what Rydell said?,” asked Miss Rich. She

  headed for the elevator. She held it open for him to board.

  “I don’t want to take any chances now that we have him in the bag for knowing about

  my attempted murder, and thinking I was gone,” said Flanagan. “I think he had

  something else in mind if he didn’t get the sell signatures.”

  “I understand,” said Miss Rich. She pushed the button to go down to the basement so

  they could grab his car and drive out to Jersey.

  Flanagan handed her the keys as they went to his car. He climbed into the backseat

  with his bag as she got behind the wheel. She drove out of the parking garage as he

  started changing into his armor.

  Miss Rich got on the highway and headed south as fast as she could while trying to

  avoid the attention of any patrolman on the road. The last thing she wanted was to

  explain why her boss had dressed in a purple suit of armor.

  “Why purple?,” she asked.

  “What?,” said Flanagan. He pulled on his gloves after getting his visor and hood right

  on his head.

  “Why did you paint it purple?,” asked Miss Rich. She gestured with a hand at the

  ensemble.

  “I didn’t paint it at all,” said Flanagan. “It came out this way because of the chemicals

  in the compound. I don’t care what it looks like as long as it works.”

  “Are you going to wear it around after this?,” asked Miss Rich.

  “I doubt it,” said Flanagan. “I plan to sell everything to the Army if I can work out a

  way to mass produce everything.”

  “I think you should keep it,” said Miss Rich. “You can help people with it.”

  “We’re going to war,” said Flanagan. “It’s only a matter of time. If I can build a way

  to create these faster than what I can now, we can protect our soldiers while they are

  in the field. The problem is I don’t really know how tough the stuff is, or if there is

  some kind of hidden weakness in the compound. I don’t want to send someone else

  out in it if I don’t know how it will take heavy duty fighting. The stuff might stop

  three bullets and then let the fourth one go through because the material broke.”

  “Then why are you wearing it?,” asked Miss Rich.

  “I haven’t been shot three times,” said Flanagan. “Pull up to the gate and have Pop

  call the manager on duty. Tell him to send people out of the building. I’ll go in and

  look around. Hopefully, we won’t have anything to worry about when I get done.”

  “What if there’s trouble?,” asked Miss Rich.

  “I’m wearing bulletproof armor and carrying a bulletproof shield,” said Flanagan. “I

  should be able to handle things as long as there isn’t anything heavy duty involved

  like a tank.”

  “Pop might connect you to the armor,” said Miss Rich.

  “That’ll be okay as long as he keeps quiet,” said Flanagan. “As soon as he opens his

  mouth, he’s canned.”

  “That’s not what I want to hear,” said Miss Rich.

  “That’s all I can promise right now,” said Flanagan.

  Miss Rich pulled up to the box and parked out of the way of the entrance lane. She

  got out and went to talk to the guard. Flanagan pulled himself out of the backseat and

  headed for the factory. He didn’t want a panic, but he couldn’t let anyone get hurt in

  case he missed whatever was supposed to happen.

  Westwood’s people never found Ian Shanks. He could be inside getting ready to do

  whatever Rydell wanted to shut down the factory.

  Using explosives would make sure some of the crew would get killed, and blacken

  things for the rest. His company couldn’t run without its people. He wasn’t going to

  let Rydell win. He wasn’t going to let his people get killed if he could help it.

  It would be a pleasure to deal with Shanks for good.

  Then he could worry about what the future looked like.