The Midas Code

The elevator dinged, opening into the underground parking structure. Captain Wilson held the door open, but Sherman didn’t move.

“All right, who are you?” he said. The hotel staff member fussed with his coat as he watched them.

“What do you mean, sir?” the captain said innocently. “You need to come with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with an idiot who doesn’t know that he’s about forty years too young to be wearing that.” He pointed to the yellow, red, and green ribbon on the alleged captain’s chest. The man looked down in confusion.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, sir.”

“That’s the ribbon for a Vietnam service medal, genius,” Sherman said. “Did you borrow Daddy’s uni?”

Wilson grinned. “Well, you got me, General. And now I’ve got you.”

Only then did Sherman realize his mistake. He had assumed he was safe with the hotel worker as a witness. But Wilson nodded at the man, who lunged at Sherman. Before he could parry the man’s arm, metal prongs jabbed into his side. Sherman dropped to the floor in agony as fifty thousand volts surged through his chest.

NINE

G rant Westfield tried not to make eye contact as he hustled onto the Bremerton ferry terminal gangway. Disembarking foot passengers were pushing past him before the vehicle ramp was lowered. Even though Tyler’s car was at the stern of the ferry and would offload last, he had only a few minutes to get there before the crew would be looking for the driver.

Tyler had called Grant from the ferry and told him that he had an emergency. He needed Grant to drive his Viper off the ferry, then look for a truck that said SILVERLAKE TRANSPORT on the side. Tyler wouldn’t elaborate on the reason for the strange request, but he had made it clear that his life depended on Grant’s help. Grant agreed without hesitation, walking the short distance from the naval base to the ferry landing. He couldn’t wait to hear the explanation.

Grant passed a crewman watching passengers go ashore. He thought the man hadn’t noticed him, but he got only ten feet before he heard a yell behind him.

“Hey! Hey! We’re not boarding yet.”

Well, that didn’t work, Grant thought as he stopped. Not that he was surprised. No matter how small he tried to make himself, he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Difficult to ignore a six-foot-tall, 260-pound bald black guy.

Normally he liked the attention, but sometimes, like now, it didn’t pay off. Time for some charm. And lying.

Grant turned and saw a skinny white guy in his thirties with long brown hair and a couple of tattoos peeking out over the collar of his shirt, tagged with the name Jervis. Grant gave Jervis a huge smile.

“Oh, I’m not going to Seattle,” he said. “I just came from there. I left my bag on the seat.”

“I didn’t see you get off.”

“That’s funny. I’m usually hard to miss.”

Jervis raised his eyebrows as if he agreed. “What color is your bag? I’ll have somebody bring it to you.”

Great. The helpful type.

“Don’t bother,” Grant said. “I know where it is. It’ll just take me a minute.”

“All right.” Grant breathed a sigh of relief. “But I better see your ticket.” So much for the sigh of relief.

Grant patted his pockets as if he were trying to find it. “I must have left it in my bag.”

Jervis scrunched his face, deciding what to do. “It’s against the rules to let anyone on without a ticket. They’re pretty strict these days.”

Time was running short before they’d start asking questions about why Tyler’s car was still on the ferry, so Grant resorted to a tactic he loathed: pulling out the celebrity card to get something he wanted.

“Actually, the bag has some important mementos in it from my days as a pro wrestler. Don’t know if you’re a fan, but I used to be called the Burn.”

Jervis studied Grant’s face. Then his eyes widened in recognition. Grant had seen the transformation many times before. People’s entire demeanor changed once they realized they were in the presence of a celebrity. Grant understood. He still talked about the time he ran into Britney Spears at a Starbucks even though he’d rather be set on fire than listen to her music.

“Right, man!” Jervis said. “I remember you. Grant Westley.”

“Right.” Grant didn’t want to embarrass him by correcting the error. When Jervis recounted the meeting to his friends later, they’d tell him it was Westfield and give him crap for it. It was enough that the crewman had heard of him.

“You left it all behind to join the Army. Rangers or special forces. There was a great article about you in Sports Illustrated a few years back.”

Grant didn’t get stopped by fans nearly as much as he used to, but he probably would if he still had the dreadlocks he wore at the height of his fame. He’d left professional wrestling to join the military after 9/11, but a knee injury he got in combat meant that trying to resurrect his pro career after he got out wouldn’t work. He sometimes missed the cheering crowds, and his notoriety occasionally came in handy.

“I swear I’ll only be a minute,” Grant said.

Jervis looked around and waved him in. “You’re fine. Go ahead.”