Sonny bubbled over with anger, but nodded in agreement. He'd been outplayed before he even knew the game was on. Connell had come loaded for bear. He knew of the Jorgensson mine and he knew of Sonny's prison term. The concept of prison brought the situation home; he'd rather be screwed than risk another stint in jail, away from open skies and sprawling landscapes. Like Mama always said, a smart man knows when he's licked.
"What I want to do is negotiate a fair price,” Connell said. “Fifteen million dollars is ridiculous. I'll admit, so is one million, so why don't we meet somewhere in the middle? I just happen to have the upper hand this time. You're still going to make a great deal of money and you'll still have your vacation in Rio, so let's just relax and talk business."
Sonny sat down and resigned himself to getting the best deal he could.
"I'll give you one million dollars up front, cash,” Connell said. “And I'll give you two percent of the net profit for the life of the mine."
Sonny's jaw dropped. He'd never before had a permanent piece of the action. If this mine was all it seemed to be, two percent could eventually make $15 million look like monopoly money. Connell held all the cards and they both knew it — he didn't have to offer a piece of the pie. With that bit of graciousness, most of Sonny's anger quickly faded away.
"Listen, Kirkland,” Sonny said leaning forward across the table. “If you think that I'm gonna sit and wait for the checks to come in, you're crazy."
"What are you saying, Mr. McGuiness?"
"I want to be there. I don't trust you a lick, which I'm sure don't surprise you none. If you want the location, then I'm there every step of the way and I see every financial that crosses your desk. I want full access to the books for this entire project, so I know what the real net profit is."
"That's not going to happen."
"Then I guess I'm going to jail,” Sonny said, and leaned back in his chair.
Connell simply stared, that same impenetrable, blank expression covering his face, hiding his thoughts. Sonny'd seen a lot of cold men in his day, but he couldn't remember anyone as unreadable as Kirkland. Sonny had no doubt, however, that Kirkland could read him like a book. Sonny was beat, but he wasn't going to lie down. He was still the only one who knew the location, and with that knowledge he had power. Jail or no jail, he wasn't going to let Connell win every hand in this game.
"I can't say I blame you,” Connell said plainly.
"I'm there. I need to be involved."
"It's against company policy, Mr. McGuiness, but in your case I guess we have to make an exception.” Connell said. “Come to think of it, I understand you're somewhat of an expert on the area."
"Know it better than you know the folds on your cock, mister."
"Could you research the site for us? We need to know everything that's gone on in that area, know if anyone has dug there no matter how far back. Any information we get on the area makes our job easier. And more profitable."
"I can tell you everything that happened there since the last ice age,” Sonny said, a sneer on his face. “All I need is a little time."
"That you've got, Mr. McGuiness,” Connell said with a winning smile. “That you've got."
To seal the deal they spent the rest of the evening getting incredibly drunk and incredibly obnoxious. When they were finally thrown out at 1:00 a.m. Sonny looked forward to participating in the mine's success — the fact he'd been blackmailed all but forgiven.
Drunk off his ass, however, he forgot one important fact. With the deal, he'd placed himself in a situation he'd sought to avoid. He had to return to that mountain, the dead mountain where animals had the good sense not to tread.
Chapter Six
Connell turned sideways in his sleep, his long legs hanging off the side of the Motel 6 bed. A smile graced his lips. A smile for his wife. If anyone who knew him could have seen him at that moment, they'd probably have been shocked to see that expression on Connell Kirkland's face.
The smile suddenly vanished, replaced by face-scrunched fear. He kicked at the sheets, thrashing about in the bed, his head shaking back and forth in a violent “no-no-no."
He awoke screaming, hands flailing and knocking the bedside lamp across the room. The cheap porcelain body shattered against the pumping air conditioner. He sat up, stomach heaving as he gasped for breath, and wearily rested his head in his hands.
The glowing red numbers of the alarm clock read 3:02 a.m. — 6:02 a.m. Detroit time. Since he was already awake, he might as well get cracking. He didn't want to bother with a shower, but the stink of fear clung to his sweaty body. He rinsed quickly, toweled off, and tossed on his suit, which had been carelessly flung on the floor, tie still knotted loosely around the empty shirt collar. By the time he left the hotel he had pushed the dream from his mind.
Sonny's first duty as consultant was to apply his expertise and research the site's history. He rose at 8 a.m. with a wake-up call from the front desk and sonofabitch of a hangover. He hoped Kirkland felt worse. Ten minutes later a full breakfast came courtesy of room service. Sonny hadn't ordered the food, but he ate it anyway. He checked out a half-hour later only to find his hotel bill paid courtesy of EarthCore. Keys to a brand-new rental Cadillac DeVille waited for him at the desk. Like the hotel bill, the car was paid in full. Along with the keys came a package and a short note from Connell Kirkland: Get cracking — we have to act fast. I'll call you tomorrow at 5 p.m. for your first report.
Sonny opened the package: a cell phone. Sonny pocketed the phone and walked to the Caddy, whistling all the way, only to find a dangerous-looking Asian man (Sonny couldn't be sure whether he was Japanese or Korean, maybe…) leaning on the hood. Glossy black hair fell just short of his smiling black eyes. Sonny immediately took in the man's perfectly tailored pants and his Gucci shoes — a sharp dresser with expensive tastes.
"Good morning, Mr. McGuiness.” The man flashed a smile that could charm a snake out of its skin. “I'm Cho Takachi. Mr. Kirkland sent me."
"And what are you supposed to do, drive the car?"
"If you like,” Cho said. “I'm here to assist you in any way I can."
"Kirkland is a sonofabitch and I don't need any assistance.” Sonny walked around to the driver side. Cho let himself in the passenger door — with his own key.
"If you don't need my assistance, then I get paid to stand around and do nothing,” Cho said, his joviality undaunted. “Easy money. That's fine with me. I'm also here to make sure you don't back out on your deal with EarthCore."
Sonny started the car. He'd never thought Connell would hire a baby-sitter. Sonny sighed and resigned himself to the situation. Wasn't much he could do about it anyway, and judging from that chrome-plated, pearl-handled .45 peeking out from under Cho's jacket, Sonny didn't want to push the situation.
"Fine,” Sonny said. “Just one thing; stay the hell out of my way. I don't trust fuckhead company goons like you."
"No problem,” Cho said with a charming grin. “I don't trust dirty, wrinkled-up, little-old-asshole prospectors, so I empathize with your situation."
Sonny blinked a few times in surprise, then put the car in gear and smiled a little himself.
He liked this Cho Takachi already.
The drive to Provo went amiably enough. Sonny discovered that Cho had served in the Marines for four years. After hearing a few details of Cho's service tour in Iraq, Sonny decided he'd much rather have Cho for a friend than an enemy.