ONE
Todd Maddox stepped out of the Eurocopter EC 155 and ducked instinctively as the rotor blades continued chopping the air above him. The flight from LAX in Los Angeles to Captain Rolden International Airport in Peru had been uneventful, and the copter ride from the airport to this unknown destination blessedly smooth. But discomfort struck him hard as he exited the copter's air-conditioned interior and entered the humid jungle air of eastern Peru's Amazon rain forest.
His sunflower yellow shirt became like sticky, wet papier-mache, gluing itself to his body. His styled hair, held in place by a thick film of pricey Elnett hairspray, dissolved into a heavy goo that oozed over his forehead. Out of his dry, Los Angeles element, Maddox grunted and cursed under his breath as he held tight to his briefcase and jogged toward the glass double doors that seemed so out of place in the thick green jungle.
Doubt filled his mind as he neared the doors. Was this worth it? Could he stand all this heat and humidity? The pay would no doubt be amazing and the company, Manifold, was renowned in the world of genetics. But the job description, well, there hadn't been one. Simply a five-year contract and ten thousand dollars for an interview, take it or leave it. He hoped to learn more during this one and only interview, but if the work they wanted him for was anything less than groundbreaking, he'd be on the next flight back to sunny, dry Los Angeles. His job there with CreGen paid well and made headlines occasionally, but the chance to work for Manifold was too good to not, at least, consider. Of course, when he agreed to an interview he had no idea it would take place in the Peruvian rain forest.
The double doors swung open and Maddox ran through like he was escaping a torrential downpour; given the amount of moisture clinging to his dress shirt, beige slacks, and now slick hair, it wasn't much of a stretch.
Inside the hallway, cool, dry air blasted from air-conditioning vents along the ceiling. Maddox's forehead stiffened as the hairspray dried again, several inches lower than when it had first been applied.
"Humidity does a job on each and every one of you metrosexuals the boss brings down here," said a deep voice.
He looked at the man who had opened the door. He hadn't been spoken to with such disrespect since high school. He glared at the man through his Oakley black-rimmed eyeglasses. The man was tall, and given the bulges beneath his form-fitting black shirt, not a scientist. He filled his voice with as much disgust as he could muster and said, "Excuse me?"
"I'm just screwing with you, man." The stranger slapped him on the shoulder — which hurt — and laughed. He extended his hand. "Oliver Reinhart. Head of Gen-Y security here at Manifold Gamma."
"You're in charge of this facility?" he asked, wondering if he'd have to put up with this goon long term if he took the job.
Reinhart rubbed a hand over the back of his buzz-cut skull, letting the short hairs tickle his hand. "I oversee security at all the facilities, Alpha through Epsilon. I go where the boss goes."
"Ridley?" "That's the guy."
Maddox blinked. Richard Ridley reached legendary status when he formed Manifold ten years previous using a three-billion-dollar inheritance. At first no one took his company seriously, but then he began acquiring the best minds in the field, some straight out of MIT, Harvard, and Berkeley. The company soon flourished, making rapid advancements in the fields of genetics and biopharmaceuticals. "Richard Ridley is here?"
"You're a quick one," he said with a smirk. "I can see why he hired you."
"He hasn't hired me."
Reinhart stepped past him and started down the stark white hallway. "He has. You just don't know it yet. C'mon, follow me."
Maddox looked at the burly man's face. A scar ran down his cheek, but other than that, the cleanly shaven face looked, more than anything, young. No more than thirty. Figuring the young Reinhart got his kicks by pretending to be head of security and jerking recruits around by dangling Ridley in front of them, he said, "You look a little young to be head of security. What are you, thirty?"
Reinhart answered the questions quickly. "Twenty-five. We're called Gen-Y for a reason. You won't find anyone over twenty-eight in my crew."
"Doesn't the lack of experience—"
Reinhart paused. He fixed his eyes on Maddox's. "Killers are born, not made."
As though on cue, two more security guards rounded the corner and walked past them, eyeing him and nodding their heads at Rein-hart, like friends in a club. Both looked barely old enough to shave, though their bulk and cold eyes confirmed Reinhart's statement. He'd entered a den of vipers.
Still, it seemed irresponsible to hire such young people for security. Then again, eighteen-year-olds were common on any battlefield. Given Reinhart's buzz cut and military posture, he'd probably seen some time in Iraq or Afghanistan before landing the job here. There weren't many military people his age who hadn't. He decided to drop the subject and fell in step behind Reinhart, following him through a maze of hallways.
Reinhart stopped next to a door and opened it. He motioned to the door and grinned. "After you."
Maddox sighed and walked through. The room on the other side stopped him in his tracks. The white marble floor reflected the numerous shades of blue and green from the jungle canopy and sky, which glowed bright above the fifty-foot-long, arched all-glass ceiling. Incan statues lined the ruby red walls and a long oriental rug ran down the center of the room. The rug led to an enormous reception desk that looked more appropriate for a high-profile Hollywood literary agency than a genetics company. The serious-looking redhead behind the desk looked over her glasses at him and smiled briefly.
"Tell her who you are and she'll take it from there," Reinhart said.
Unable to take his eyes off the expansive reception hall, Maddox heard the door whisper shut. Reinhart had left. Though young, the man's presence concerned him. What would happen if he turned Ridley down? He pushed the question from his mind and focused on Reinhart's explanation of his job. If he really was Ridley's personal guard, he wouldn't be here all the time… or would he? No one really knew where Ridley spent his time. Reinhart said "Manifold Alpha through Epsilon," which meant there were at least five Manifold locations. Maybe more.
His approach to the reception desk was watched by the bloodred eyes of the twelve Incan statues that lined either side of the room. Their twisted and angry expressions did little to calm his nerves. He paused in front of the desk as the redhead held an open palm up to him. She held a phone against her ear, listening. "You can go in," she said, after putting the phone down. She reached under the desktop and pushed a button. A door to the right of the reception desk slid open silently. He tightened his grip on the briefcase and headed for the door, unsure of what to expect on the other side.
The office was sparsely decorated with more Incan art. Masks hung on walls and statues stood in the corners. Large, green plants made the whole scene look like some ceremonial cave. He realized some of the plants must be mint, as the room smelled strongly of fresh peppermint, the kind his mother had grown in their greenhouse.
At the center of the room sat two black sofas, facing each other. Between them, a short, hand-carved coffee table held two glass teacups, a steaming clay teapot, and a manila folder. Richard Ridley himself sat on the sofa facing the door, his bald head gleaming under the room's stylish track lighting.
He had seen photos of Ridley in articles and promotional materials from conferences, but he looked taller and more confident in person.