Page 28 of Inevitable Dream

“Do you have your head on right?”

He raises his eyes to mine and lets out a heavy breath. “They put an innocent woman in the middle of their shit.”

“Mitchell seems to be a victim too.”

“Yeah.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Let’s hope we find them before it’s too late and they’re no longer necessary in their plan.”

I nod. “Be back as soon as I can.”

The lobby of GWO International oozes wealth and prestige. The front desk is white marble, the floor a patterned deep gray, and the hanging paintings are modern and vibrant. Everyone is dressed like a model out ofVoguemagazine, with clothes that must cost a mint and so perfectly groomed that if a windstorm blew through the building, it would cause a major ruckus.

I walk directly to the woman sitting behind the front desk. “Phineas Hamstead. Tell him Rebel from Storm is here to see him,” I tell the woman, who seems taken aback to see a man in jeans, combat boots, and short-sleeved Henley standing before her.

“Is Mr. Hamstead expecting you?” she asks with a dubious look. This is the kind of woman who just pisses me off. One look and she’s decided I’m not worth her time or her boss’s time.

“Look, precious, Hamstead is going to want to see me. If you force me to call my boss to make it happen, it’s not going to go well for you,” I warn. Her name tag says her name is Cora. “Cora, get your boss on the phone and tell him I’m here.”

Her fingers tremble as she reaches for the phone, and I can see she’s still not sure she’s doing the right thing. She dials, then speaks into the receiver. “Mr. Hamstead, I have a gentleman in the lobby. Rebel from Storm.” There’s a slight pause before she goes on to say, “Right away, sir.” Embarrassment washes over her face. “Mr. Hamstead would like for you to go straight up to his office. He’s on the twentieth floor. There’s a private elevator down the end of the hall. His security team will meet you and take you up.” Cora clears her throat, then genuinely says, “I’m very sorry. Please accept my apology.”

I give her a smile. “No problem. Some people wear Armani, some wear jeans, which doesn’t make one more important than the other. Catch you later, Cora.”

She smiles back, seemingly relieved, and gives me a little wave before I follow her directions down the hall to the elevator.

Phineas Hamstead is waiting for me as I get off the elevator. He’s not nearly as old as I thought he’d be, maybe forty, at most. He’s tall and slim, with glasses, and dressed like a man born to be in a business suit. Phineas looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, and his sandy brown hair is anything but perfect.

“Rebel. I’m Phineas Hamstead. Let’s just go to my office before we begin.” We move through double doors, where yet another reception desk sits with another woman answering phones. She glances up as we pass. “Bianca, hold my calls.” Phineas walks through to his office, which occupies most of the floor. Instead of going to sit behind his desk, Phineas takes a seat on a leather sofa and gestures for me to take a seat as well. “What can I do to help?” he instantly offers.

My gut feeling is that this is a good guy, and this situation has him stressed to the max. “Mr. Hamstead, can you give me a bit more history on how Mitchell came to work for you?”

“My father originally hired Mitchell. He saw his genius, and honestly, the guy is incredible at his job. He’s socially awkward but a great employee. He’s been with the company for over ten years. Dad has always given Mitchell his space, and he made the company very wealthy. Mitchell saved us millions in lost revenue. He catches problems and can produce solutions to offset any possible challenges. Dad retired four years ago, and I’ve been working directly with Mitchell since then. I gave him the same wide berth as my father did, and everything seemed good. Then, one day, he came up to my office and said that the new international banking computer system had a flaw and there was a possibility of hacking that would cost the company its reputation and could bring about a major international crisis. I asked him what it was, and he said he needed more time but wanted me to put the project on hold. I told him I could push the board for two more weeks. He seemed good with that, then poof”—he snaps his fingers—“Mitchell’s gone.”

“His wife—” I start.

“Won’t talk to me.” He shakes his head. “Or my father, who happens to be Remmie’s godfather. I’ve tried contacting Remmie. No response.” He puts his head in his hands. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“You need to take a breath.”

He lifts his head. “First, I like Mitchell, and if he’s in trouble, I want him back safe and sound. Then there’s a possibility of an international incident that’ll blow this company up, and thousands of people are going to be jobless. I’ve got a week left before I have to go public to the board.” His voice cracks. Phineas is barely holding his shit together.

“Right. Then let’s not waste any more time. We have some ideas. What I need from you is a copy of your entire employee files. You think you have seven days? My gut says you don’t. Get me what I need, and not a word to anyone. The fewer people who know, the better the chance of not tipping anyone off.”

Phineas doesn’t bat an eye. “Follow me.” He leads me to the bookcase and hits a button hidden behind a painting that opens a panel. “If you get your guy on the phone, he can take whatever he needs. I’ll give him access to whatever he wants.”

For the next hour, Phineas, Wire, Falcon, and I work together to copy files over for Wire to work his magic on, after which I get back in my car and drive back to Storm.

Wire says, “Everyone I’ve spoken to about Mitchell says his wife is devoted to him and is so traumatized by his disappearance, she can hardly speak. This Emmanuela woman shows up whenever anyone comes to see her, including the cops. She’s in all the reports as being present at every interview.”

“What about the background check?” I ask while Falcon is going over the police reports that Wire’s been able to get his hands on.

“So far, not much. She came to the United States to go to college. She ended up staying and working in a bank up until last year, and then she took a job working from home for a company called Del Torres. She’s listed as a business consultant. Here’s something interesting. Del Torres’s head office is in Mexico, where Emmanuela came from,” Wire adds, his fingers tapping furiously on the keyboard.

The information pops up on the screen. Del Torres is an investment company dealing with wealth management and is known to have ties with the Mexican cartel.

“She’s a plant,” I say. “How long has she been living next to the Fontaines?”

Wire pulls up another screen with the record of the purchase of Emmanuela’s house. “Two years. Bought and paid for by Del Torres.”

“Fuck! This is all starting to come together,” I say. There’s a ping, and Wire moves to the computers he’s set up to go through all the employee files.

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