"I've got something they want."

"You're probably right. In your world people want money more than revenge."

As the elevator rose, Gillette's mind flashed back to the image of the pistol aimed at him from outside the window. Of how, for a split second, he'd thought he was dead. How, when he'd heard the gun go off, he'd expected a flash of excruciating pain, then nothing. Then he'd realized that the shot had come from the gun of one of the two men Stiles had trailing them in another vehicle, that the a.s.sa.s.sin had been hit.

For a brief moment afterward, he had lain sprawled on the seat, wondering if it was all worth it. Wondering if Faith and Stiles were right, if it was time to enjoy life a little. Maybe having an empire wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

"Hopefully the cops will get something out of the guy when he wakes up after surgery."

"If they do," Stiles answered, "they're miracle workers."

"Why?"

"He died in the ambulance."

"Oh." Death. So close. He could almost feel it.

The first two attacks had shaken Gillette, but hadn't made him consider getting out, or actually think about death. But now it was clear that whoever was behind the attacks wasn't going to stop until he was dead-or they were. And this time he'd stared right down the barrel of the gun.

"Maybe they can ID him and still find out something. Link him to whoever's behind this."

"Don't count on that, either," Stiles said dismissively. "My guess is they'll find out he was some random thug who got half the cash before and would have gotten the other half after."

"Your cup's running over with optimism."

"Comes with the turf."

The elevator slowed as it approached the thirty-second floor: Everest Capital.

"Quentin," Gillette spoke up as the doors parted. "I . . ." He dropped his voice. "I appreciate what you did in the car." He stopped outside the elevator. Far enough away from the Everest receptionist that she couldn't hear. "You put yourself between me and a bullet."

"Reflex," Stiles said firmly. "Nothing else."

"Still, I-"

"That's what you get from me, Christian. Execution." Stiles hesitated. "Look, somebody wants you dead, and that won't be the last time they try. Whoever they they are," he added after a beat. are," he added after a beat.

"How are we going to find out who they they are?" Gillette asked, following Stiles as he headed toward the receptionist. "The cops haven't been able to." are?" Gillette asked, following Stiles as he headed toward the receptionist. "The cops haven't been able to."

As of yesterday afternoon, the New York City Police Department had no leads on who had blown up the limousine, and the New Jersey State Police were still coming up empty on the attack in Hightstown. The car the shooter had been driving in New Jersey-the one that had stopped directly ahead of Gillette's at the traffic light-had been left at the scene, but it was stolen.

"I'm working on it," Stiles answered. "Oh, by the way, I've implemented a new policy here at Everest." He acknowledged another of his men who was standing inside the lobby doorway. "And the guy waiting in your office won't be very happy about it. Also, from now on, I need to be informed at least thirty minutes in advance any time you plan to change locations. No exceptions. Got it?"

"What if I have to go to the head and I can't wait that long?"

"Christian."

Gillette held up one hand. "All right."

Stiles shook his head. "You aren't taking this seriously enough. A guy just tried to kill you. I can't believe you-"

"Quentin," said Gillette firmly, "I'm taking it said Gillette firmly, "I'm taking it very very seriously. I'm just trying not to let it get to me." He patted Stiles on the shoulder. "And, again, thanks for what you did out there. You say it was reflex, but I don't care. It took a lot of guts." seriously. I'm just trying not to let it get to me." He patted Stiles on the shoulder. "And, again, thanks for what you did out there. You say it was reflex, but I don't care. It took a lot of guts."

Stiles shrugged. "I can't have one of my clients killed. Bad for business. Besides, I knew you wouldn't be able to get yourself out of the way in time."

"Why?"

Stiles grinned. "You white guys are too slow."

"Hey, any time you want to race, you let me know, pal," Gillette retorted, chuckling as he turned toward his office.

"What happened to you?" Debbie asked as Gillette approached.

"What do you mean?"

She was staring at him intently. "You look like somebody just tried to run you down."

"Is Tom in my office?"

"Don't avoid my question."

"Deb."

She stuck her tongue out. "Yeah, and he's irritated about something."

"What?"

She shrugged "How would I know?"

"That's helpful," Gillette muttered, reaching for the doork.n.o.b.

"Sorreeee," she shot back. "Hey, what is wrong wrong with you?" with you?"

He grimaced. "Nothing. Sorry." He motioned toward the office. "No calls while I'm with Tom. Okay?"

"Okay."

As Gillette opened the door, he glanced over his shoulder. Stiles was speaking to the man posted at the lobby doorway. "Except Quentin," he called to Debbie. "If he needs me, interrupt immediately."

"All right."

"h.e.l.lo, Tom." Gillette held out his hand as he walked toward the other man.

McGuire was relaxing in one of the chairs in the corner. He stood up as Gillette made it to where he was sitting. "h.e.l.lo, Christian."

They shook hands and sat down across from each other, the coffee table between them. Gillette saw instantly what Debbie meant. There was something eating at McGuire. "What's the problem, Tom?"

McGuire's eyes shot to Gillette's "What do you mean?"

"You're p.i.s.sed off at something. I can tell. Usually it's like you're in the middle of a poker game. I wouldn't be able to read your expression if my life depended on it."

"You'd be p.i.s.sed, too," McGuire snapped.

"Why?"

"I had to give up my gun to that p.r.i.c.k by the lobby doorway," McGuire fumed, his face turning red. "What the h.e.l.l's going on around here?"

The new policy Stiles had referred to. It had to be. Everyone would be searched at the Everest door from now on. No exceptions. "I've put Quentin Stiles in charge of my personal security. What he says goes." Gillette had never even known McGuire carried a gun. "It has to be this way." Stiles had probably implemented the policy just for McGuire. Just to p.i.s.s him off. But so be it.

"And you took my people off the a.s.signment. From what I understand, Stiles is totally in charge of your security now."

Stiles had made that request yesterday, and Gillette had agreed. "Yeah, that's right."

"I don't understand," McGuire complained. "What's the problem? Don't you trust me?"

"Calm down, Tom."

"Calm down? I've got a lot of satisfied customers who'll tell you we've done a tremendous job protecting them. But the guy who owns my business fires me. Now, I've got a lot of satisfied customers who'll tell you we've done a tremendous job protecting them. But the guy who owns my business fires me. Now, you you tell tell me. me. Should I feel good about that?" Should I feel good about that?"

"Tom, I-"

"How much diligence did you do on Stiles before you hired him?" McGuire pushed. "How do you know if he's any good?"

"Oh, he's good."

"How do you know?"

"I was attacked again a few minutes ago, and he saved my life."

McGuire turned his head to the side, as if he'd been struck by something. "What?" "What?"

"Yeah, right out on Park Avenue."

"What happened?"

"A guy ran his car into mine, then jumped out and tried to shoot me. But one of Stiles's men nailed the guy. They had it covered."

"Jesus," McGuire said softly. "Well, I'm glad you're all right. But I still don't understand why my people were taken off the job." His voice had gotten strong again.

"Too many fingers in the pie, Tom. Simple as that. Stiles wanted his guys on it and n.o.body else's. I don't know much about personal security, but it made sense to me from an organizational standpoint. Consolidation of leadership and all that. I okayed it."

"What happened to the guy who tried to shoot you?"

"He's dead."

"Good. Whoever's behind all this needs to understand that you're protected by people who know what the h.e.l.l they're doing." McGuire looked down. "I'm glad Stiles's people are doing a good job."

"Thanks." Gillette stood up and moved to his desk. "You're here today to talk about buying the company." He clicked the computer mouse several times as he moved it around on the pad. "Right?"

"Yes, I-"

"Give me one second, Tom." Gillette punched in the Dominion Savings & Loan ticker and recoiled at what he saw. Dominion's stock price was off six dollars in overnight trading. Off almost 15 percent from yesterday's close. "Christ," he whispered.

"Something wrong?"

"No, nothing." Gillette moved back to the chair and sat down, wondering what was going on with Dominion. Focus, he told himself. On the task at hand. "So let's talk. Earlier this week you offered me 300 million for McGuire & Company."

"Which, according to my backer, is a fair price."

"Of course he'd say that," Gillette replied calmly. "He's on the buy side."

"Whatever. Look, he's pretty connected to Wall Street, and he tells me there've been investment bankers sniffing around Everest offering to take McGuire & Company public. Tells me you guys are close to signing an agreement with one of the Wall Street firms. He says if you do that, I won't have a chance to buy the company."

Gillette shook his head, irritated that the news had gotten out. Probably some young punk a.s.sociate who couldn't keep his mouth shut had leaked it. "That's right," he admitted.

"What are they telling you they can get for it?"

"Five hundred million." Typically, Gillette would have kept his cards close to his chest, but McGuire needed to understand how big the difference in offers was. "Two hundred million more than you'll pay. That's a huge gap. One I can't ignore. I have a responsibility to my limited partners to listen to these guys. I'd have a lot of unhappy investors if they found out I had pa.s.sed on $200 million."

"You're telling me the investors wouldn't be happy if you doubled their money? Which is what $300 million does."

"Not if I left two hundred on the table."

"They wouldn't have to know."

"Somebody would find out, Tom. Somebody would have a contact at one of the investment banks we're talking to. Just like your backer does. Then all of our partners would know, and I'd be out of a job."

"Yeah, well, your investors can kiss my a.s.s," McGuire snapped. "They don't see how hard it is to run this company. They don't see the c.r.a.p Vince and I deal with. The tough decisions we make on a daily basis. The risks we take. They don't see any of that. They don't deal with the stress."

"And they're happy not to," Gillette replied. "They just want to make as much money as they can, and they don't give a d.a.m.n about your stress. That's why they have us hire you. To deal with all that."

McGuire took a deep breath, trying to keep his cool. "I don't know a lot about IPOs, but doesn't the process take a while? Isn't there a lot of back and forth with the SEC?"

"Usually," Gillette agreed.

"And isn't that market unpredictable? One day, IPOs are everywhere. The next, the door shuts and nothing goes public for a year."

"That can happen."

"Well, the deal I'm offering you will be quick, clean, and ironclad. We could have it done in thirty days. And you won't have people trying to find out if you wear boxers or briefs. We already know everything."

Now that Stiles had taken over his personal security, there was no reason to bargain. "Tom, you should think about how the sweat equity shares we gave you when we bought the company would be worth tens of millions in an IPO," Gillette advised strongly. "And I'll make sure the investment bankers don't lock up your shares. I'll make sure you get cash."

"But our backer is willing to give Vince and me half half the company if you agree to sell it to him," McGuire countered. "For no money." the company if you agree to sell it to him," McGuire countered. "For no money."

McGuire had mentioned that in the limousine, but Gillette wasn't buying it. Giving managers half the company for no money down was outrageous. Ten to 15 percent allocated over three to four years was normal-what Everest usually did. And he'd heard of very experienced executives getting as much as 25 percent, if performance warranted it. But never fifty. That kind of allocation made it nearly impossible for the investors to earn an acceptable return. So, if it was true, there was something strange going on. "Would you get any cash in his deal?"

"Some."