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Briggs Lane stood at the window of his Lane, Cuomo, and Greenberg top-floor corner office. He held a pair of MIL710 Optical Enhancers to his eyes and focused on Innovation Square. “Those stupid bastards. Nobody ever taught them not to shit where they eat?”
He placed the MIL710s back in their padded box, placed that in a desk drawer, closed the drawer, and pressed his thumb against what appeared to be a lock. The drawer hissed. It seemed the desk sucked the drawer in a microscopic inch or two and sealed it into place.
He stepped around his desk – mahogany and large enough to play shuffleboard on – and to an opposite wall. Hokusai’s The Great Wave off Kanagawa hung there. He smiled, lifted his fingers to his lips, kissed then touched his fingers to the carving’s frame.
The wall opened and revealed what the few privileged enough to see it referenced as variously “the weapons locker,” “the Predators’ trophy array,” and “Elon Musk’s wish list.”
That last one always gave Lane a chuckle.
Musk was such an ass.
Never invited Briggs to any parties, never accepted Lane’s invitations to dinner when he was in Boston.
What a fucking ass.
Lane lifted what looked like a disco dance club’s glitterball from its birth in the hidden compartment to reveal a small, gold nameplate with HIVE engraved on it.
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