Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📕

“What was he working on?” I prodded, loud enough the two men at the opposite table both glanced over.

“Um—” she began to answer, but was interrupted by a loud clomping.

I turned and gazed over my shoulder.

Striding into the cafeteria were five people: Allison the executive and four gentlemen. Two of them were my friends from the security screening, Old Gray and Young Wispy. The third man was tall, at least 6’5”, with a thick frame to match. He had a shaved head and a well-trimmed gray beard. He might be wearing a suit today, but I could tell he’d spent the better part of his life in combat fatigues. He might as well have been wearing a sticker that read “Hi, I’m Dolf. I work for Blackwater.”

As for the fourth man, he wore his suit like a second skin. He was my size, but had the build of a distance runner. His white hair was perfectly coifed, and small rectangular glasses were held snug against the best rhinoplasty had to offer. Though he could easily pass for a man in his fifties, he was actually seventy-three years old.

Lunhill CEO, David Ramsey.

According to what I’d read on the internet, David Ramsey had become the majority shareholder of Lunhill in the late eighties after making a small fortune working as a top executive at Exxon for two decades.

I stood as the five approached, but not before Sheila uttered a single word under her breath. The word meant little to me, but I didn’t have time to inquire further as Female Executive, Old Gray, Young Wispy, Dolf, and Vader had closed to within mere feet.

“You need to come with us,” Old Gray barked.

“Okay,” I complied. Well, I complied verbally. Physically, I sat back down in my seat.

Young Wispy stepped behind me and gave me a little push in the back. I turned and shook my head. “Don’t.”

He slipped a stun gun off his hip and held it at his side.

The stun gun wasn’t what stopped me from putting my elbow through his face. It was Dolf. He looked on with a cold stare. If I so much as flinched in Young Wispy’s direction, I had no doubt my next memory would be of a hospital bed.

I stood up and walked forward.

“Impersonating an FBI agent,” David Ramsey said dryly, “trespassing, corporate espionage. You’ve had a busy day, Mr. Prescott.”

I was tempted to ask him how he found out my real name, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of telling me how easy it was.

I did say, “Good thing I ate my Wheaties.”

He shook his head ever so slightly, like a father might at seeing his child’s B+ on a report card, and said, “The police are on their way.”

“Bullshit.”

He glared at me.

“The last thing you want is me getting arrested. My name carries weight, and if it leaks that I impersonated a dead FBI agent to infiltrate your headquarters and that it was ridiculously easy, it’s going to get a lot of conspiracy theorists talking.”

He was silent a beat, then said, “You’re right. There will be no record of this.”

The way he said it, I think he was hinting at something more sinister. That maybe if I was to go missing or get my head blown off, there would be no record of that either.

He gave a nod to Old Gray and said, “See him out.”

The two security guards began ushering me toward the cafeteria entrance. When I was halfway there, Brian walked through the doorway on his return from the bathroom.

He looked on in bewilderment.

I smiled at him and said, “Find me on Facebook.”

When I was just steps from the door, I turned around and glared at Ramsey and the mercenary. “I know what you did to Neil Felding!” I shouted.

I watched them both closely, waiting for either of them to react.

But neither of them so much as blinked.

Simon Beach was an hour drive south.

I had to see it for myself. I had to see the destruction the evils of Lunhill and its co-conspirators had wreaked.

I followed the directions on my phone until I came to the town limits. Spray painted on the road was a white line. Just beyond the line was the word “DIOXIN” in thick ominous lettering.

The meaning was obvious: once you cross over the white line, you have entered into a new world, one of contamination and destruction.

I slowly rolled the Range Rover over the line. I continued on for several blocks. It was a lost world. Trees, brush, and weeds had overtaken most of the roads. What was left of the houses and businesses were in shambles. The flood waters that had besieged the town had weakened the buildings to the point of failure. No reconstruction efforts were made. They were left alone. Left to die. It reminded me of the opening shot of any post-apocalypse movie.

A few more blocks inland there was a giant water tower. It listed slightly to the left and had “Simon Beach” etched around its circumference in black letters. Underneath this, in red graffiti, was a skull and crossbones.

It was all very eerie.

I crept along the road. After a couple blocks, a river came into view. The water swept by, taking whatever poison still lay in the soil with it downstream.

I drove for another half mile, then slowed to a crawl. On the left side of the road, hidden in a thicket of brush, was an abandoned school bus. I wondered how it had ended up there. Had the floodwater deposited it there? Had it been abandoned by a sick driver? Had it been the bus Ronald Reagan’s Simon Beach Task Force arrived in?

Just past the school bus, there was a large sign next to the road. It read “Heavily Contaminated Area. Stay in your car. Keep your windows up as you drive.”

Uh, no thanks.

I put the car in park.

Lunhill was not entirely to blame for what happened to Simon Beach, but it had all started