Tuesday March 5th, 12:13 A.M.
Midtown Manhattan, New York
Help…I’ve got to get help…
As he rushed up the underground stairwell of the parking garage, Percy Morrow fought off a wave of fatigue burning in his legs. Pausing at a landing, he searched for the familiar red handle of a fire alarm. Unable to locate a switch, he dashed up another flight to the street level.
Barreling through an exit door, Morrow found himself on a deserted Madison Avenue, near the east end of Rockefeller Plaza in Manhattan. The icy night air assaulted his lungs and he bent over for a moment to catch his breath.
Familiar with the Plaza, Morrow raced west on 49th and entered the Channel Gardens from the Promenade. Just ahead lay the stairs leading to the Lower Plaza, the open expanse directly in front of the world-famous Comcast Building, affectionately known as 30 Rock. Turning right, he ducked behind a secluded corner and pulled out a cellphone to dial 911. The operator picked up after two rings.
“Nine-one-one emergency response.”
“Yes,” Morrow whispered. “I need the police. Two men are after me—”
The words caught in his throat. In the distance, he heard a clicking sound on the pavement. Faster…then louder.
Footsteps.
The first responder prompted him. “Sir? Two men are after you? Can you please confirm—”
Too late. An assailant came into view, intently scouting the Gardens.
Morrow scurried toward the 30 Rock entrance. He knew the building provided access to the Concourse, a series of interconnected tunnels beneath the Plaza. Running to the corridors, he searched for refuge in one of the stores.
Alas, no. Everything was closed. The tunnels lay empty.
Panicking, he tried 911 again.
No signal!
Keep moving, he told himself. Take the corridor to Sixth Avenue and then loop around to the police precinct on 51st street. That should work.
He bolted down the channel.
But no sooner had he gone a few yards than one attacker appeared ahead of him. How? Then he realized. The entrance from the Time-Life Building…they split up! Morrow reversed direction, only to find the other guarding the tunnel behind him. With nowhere to go, he fled into a public restroom and tried jamming the door.
No use. Overpowering him, they burst into the restroom.
Nothing about the two suggested a tag team of random street toughs. The eldest wore a beige suit offset by a french blue button-down, straight out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue. His brown eyes, cropped red hair, and clean-shaven face provided an educated, curiously professorial appearance. In slight contrast stood his sandy-haired partner, stylishly adorned in off-white slacks and a navy fleece pullover. Deeply tanned, freckled, boyish, he looked no different than a recent college graduate apprenticing at a new job.
Morrow’s face hardened. Crossing his arms, he decided to weaponize some attitude.
“There’s no need for theatrics. I’m insured for up to $15 million against kidnapping. This should be very easy.”
The redhead withdrew a set of latex gloves from his back pocket. The blond stood firm. Neither answered.
“Look.” Morrow added some ego. “I run a major corporation. If you want more, fine.”
Finally, the redhead tossed out a response.
“Percy Morrow. Chief of Premier Petroleum.” The taunt in his voice betrayed contempt.
“You know me?”
“Of course.”
With his right hand, the redhead reached into his coat and withdrew a photo from a recent Vanity Fair article. The photo spoke volumes, the heartbreaking picture of a shoreline sea otter population, all dead, all coated in black crude.
“Do you have any idea how much damage this spill—your spill—has inflicted?
“Entire populations of marine life wiped out. Coastlines ruined. Local fisherman out of a job. A cleanup that’ll take years.”
Pause.
“And you. You had the gall to say it wasn’t a big deal. That there were”—he scanned the photo caption—“‘worse things to be concerned about.’”
He dangled the picture in front of Morrow.
“Am I right?”
Morrow winced. So unfair when journalists took his words and bent them out of context.
First the spill, nearly 40 million gallons of Alberta crude fouling pristine Pacific waters. Then of course the inevitable social media mob hunting for a villain. Being chief executive of the company responsible slapped a giant bull’s eye on Morrow’s back. Nor had his candor helped much either.
Accused the redhead. “The Athabasca never should have departed that night. Especially under those conditions.” He pointed at Morrow. “And yet, you still ordered the ship to leave.”
“What is this? Who are you guys? Two crackpots here to set everything right?”
Oops. Perhaps a little too much attitude there.
“Hey…listen.” Morrow reigned in his sass for a dash of humility. “I never issued such an order. Okay?”
The cleanup efforts had been especially nettlesome to Premier. Thanks to an ill-timed storm, most of the oil flowed into the Alaska current, fanning it up the British Columbia coast and along the Alaskan panhandle. And with so much crude assailing countless tiny islands and coves, the cleanup became a near impossibility. Gruesome memes of oil-covered animals and slicked coastlines littered the Internet, black in scorn, hilarious in creativity.
“We’re trying everything,” Morrow continued, trying to douse any fires of retribution. “I’m trying everything. I’m sick over what happened—”
The redhead edged closer.
“I’m afraid it’s too late.”
“Wait!” Morrow held out his hands. “Please. You don’t have to do this.”
“I don’t think you understand, Percy.”
“What?”
“We now have the opportunity we want.”
Something ominous clicked in Morrow.
“What opportunity?”
The redhead smirked. “For Premier’s transformation.”
The blood rushed from Morrow’s face as a torrent of foul memories sped through his mind. He explored the idea weeks ago, only to nuke it out of sheer foolishness. It amounted to nothing less than a mass sellout of Premier, all to profit a select few.
Good heavens. He misread their intent as vengeance. No, they were after a revolution. Far worse, only two people would dare instigate such a radical idea. The same two extremists who first presented the idea…to him.
All at once, he felt faint. This couldn’t be happening.
The redhead inched closer, a small hypodermic needle in his left hand.
“Opioids, Percy,” he said. “An epidemic these days.”
“No—”
The blond grabbed Morrow in a sleeper hold, a classic street fighting maneuver. Wrapping his arm around Morrow’s neck, he applied pressure to the carotid arteries, choking off blood to the brain. Within seconds, a lightheaded feeling swept over Morrow. Vision dimming, strength ebbing, his thrashings swiftly became muted convulsions.
He began to wheeze, starved for oxygen. As his body went limp, he last saw the redhead tapping the syringe.