Page 30 of Tamed Enemy
“The joke’s out of date. It’ll cost you a hundred to land them. The owner owes a shitload on an arena rehab that’s taken two years longer than it should have. And he’s carrying contracts for a couple of players he traded for younger prospects.”
A hundred million dollars to own a minor league hockey team. There’s potential there. I wouldn’t be setting my cash on fire, the way I would if I just hand it over to the government.
I need to do some research—look into how teams are run, figure out what it would cost to maintain. I won’t need write-offs forever; the potential for profit down the line is mandatory.
I’m willing to bet there are ways to make operating the team more efficient. Most industries haven’t begun to maximize the potential of technology—carefully applied artificial intelligence, expertly managed pricing models for tickets, for salaries… And that’s before I even consider the online betting revenue. Shannon made me an unintended expert on odds before I was ten.
Rider laughs. “You’re thinking about it.”
“Yeah. I am. If the deal can happen fast enough.”
“With that debt, Jean-Luc Fournier is…a highly motivated seller. Plus, he’s on his way to his fourth divorce.”
I wince.
Rider laughs. “I can make the introduction anytime you want.”
“Give me a day or two. But I think I’ll take you up on that.”
He touches the shoulder of his water bottle to the rim of my glass. “Long live Diamond Freeport, huh?”
It’s Diamond Freeport that got me into this mess, but I won’t quibble.
Rider’s phone buzzes again. “Christ,” he said. “The mayor won’t let this rest.”
“Go ahead and take it,” I say. I take out my own phone to see if anyone’s been trying to reach me.
There’s the usual mix of calls and messages, but nothing screams urgently. As I’m paging through the last of the texts, a new one arrives.
It’s from Nikolai Tarasov. It’s addressed just to me, not part of the thread where he’s roped in Kate.
Nikolai Tarasov
Give me a progress report on RedBear
I consider my options, ranging from shattering my phone to telling him to go to hell. I settle on something in between.
Here’s the report: I have three weeks until the project’s due
He writes back immediately.
New rule
I want it done by Friday
Impossible
Do not tell me impossible when you are on vacation in Idaho
His quick reply sends a frozen lance down my spine. Nikolai Tarasov shouldn’t know where I am. He should think I’m back in DC, holed up in the Georgetown mansion.
I stare at the phone in my hand. It’s as secure as the rest of my computer system. He can’t be tracking me through thedevice. All the same, I start flipping through apps, looking for something he could have broken into.
Even as I’m scrolling, my phone buzzes again.
Friday
I type back like I’m firing my Glock.
