Page 1 of Striker

Chapter 1

Beth

Three Years Ago

There are two kinds of people in this world. Most people at least try to keep their receipts organized so they can pay their quarterly business taxes. But there are those few who, for whatever reason, can’t manage to keep their receipts straight to save their lives. That means that accountants like me get to bill by the hour to reconstruct the quarter they let get away from them.

By day, I’m a beautiful, brainy accountant helping the FBI solve financial crimes and by night I save local businesses from their own slovenly bookkeeping. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I switch gears to work my side gig. My bored mind likes to create fantasies that make my life seem more glamorous than it actually is. Every girl has to have a hobby, I think to myself as I pull into the parking lot of The Roast House Coffee Emporium.

It’s a little after six. The tourists who drove up from Vacaville and Napa to spend their money in our scenic little town have mostly headed home. The local shop owners are shifting gears, because the evening belongs to the locals of Cedar Falls. It’s when we can let our hair down and relax in the very shops and restaurants those city slickers come here to enjoy.

I’m headed to one of those shops right now. Unfortunately, I don’t get to relax. The owner of The Roast House Coffee Emporium hired me to sort out their quarterlies. Milo is a straight shooter who runs a tight ship. But his sales tax filing is due in five days, and his point-of-sale reports haven’t been matching up with his bank deposits for the last month. He thinks it’s a system issue. I think he has an employee going rogue. I won’t know which it is until I get my hands on the receipts his employees turn in and match them against his electronic records.

I’ve got to get this job done as soon as possible because I’ve got four other clients this week and a firm that thinks it owns my soul from nine to five. I get out of my car and start walking towards the coffee shop while scrolling on my phone. I’ve got a lot to do and a little time to do it in.

As I’m mentally running through the problem, something starts buzzing over my head. It’s too loud to be a bee or a hornet. Whatever it is starts making a sputtering, hitching sound, like a weed whacker that got wrapped around a fallen branch.

I look up just in time to see a metal monstrosity drop out of the air. I jump back, and it hits the sidewalk inches from my feet. It’s just lying there wobbling back and forth with two of the four propellers still spinning away. It’s a drone and those two whirling propellers are not enough to lift it off the ground. My heart’s beating wildly. It takes me a minute to catch my breath and then I get mad. That damn drone almost crashed into me.

I kick it over to see what’s on the underside. There is a little camera on the belly of it and a green light on the side that’s still blinking away. I lean down to get a better look. And that’s when the damn thing starts talking to me.

“Do not kick my equipment,” a man’s voice grumbles through a little speaker.

My eyes get big when the camera lens rotates a couple of degrees and hones in on my face.

“You mean your equipment that almost killed me?”

His voice turns amused. “Do you actually think it’s a killer drone or something?”

“No. I think your malfunctioning equipment almost fell on my head.”

“It didn’t fall. It simply made an emergency landing. There’s no need to kick my expensive, sophisticated equipment.”

“I have a right to defend myself if I feel threatened.”

“There’s a sticker on the underside,” the voice says, clearly growing tired of our banter. “It has an address label under the camera gimbal. You need to return it to the address listed.”

I choke out a laugh. “Yeah, I see the label. The problem is I’m an accountant, not a delivery driver. And even if I was a delivery driver, I wouldn’t be obligated by law to trek all the way out to a biker clubhouse to hand-deliver your malfunctioning equipment.”

When he doesn’t respond, I like to think I’ve stumped him. After a few seconds, I say, “Alright, don’t pout about it. Out of the goodness of my heart, I’ll take it into the office of The Roast House Coffee Emporium. You can come and pick it up at your leisure.”

“Look, be careful…”

“Bye now,” I cut him off before grabbing the drone and strolling off. I walk into the coffee shop holding it slightly away from my body, trying to keep my hands away from the two tiny propellers that are still whirling. The bell over the door jingles. Milo is behind the counter, teaching his new barista how to use the cash register. He takes one look at what I’m holding and his whole face changes.

“Is that Striker’s drone?”

“I don’t know whose drone it is,” I say, walking into the back with it. He follows, getting panicky. I heave it up onto the desk and sink down into the rolling chair. “Who is Striker?”

“Striker is the IT guy who provides security for half of the businesses in this town, mine included. He’s providing security equipment for the hardware store, the pharmacy, and the bar down on Third Street.”

Milo is starting to sound like this Striker guy’s biggest fanboy, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

He nudges the drone with one finger. “He flies these to check the roofs and the back alleys. You probably don’t want to be on his bad side. That man remembers everything.”

“No. He’s the one who doesn’t want to be on my bad side. This damn thing could have killed me.” Okay, I might be exaggerating, but still… That lump of metal falling from the sky didn’t look like a controlled landing to me.

“Oh, it got a mite too close, did it? I can see why you’re upset.”