Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,42
we all enjoyed watching some of those matches. But that’s all most of us could do—watch. MMA is inaccessible for, uh,” I aimed a self-deprecating glance at Logan, “normal humans.
“Logan’s vision for Strike was to bring martial arts into the urban community, where people really live and work and hustle. And everyone has the ability to be a kickboxer. Women, men, adults, and children. We have seventy-year-old members who frankly terrify me”— the announcer chuckled—“and adolescent girls learning self-defense. That’s one of the things that makes Strike Down so unique—our amateur competition. We’ve invited the entire world to get into the ring tonight and throw down. And in more ways than you might expect.”
“You’ve got more surprises in store for us?” the announcer asked.
Logan leaned into the mic, her dark eyes gleaming. “There’s always another surprise in store at Strike.”
* * *
Crowds continued to flood through the gates, buying refreshments and programs, lining up for interactive demonstrations with the trainers, and taking thousands of selfies to flash overhead on the larger-than-life screens. Logan and I bounced from interview to interview, joking with reporters while greeting business owners, members, international fighters, and politicians. As the countdown clock ticked closer to zero, the seats began to fill, and the noise level rose.
When there was less than ten minutes on the clock, Logan turned, her smile turning feral in the shadows. “Your puppy needs a walk.”
My assistant Sara stood anxiously at the back of the reporters, eyes wide in silent appeal.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I said before moving through the throng. “We’re on soon.”
If she replied, I didn’t hear it. I nodded, greeted, and shook hands until I reached Sara, who’d withdrawn even further behind a kiosk selling commemorative Strike Down apparel. An assistant to the core, she wore a sleek suit of all black that looked like a glossy full-body version of the yoga pants she sported daily.
“Anything today?”
“One of them was talking to Beta Games. Another took Darryl out to lunch and he didn’t come back to the office afterward.”
“Why not?” I frowned.
“He called in sick.”
Darryl was “sick” twice as often as any other manager at the company. And he wondered why I would never promote him to CFO.
“Do you think Darryl was involved in …” She looked around, clearly not wanting to say anything out loud about the missing prize.
“At the very least, he didn’t do anything to prevent it. After the tournament is over, we’re going to have some turnover. Let HR know.”
Sara nodded, her eyes continuously sweeping the perimeter of the crowd. Casually, I turned and helped her keep watch.
“Before they left for the day one of them was contacting other suppliers. Another questioned the IT manager about password security. And Nora Trier left the VIP party with Logan.”
“Why?”
“They were looking through Aaden’s desk together.”
I stared at my wife in the crowd. She said something and laughter surrounded her, rippling out until it touched even us. Aaden Warsame would never have amassed the same charisma and I wondered if even Merritt stood a chance, if anyone would look as fierce and bright in this sun. The next face of Strike was waiting somewhere in this stadium right now. They wouldn’t shine like Logan, but they wouldn’t be obsessed with a dead man, either.
“No concrete leads on the money yet?” I asked, still staring at Logan. “That AI computer hasn’t turned up anything?”
“No. Do you think they’ll find it? In only three more days?” Her voice rose and broke, betraying a hint of panic.
“She will.” I had no choice except to believe that.
Sara shifted, said nothing. The best assistants didn’t need to.
“Don’t worry, Sara. Where are they now?”
She pointed and I turned away from the pageantry of Logan, scanning the premium boxes in that general direction once, twice. Finally, on the third pass, I found it. The suite was semi-dark and empty except for her, even though I’d confirmed all of the partners and their guests on the reservation. Nora seemed invisible to the groups in the boxes around her, poised motionless at the edge of the balcony, surveying the scene with an unreadable expression. She showed no delight at the hundred wonders spread below her, nor boredom, censure, or disinterest, only silent absorption. What couldn’t this woman see, if she looked long and deep enough? She would find the money—she had to, I couldn’t even consider the possibility that she wouldn’t—but I wanted her to know so much more, to unearth every secret from the last twenty years and