Page 9 of Rogue

Thiswassome kind of fucked-up job interview. “Work for you?”

“They’ll be an intensive preparation period. Training camp—Hell Camp, they like to call it. Prove that you’re reasonably adept . . . hell, even moderately mediocre, and I’ll take you on.”

Jesus. Manipulative much? He hasn’t even given me time to process what this is really all about. “Whoa. Hold on. I just met you. I don’t know the first thing about you. Besides, who said I want to work for you?”

“You did.”

“Um . . . you must be hearing things.”

“Your actions speak volumes. Now sit.” He points his pencil at the chair. I glance down, unaware I’ve even jumped to my feet. I do ask he asks, biding my time until I can gather enough courage to blow this popsicle stand, and run as hard and as fast as my legs will carry me.

“I’m the head of a global, privately run company called TORC.”

I snort. “And you’re based in Shelby?”

He lifts an eyebrow at me. “There’s a reason we relocated to Shelby.”

“The Pricks?” I blurt out.

“Smart girl.” He removes a blank piece of paper, sets it before me, then draws a straight line. Tapping his pencil, he pauses like he’s carefully considering his words. “The average person believes the world operates like this. They’re here”—he draws a smiley face with the eraser on one side of the line—“going about living a relatively safe, orderly life. Then, there’s them”—he draws a frown on the other side of the line—“those looking to disrupt the status quo and destroy the governmental norms already established.”

“Like the Pricks? Franco and all the other riffraff that’s moved into Shelby.”

“Exactly. What does the line represent?”

“A division between good and bad.”

“And?”

I frown. “The police. Armies. Governments. Rules.”

“Which keep these two factions separated. World order, if you will.”

I bite my lip and stare at him. “Which side is TORC on?” He’s already told me we have a common enemy . . . “Or does your organization stand in the middle? Like the FBI or CIA?” I give myself a mental eye roll.Spies in Shelby? Yeah, right.

“TORC is a PSC.”

“A PSC?” I ask. We’re just tossing out acronyms like murky water, aren’t we?

Hayden sighs, then flips over the paper. This time, he draws a jagged line across the paper, tracing once again, a happy and sad face on either side with his eraser. “PSC stands forprivate security contractor. Hundreds exist after September eleventh, but your average person never hears about them. Your tax dollars hard at work and you don’t even know it.”

“So TORC is a military organization,” I say. “Why the jagged line?”

He sits back in his seat and clasps his hands together. He refrains from answering me and instead changes the subject. “How does a thousand dollars a week sound? If you finish Hell Camp, I’ll double it. Every year afterward, I’ll keep doubling it.”

My jaw hits my chest. Dollar bills do a line dance across my mind. Mental math has always been my strong suit—being a science nerd, I’m logically skewed, to say the least—but the numbers I quickly crunch have my heart counting along with my head. Money talks, right? Those dear doctors at Johns Hopkins will be forced into taking my phone calls more seriously. We’ll dig out of the financial hole we’re in. Madelyn’s tuition. My relocating us to a better house, one not filled with sadness and loss.

“Two thousand a week and you’ll double it after I finish Hell Camp.”

His lips tighten. “You’ll sign a contract and a strict confidentiality clause. As far as the outside world is concerned, TORC doesn’t exist. You will not breath a word about this organization to anyone or do anything to jeopardize it. Actions have consequences—always remember that.”

Holy hell. That sounds like a threat.

“You’ll need to practice if you plan on making it onto the team.” He takes a yellow manila envelope out of his desk and pushes it across the table. “Open it. You need to fully understand what I’m asking of you.”

It weighs a few pounds but is too bulky to be paperwork. Money? I tear it open at the seam, and stare down at the smooth black object tucked inside.

“A Ruger?”