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Jack

It requires every ounce of self-control to relax my facial muscles and conceal my disgust. The advertising guys in the room watch me, the CEO, sitting at the end of a long conference room table. Uncle Mark sits to my right, staring at the ad displayed on the overhead projector.

“Don’t Let Them Take Your Guns and Leave You with Only a Phone for Protection.” The headline is straight out of the NRA playbook.

I steeple my fingers and direct my question to Cliff Hartman, the compliance officer. “Are we stealing NRA ad copy now?”

Uncle Mark breaks his attention from the ad on the wall. His expression is unreadable, but I sense he’s observing me to judge if I’m up to the task of CEO.

As a board member, he shouldn’t be here, but he’s been more involved since I returned to work after Sophia’s abduction, wanting to help me out where possible so I can spend more time at home. I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t appreciate the job performance appraisal.

Cliff exchanges glances with Phillip, our interim head of sales. Phillip looks to Roberto, the head of marketing under Phillip. I watch them all, wondering who is going to catch the ball and answer my question.

“It’s part of an industry campaign to build support for an expanded version of the Protection of Lawful Arms in Commerce Act.”

“Does this fall under our NRA quota for supportive marketing efforts?”

Roberto curls the end of his notepad with this thumb and says, “We have to talk to them about that.”

Elizabeth, the ad agency’s head account person, senses that she needs to take control. “We have additional ads to show you.”

“Excellent. Because this one doesn’t do a damn thing to sell our guns.”

Normally, I wouldn’t participate in the initial ad agency presentations. But Uncle Mark had me fly out for lunch today with Senator Talbot and Chuck Strand, the NRA president. I had some extra time, so they pulled me into this half-cocked dog and pony show.

Elizabeth clicks the clicker in her hand, and a different print ad covers the screen. This one features a Sullivan product. The prestige hand carved walnut base will earn its place as a family heirloom. The headline reads, “The Only Thing That Stops a Bad Guy with a Gun is a Good Guy with a Gun.”

The overused headline does not remotely entertain me. Once again, I look to Cliff, my compliance officer, and he remains silent. Of course he does, because there’s no reputable point of dissension for him to take on this.

“That headline targets the self-defense market, but the rifle you are featuring targets the hunters and the shooting competition market.”

Elizabeth is the only woman in the room. I don’t want to bury her in front of the men who report to her, but I can’t help but wonder if she doesn’t understand our product line and the target markets.

I hired a new agency after Wayne’s arrest, mainly because I have enough to worry about without wondering if there are bad apples, or guys, as this print ad states, in my ad agency.

“We can feature any of your pistols too. This is the NRA fall campaign, aimed at buttressing support going into the mid-terms.” She passes a printout to me. “We followed this brief.”

I glance down the document, and sure enough, Sullivan Arms provided a sample selection of headlines to be used and a list of products to feature.

To my agency's credit, they didn’t feature a high-capacity magazine, a folding stock, or a flash suppressor, products which for some inexplicable reason are listed on the brief.

With the addition of any two of these products, you create what is widely considered to be an assault rifle.

A click sounds, and the next ad is of a family in camouflage brandishing rifles. The headline reads “The Family That Hunts Together Stays Together.” The ad is fine except for the fact that a four-year-old boy is holding a rifle with a military-grade scope.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Killington is a bastard, and I hope he goes to jail for life, but one thing I will say for him, he shielded me from this kind of rampant ignorance.

“Is this stock photography or did you hold a photoshoot?”

“This is from the photoshoot last month in Montana.”

Mother of god .

“In the future, please make a note to use age-appropriate guns.” It might be my imagination, but I could swear everyone is looking at me like I am speaking an unfamiliar language.

“This kid is way too young to have a rifle. He should hold a BB gun, and even that would be eyebrow raising in some circles.”

Elizabeth looks directly to Roberto. Cliff’s gaze falls to his phone.

Uncle Mark says, “Why on Earth do you have a child in this photo?”

Thank fuck . For once my uncle and I agree.

Roberto speaks up, “He focus-grouped well. We wanted a likable family.”

“Roberto, we create top tier, high-quality guns. All made right here in the US of A. We aren’t one of those brands that resell shoddy iron at low prices. Our campaign needs to be product-oriented. If you want likeable, add a dog.” I breathe out and hope my words sink in.

“The campaign presented today is strictly to align with NRA goals as we head into the mid-terms.”

“Find a way to make our ad dollars serve both Sullivan Arms and the NRA.”

With that, my uncle and I stand and leave the room.

Lunch with the senator goes about as one would expect.

Cordial, swapping of a lot of hot air, and concluding with handshakes and expectations to meet again at a fundraiser his friends are throwing for him.

Thankfully, my uncle covers for the Sullivan family on Texas politics.

Well, except for the NRA. Chuck Strand pushed me on the upcoming NRA fundraiser, and with reluctance, I confirmed my attendance.

After lunch, as the senator drives away, my uncle turns to me. From his paternal expression, I expect some kind of good job speech.

“I’m going to head home,” he says.

Skin sags below my uncle’s eyes, and the outside light reveals a deep bluish skin tone I haven’t noticed before. The collar around his neck doesn’t fit tightly. It’s actually, as I look closer, too loose.

“Are you feeling okay?”

We took his car here. I had every expectation he would remain attached to my side throughout the afternoon, especially since I have a marketing meeting. He fears I am not aggressive enough with marketing and business decisions. I believe we can be both aggressive and brand-focused.

“Didn’t sleep well last night. Besides, I’m semi-retired. Remember?” He gives my shoulder a fatherly pat.

The valet pulls up with his custom Rolls Royce convertible.

He never rides with the top down when I’m with him, but he’s driven convertibles for as long as I can remember.

He slips on his sunglasses, steps out of the shade and into the sun, and when he turns around, he looks like himself.

It must have been the light we were under, but under the sun, he’s the powerhouse I’ve always known.

“How are things going with Ava Amara?” His tone strikes me as disapproving, and my spine straightens, lifting me to my full height, slightly taller than Uncle Mark.

“Good. Sophia seems to like her.”

One of his eyebrows raises above the frame of his sunglasses. “From what I hear, she’s not the only one.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Look, I’m not trying to intrude. But I remember how easily you get attached. I remember what your father went through when you fell for Cassie. I didn’t think Ava would appeal to you, or I wouldn’t have recommended her. But since she has, just–”

“What exactly do you think is going on?”

“Cut the crap, Jack. We have friends in common. I know exactly what’s going on. I don’t like it. But I’m trying to focus on what’s important. Unfortunately, I’m not sure you’ve got what it takes for the kind of arrangement you’ve structured. To keep her at arm’s length. You’re too sensitive. Soft.”

I can’t believe what I am hearing.

“Just be careful. She’s a friend of mine.

I care for her, but she’s not another Cassie.

She won’t rise to the occasion by your side.

She’s not someone you can bring in public.

It’ll take the media a nanosecond to dig up her past. She doesn’t try to hide it.

As CEO of a gun manufacturer, you can’t be dating an addict.

Much less anything else.” Again, he does the fatherly thing with a soft pat on my shoulder.

He’s talking out his ass. What the hell does he mean by “she’s not another Cassie?” Another wife? No shit. I’m not looking for a wife. I’m not even looking for a relationship. The old man is becoming nonsensical with age. Ava and I have an agreement.

Stunned, I watch as my uncle tips the valet and awkwardly sinks down into his low convertible.

Fisher approaches as the engine of the pearl white convertible revs. There’s an earpiece in his ear, and he’s wearing a black suit. Gone is his beach casual outfit from home, and in its place an outfit that any passerby would automatically assume is security apparel.

“Sir. We have a car here. Would you like to ride with us, or would you prefer we call you a driver?”

“I’ll ride with you.” I follow Fisher to a rented SUV, and my phone vibrates.

It’s an unknown number, but only authorized individuals can access this line, so I answer.

“This is Jackson Sullivan,” I say by greeting.

“Jack.” The familiar voice rubs me the wrong way. “Heard you’re in town. So am I. Any chance we can meet?”

“Who is this?”

“Ah, forgive me. How presumptuous of me. It’s Victor.”

I scan the street. Traffic slows as the stoplight on the nearby intersection turns red. Business professionals cross the sidewalk, and a young woman pushes a baby carriage into a store on the opposite side of the street. Nothing stands out as out of place.

With a nod at Ryder, the Texas based Arrow employee who is working with Fisher today, I climb into the back of the SUV.

“I have—”

“Already spoke to your assistant. She said you have an opening, and she can push your two o’clock to three.”