Gardener: The Roots Of Ancient Evil by Jacob Mesmer Page A

dishes for you at the restaurant? What are you offering, five bucks an hour?” Marco joked.
                  “No, man, this is legit.”
                  “Serious?”
                  “Yeah, you got a couple minutes to talk?” Tommy asked.
                  “Yes sir, I do, what do you got?” Marco asked.
                  “Well, this guy I’m working for owns a bunch of land. And he wants me to help him buy some more land.”
                  “OK.”
                  “And another guy, a Nelson Prieto of Cutting Edge Capital, has put out some, how shall we say, under-the-table feelers. He says if I can swing a deal between my employer and Cutting Edge Capital, I get a percent,” Tommy explained.
                  “As in one percent?” Marco asked.
                  “Yep.”
                  “Jesus. What do you want me to do?”
                  “Well, for now, it’s probably best that I don’t hire you just yet, as that would maybe be a conflict of interest, but if I were to subcontract you, on my own, to look into both Dominic Shea and Nelson Prieto, not to contact them, mind you—”             
                  “Of course not.”             
                  “But to find out anything you possibly can between the two of them, particularly Mr. Shea, who is a bit mysterious,” Tommy explained. “Like old family from Europe mysterious,” he added.
                  “So let me get this straight,” Marco started, “you want me to dig up any information on Dominic Shea that you can use to pitch him a deal with Prieto,” he asked.
                  “That is correct. And if there is an eventual deal, I’ll split it with you,” Tommy finished.
                  “I’ll look into it,” Marco said.
                  “And if you’re interested,” Tommy started, “I may need an assistant to help me out on city contracts, commercial real estate, private real estate, hundred-year leases, et cetera.”
                  “So you want me to work for you both officially and unofficially?” Marco asked.
                  “Exactly. That be OK with you?”
                  “Sure thing, boss!” Marco answered.
     
     

Eighteen
     
                  Max sat in his office, one of many that he’d rented over the years. He was paid discreetly by one of the many shell corporations Mr. Shea operated. This particular company, with a total of one employee, would withstand the most in-depth scrutiny by any government or private agency. Max controlled a budget of one million dollars a year. His base salary was three hundred thousand dollars a year, but his bonuses more than doubled that. He had several cars and access to several international numbered bank accounts.
    Mr. Shea had spent a lot of time researching Maxwell Emerson before finally reaching out. They’d negotiated for several months before Shea had given Max his first few tasks. Max, of course, had done as much research on Mr. Shea as Shea had done on him. The lack of information only meant that Shea was somebody who wanted to stay as private as possible. This meant that so long as Max was careful, and did precisely as Mr. Shea asked, he too would be kept protected.
    Max had once been young and idealistic, but two tours in Special Forces and ten years working for a private military contractor after that had purged him of all his idealism. The powerful had money, and unless you worked for the powerful, you were on your own. One thing Max knew about himself was that he simply did not have the temperament to operate on his own. He was not an empire builder. He was a soldier. And as long as he was going to use his specialized skills, he was going to get paid as much as he could. He and Mr. Shea