Disclosure E-Book

John Edwin Wallace

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 123

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

This should be a heart-warming story about a partnership between a billionaire philanthropist and a struggling hip-hop artist. All the ingredients are there. It is a shame that the suicides, murders, drug abuse and forces of evil turn this novel into something else. 

Leseprobe

John Edwin Wallace

Disclosure

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG80331 Munich

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

He stood at the window with hands clasped behind his back. The immaculate cut of the suit gave the outline of his figure a sharp appearance, as if he was chiselled from stone. The rain beat relentlessly on the thick glass of the meeting room window. Thirty floors up, the windows insulated him from the sounds of the street. The whispers and chatters of the meeting behind him carried on as he tuned out. An insect was caught between the thick panes of glass and he watched in amusement as it crawled its way to the edge, only to be confounded and forced to turn back again. It was doomed to die there. Although he found this thought hilarious, the corner of his mouth only twitched a little. As always, his face betrayed little genuine emotion. He turned to face his team of senior managers, all sitting around the conference table, arguing inanely. Marcus looked at them with contempt. What a bunch of fools. Clapping his hands once and briskly rubbing them together, they all stopped suddenly and turned to face him with a mixture of anticipation and fear in their faces. He gave them his killer smile. “OK team, what say we break for a spot of lunch?” He turned to face the youngest one, a shiny faced graduate from one of the top universities wearing a suit that was far too expensive and a tie that was far too ambitious. Time for some culling. “Peter, go to the deli and order some sandwiches. I don’t want them delivered. Wait until they are prepared and then bring up yourself” “Yes sir, shall I charge them to the company account?” Marcus turned his death grin up to 11. “No, you little prick. Pay for them yourself.” Peter turned red and mumbled an apology, clumsily stumbling his way to the door and tripping over the Director of Marketing in the process. “Watch where you going, you idiot” she petulantly barked, making the most of his misfortune. Her name was Andrea and Marcus was getting bored with her. He turned his gaze upon her, and the temperature in the room dropped. No-one else made a sound. Marcus spoke to her as if he was scolding a naughty child. “Andrea.” She looked up at him and the fear washed over her. Marcus could feel it. And it felt good. “Andrea”, he repeated gently. “You are a cunt. And you are fired. Get out of the building. You have four minutes before I instruct security to throw you out.” He sat down and gazed around the table. They were all whimpering on the inside and he could feel it. Andrea left with her head bowed. Marcus leaned back and drew in a deep breath, savouring the terror in the meeting. They were all well paid, ridiculously well paid. And he owned them. And just like toys, if you own them, you can choose when to play with them, when to break and when to throw them away. “So, my little space cadets, when you have finished gorging yourself on Peter’s sandwiches, I want some answers. You have forty-five minutes. I want to build the biggest orphanage the city has ever seen and want to know how you are going to achieve this. You have twenty million dollars spend and one year to achieve it. No excuses and no failures. I’ll be back in 45.” Without waiting for an answer, he strode to the door and with a parting “enjoy your lunch” he made his way back to his luxurious office. Closing the door carefully behind him, he sat at his antique desk and dialled the hot-line to the Chief of Police. The phone was answered on the second ring. Without any greeting, Marcus spoke clearly and purposely into the mouthpiece. “The orphanage will be built in twelve months. I am also putting up the funding for a new hospital and arranging for you to get a commendation from the mayor. You know what I want in return.” Without waiting for a reply, he hung up the receiver. Leaning back in his leather chair he sighed contentedly. He turned on the radio to his favourite station. Nothing like a bit of hip hop to sharpen the edges. Might even buy the station. The thought amused him.

It seems as though the roaches move to the sound of the beats over a pair of my slightly broken headphones as I nod back and forth pulling words from the sky and making them land on the page with the impact of a fighter jet landing. The apartment that I share with my peers is so fucking full that I only have a corner of a room, but it does provided enough space to write and sleep and for me that is enough I suppose. People would often question why do I want to be a rapper, you don’t have the charisma. But the skills with the pen take people by surprise. I’m sorry I know that sounds egotistical but I am an emcee. I am going to change, I always tell people as every rhyme I pen is another bullet to fire to the industry and I want clip after clip after clip ready because I’m heavily on my way to go to war. “Chris, bro. Get your fucking head away from the paper we gotta get the fuck outta here.” I look over at Drew then back at my paper putting back on the headphones and swallowing my frustration that Drew has not stopped popping acid for about a week and had slipped into full psychosis. There was nothing that anyone that lived there could do because first of all he somehow owned the place and second of all when he is like this anyone he comes into contact with other than his housemates he wants to stab or shoot depending on which of the two weapons is closer to him. “Look man, lay down for a minute and watch your Manga shows. I’ll bring you some weed in a minute, no-one is coming for you me or any of us.” Now completely distracted and thrown off my pen game I put my headphones held together by tape in a draw without a knob. While it’s open, I pull out some of the best weed you can get your hands on this side of the town. After rolling it, I walk down the very small hallway where two people “rent” out a mattress lodged in corners for $50 a week. Their possessions are completely stuffed and stored into garbage bags that are sometimes used as a pillow if they cake the real ones in too much vomit from getting fucked up. Really fitting into the culture that Drew encourages whether he is aware of it or not. Drew is watching Manga on TV and recording it with his smartphone. This was unusual if you didn’t know him but very much the norm if you stay for 24 hours or more. I decide to light up the weed and I draw back holding it in while closing my eyes with my head tilted to the roof almost waiting for God to answer prayers that have gone unnoticed my whole life. Then after one big hit I pass it to Drew and he smokes that thing like it’s the antidote to his illness which in a way it kind of is. “You all good Drew?”. I ask. No response is given just a selfish fixation on animation, drugs and God knows what else. I look around the place and I’m not stupid knowing I need a change but if you live in the gutter long enough you become familiar with the trash. Walking back to my segment of a room, the headphones go back on out of the fucked draw. The scrap paper and cheap pen and ready to go too but one thing that is near enough perfect in this house are the rhymes that bless the paper. I take it back I’m not sorry for my ego when it comes to this.

Marcus never thinks in terms like “having time to kill”, although that phrase does amuse him. In about half an hour his team will be trembling and waiting for him, their sandwiches uneaten. Now is a good time to invest in real estate. At least it will be in a few minutes. He spins out of his leather chair and presses a hidden button that locks the door of his office and simultaneously slides open one of the book cases at the back of his office. The bookshelves are imposing. Hundreds of leather-bound books with everything from Plato to the Marquis De Sade, and all in between. And, although no-one knows this, Marcus has read every single one. He pauses to caress the spines of two of his favourites. William Blake’s “Marriage of Heaven and Hell” and “Being and Nothingness” by Jean-Paul Sartre. The bookcase has revealed a smallish, hidden room, with a high specification Linux computer, a complex network of routers that encrypt his IP addresses and everything that a black hat hacker would need. Whistling the Kyrie Eleison by J.S Bach, he logs in, his perfectly manicured fingers flying over the keyboard. The stock market doesn’t even realise it is being hit until after it has recovered. Millions of fake transactions cause the stock market to go belly up. Marcus buys some prime real estate, at the bottom end of the curve and within minutes the transaction is complete. The site of both the orphanage and the hospital bought at 1970s prices. Marcus sits back in satisfaction. Then, on a whim he hacks the mayor’s social media account, buries some contrived obscene photographs and text messages in the metadata and logs off. A nice bit of insurance in case the city council decides to get awkward about planning permission. Marcus gets up, locks the secret room and makes his way back to the meeting room. Sure enough, a large plate of very expensive sandwiches are untouched, the edges starting to curl. Marcus keeps the whole building at 23.5 degrees, just warm enough to make people in suits feel uncomfortable. And he likes the heat anyway. The electronic whiteboard has some hastily drawn sketches and calculations on it. Not bad, actually. They all turn to face him, their hearts pounding in their dry throats. Smiling like a kind uncle, he gives them their instructions. Finance, construction, legal, human resources, IT and the PR departments are given the next steps to follow and wordlessly they quiver from the room back to their departments to vent their frustrated anger and fear on their subordinates. All except Marketing and Communications. But that side of things can wait.

Hours have gone by and I have almost written myself to sleep. But almost two tracks later I find one of the moments that I most cherish in my life, because I feel like someone who I believe I really am. But the world doesn’t know it yet. More importantly, like most artists I have a story and a message to share. Looking at the dirt deep under my fingernails as I’m spinning the pen deep in thought, I know things have to change and change they will. My biggest problem is that I’m flat broke, and don’t have the money to even record a snippet of a track. This is why I have been spitting live everywhere I can, hoping that people who can help me get to the next level notice me. I would not let them down or regret it, but on this side of town nothing comes free, and no-one can be trusted. Of course, there are few exceptions but those people tend to bounce to a better place pretty quickly. I am yet to reach this, which is why I live and breathe this dream. But I never want my nightmare of a life to take over the dream of possibility. But it tries to, especially lately. The latest track I have been working on has been about growing up an orphan with no stability in his life until he found hip hop. “Chris! Rent!” I look behind me and see Drew standing at my door, fidgeting. He needs a fix but I paid him yesterday and we both know that. I hope. “Drew bro, I gave it to you yesterday. Just like every Wednesday since I moved in 6 months ago.” He looks up in the sky and I assume he is remembering but I soon realise he is just looking at a fly. It buzzes away and he follows it, eyes locked and facing the roof. Amazing. Then I hear him kick the guys in the hallway asking them for rent, but they just moan in discomfort and he mirrors that sound and goes to his room next door and slams the door. Straight after that, the power goes out and that’s it for me, I’ll blaze what’s left of this spliff, and wake up to this shit all over again. Bills are rarely paid on time if at all.

Marcus carefully measures his life out, not in coffee spoons, but in discrete, efficient packages of time. Everything is done for a reason and he prepares meticulously for his monthly nocturnal excursions into the underbelly of the city. His clothing is warm and comfortable, but nondescript. He has the unique gift of being the centre of attention in one moment, and invisible in a crowd the next. Tonight, he opts for the latter. His Walther PPK is snugly fitted into an underarm holster, not that he has ever had to use it. It just amuses him to carry it around and besides, he likes guns. He is visiting another part of his empire tonight. The downtown tenement flats in which the dregs of society huddle to eke out their miserable existences. Set up as a faceless corporation decades ago, these buildings belong to Marcus but the paperwork is so entangled that no-one would ever uncover him as the owner. He doesn’t need the money, but tonight he will collect in person the pathetic sub-letting rent from the two-bit gangsters, drug dealers, pimps and illegal immigrants for whom these brownstone buildings are a type of home. He knows exactly who his tenants are, every one of the two hundred and twenty-one in his block. And the sub-tenants, from whom these people extort rent for a pitiable corner of a room, well, they must number in their thousands. A useful body of people if ever needed them. Undocumented, unrecorded and under the radar. Marcus takes the elevator down from his penthouse apartment. The black Range Rover, is waiting for him out front, and the security guard opens the door of the lobby silently and with eyes averted. He knows better than to speak. The car door opens smoothly and automatically and without a word, Marcus climbs in. The door closes and with blacked-out windows, the Range Rover glides away from the luxury apartment block into the fading light of late evening.