A key tied to the biometric credentials of a man named Jack Thornton. Credentials that this idiot, she gestured vaguely behind her toward Greg deleted yesterday afternoon. Jack leaned against his door frame, crossing his arms. He didn't look intimidated. He looked exhausted.
"I don't work for Omni Corp anymore, Miss Cross," Jack said flatly. "I was fired, terminated with cause, according to my paperwork." Greg let out a pathetic squeak. "Jack, come on, man. The whole company is going under.
You have to fix this." Jack slowly shifted his gaze to Greg. "Looks like you should have spent more time maintaining the servers and less time criticizing my wardrobe, Greg." Evelyn held up a hand. The silence was immediate.
She looked at Jack, her expression unreadable. I don't care about the petty squables of middle management. Evelyn said, pulling a sleek tablet from her coat. I care that my company is currently bleeding $40 million an hour because our client data is inaccessible. I am told you have the master key.
I am told you wrote the ghost protocol. I wrote it, Jack confirmed. 8 years ago. Before your board decided I was too expensive to keep on the engineering team, Evelyn didn't blink. I need the system back online.
Now, like I said, Jack replied, his voice hardening. I don't work for you. Evelyn Cross tilted her head, a shark assessing a seal. But she saw something in Jack's eyes, something immovable. She saw a man who had absolutely nothing left to lose.
"What do you want, Mr. Thornton?" She asked quietly. Jack looked at the closed door of his daughter's bedroom. Then he looked at Evelyn and finally at Greg. First, Jack said, his voice echoing in the small, dingy apartment.
I want him on his knees, Greg froze, the remaining color drained from his face, leaving behind a sickly pale sheen of sweat. He looked up at Jack, then turned his desperate gaze to Evelyn Cross. Miss Cross, be reasonable, Greg stammered, his voice cracking. I'm a vice president. You can't let a disgruntled basement tech humiliate me like this.
Evelyn didn't even look at him. She kept her eyes fixed on Jack, her expression, a mask of clinical observation. She was running a costbenefit analysis in real time. $40 million an hour versus the dignity of a man she intended to fire. Anyway, it wasn't a difficult calculation.
Drop to your knees, Greg, or I will have my security contractors break both of your legs and force you into the position, Evelyn said. Her tone wasn't angry. It was informational. The two massive men flanking Greg shifted their weight, their hands tightening slightly on his arms. Greg swallowed hard, his breath hitched.
Slowly, agonizingly, he let his knees buckle. They hit the cheap scuffed lenolium of Jack's living room floor with a dull thud. He looked down at the ground, his shoulders shaking with silent, impotent rage and humiliation. Jack stared down at the man who had tormented him for years. The man who had mocked a sick child to score cheap points in a breakroom.
Jack felt the anger that had kept him awake all night begin to cool, hardening into something cold and sharp. He didn't feel triumphant. He just felt tired. But he knew how this game was played, and for the first time in a decade, he held all the cards. "Look at me," Jack ordered.