The meeting commenced at precisely 6:00 p.m., though Harold had insisted they call it “assembly” in all written notes, lest anyone intercept their coded calendar entries and suspect a coup. In truth, the word fit. Eleanor counted every detail as she entered: the curtains drawn against the dusk, the lamp hooded in an old baseball cap for “operational security,” the array of snacks on the end table (all single-serve and at least two months past the sell-by date), and, most imposing of all, the reams of documentation littered across Harold’s rolling desk.
George was first to speak, as always. He paced the length of the desk like a prosecuting attorney, the heel of his orthopedic shoe clicking in a precise, accusatory rhythm. “This is criminal activity, plain and simple,” he announced, his voice pitched so even the dust mites might take notice. He tapped the Project Moonlight dossier with a single, squared-off finger. “You realize the kind of sentences people get for this? I’ve seen less paperwork for a murder trial.”
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Rod’s Fiction Universe to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.