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Authors: Brad Meltzer
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date—where decisions get made.
“I’ll split it with you,” Shep says.
6
E xcuse me?” I ask as Charlie moves in next to me.
“No joke,” Shep says. “Three ways—a million each.”
“You gotta be kidding,” Charlie blurts.
“So it
was
you who sent the first letter,” I say.
Shep stays silent.
So does Charlie. His teeth flick against his bottom lip. Half of it’s disbelief and the other half ’s…
Charlie’s whole face lights up.
.… pure adrenalized excitement.
“This could easily be the single best day of my life,” Charlie beams. The boy couldn’t hold a grudge if it was glued to his
chest. I’m different.
Turning to Shep, I add, “You were just in here blaming us, and now you expect us to hold hands and be partners?”
“Listen, Oliver, you can chew my head off all you want, but just realize if you blow the whistle on me, I’m gonna blow it
right back on you.”
I cock my head sideways. “Are you threatening me?”
“That depends what you want the outcome to be,” Shep shoots back.
Standing in front of my desk, I watch Shep carefully. Deep down, I may not be a thief, but I’m also no sucker.
“We’re all here for the same thing,” Shep quickly adds. “So you can either be a mule and get nothing, or you can share the
profits and walk away with a little something in your pocket.”
“I vote for the profits,” Charlie interrupts.
“Screw this,” I say, storming to the door. “Even I’m not that stupid.”
Shep reaches out and grabs me by the biceps. Not hard—just enough to stop me. “It’s not stupid, Oliver.” As Shep says the
words, the swagger’s gone. So’s the Secret Service. “If I wanted to blame it on you… or turn you in… I’d be talking to Lapidus
right now. Instead, I’m here.”
Even as I pull away, Shep has my undivided attention.
He looks up at the NYU diploma on my wall and studies it carefully. “You think you’re the only ones who have that dream? When
I first signed up with the Service, I thought I was going straight to the White House. Maybe start with the Vice President…
work my way up to the First Lady—it’s a nice life when you think about it. What I didn’t realize was that before you get on
Protective, you usually spend five years or so on Investigations: counterfeiting, financial crimes, all the scut work we never
get credit for.
“So there I am, a few years out of Brooklyn College, in our Miami office in Florida. Anyway, on the drive from Miami to Melbourne,
there was this wide-open stretch of unlit highway. Drug-runners would land their planes there, dump duffel bags full of money
and drugs, and then have their partners pick it up and drive it down to Miami.
“Night after night, I’d fantasize about finding these guys—and every time, the dream was the same: In the sky, I’d see the
red lights of a fleeing plane. Instinctively, I’d cut my own lights, slow the car, and stumble upon an army green duffel bag
full of ten million dollars in cash.” Turning back to us, Shep adds, “If it ever happened, I’d throw the bag in my trunk,
leave my badge behind, and just keep on driving.
“Of course, the only problem was, I never found the plane. And after missing four consecutive promotions and barely surviving
on government pay, I realized that I don’t want to work until the day they put me in the ground. I saw what it did to my dad…
forty years for a handshake and a fake gold plaque. There’s got to be more to life than that. And with Duckworth… a dead man
with three million dollars… it may not be as much as the clients here have, but I’ll tell you… for guys like us… it’s as good
as we’re gonna get.”
Charlie nods his head ever so slightly. The way Shep talks about his dad… there’re some things you can’t make up. “So how
do we know you won’t play Take the Money and Run?” I ask.
“What if I let you pick where the transfers go? You can start
“I’ll split it with you,” Shep says.
6
E xcuse me?” I ask as Charlie moves in next to me.
“No joke,” Shep says. “Three ways—a million each.”
“You gotta be kidding,” Charlie blurts.
“So it
was
you who sent the first letter,” I say.
Shep stays silent.
So does Charlie. His teeth flick against his bottom lip. Half of it’s disbelief and the other half ’s…
Charlie’s whole face lights up.
.… pure adrenalized excitement.
“This could easily be the single best day of my life,” Charlie beams. The boy couldn’t hold a grudge if it was glued to his
chest. I’m different.
Turning to Shep, I add, “You were just in here blaming us, and now you expect us to hold hands and be partners?”
“Listen, Oliver, you can chew my head off all you want, but just realize if you blow the whistle on me, I’m gonna blow it
right back on you.”
I cock my head sideways. “Are you threatening me?”
“That depends what you want the outcome to be,” Shep shoots back.
Standing in front of my desk, I watch Shep carefully. Deep down, I may not be a thief, but I’m also no sucker.
“We’re all here for the same thing,” Shep quickly adds. “So you can either be a mule and get nothing, or you can share the
profits and walk away with a little something in your pocket.”
“I vote for the profits,” Charlie interrupts.
“Screw this,” I say, storming to the door. “Even I’m not that stupid.”
Shep reaches out and grabs me by the biceps. Not hard—just enough to stop me. “It’s not stupid, Oliver.” As Shep says the
words, the swagger’s gone. So’s the Secret Service. “If I wanted to blame it on you… or turn you in… I’d be talking to Lapidus
right now. Instead, I’m here.”
Even as I pull away, Shep has my undivided attention.
He looks up at the NYU diploma on my wall and studies it carefully. “You think you’re the only ones who have that dream? When
I first signed up with the Service, I thought I was going straight to the White House. Maybe start with the Vice President…
work my way up to the First Lady—it’s a nice life when you think about it. What I didn’t realize was that before you get on
Protective, you usually spend five years or so on Investigations: counterfeiting, financial crimes, all the scut work we never
get credit for.
“So there I am, a few years out of Brooklyn College, in our Miami office in Florida. Anyway, on the drive from Miami to Melbourne,
there was this wide-open stretch of unlit highway. Drug-runners would land their planes there, dump duffel bags full of money
and drugs, and then have their partners pick it up and drive it down to Miami.
“Night after night, I’d fantasize about finding these guys—and every time, the dream was the same: In the sky, I’d see the
red lights of a fleeing plane. Instinctively, I’d cut my own lights, slow the car, and stumble upon an army green duffel bag
full of ten million dollars in cash.” Turning back to us, Shep adds, “If it ever happened, I’d throw the bag in my trunk,
leave my badge behind, and just keep on driving.
“Of course, the only problem was, I never found the plane. And after missing four consecutive promotions and barely surviving
on government pay, I realized that I don’t want to work until the day they put me in the ground. I saw what it did to my dad…
forty years for a handshake and a fake gold plaque. There’s got to be more to life than that. And with Duckworth… a dead man
with three million dollars… it may not be as much as the clients here have, but I’ll tell you… for guys like us… it’s as good
as we’re gonna get.”
Charlie nods his head ever so slightly. The way Shep talks about his dad… there’re some things you can’t make up. “So how
do we know you won’t play Take the Money and Run?” I ask.
“What if I let you pick where the transfers go? You can start
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