I was standing by the reception desk, leaning on the polished surface and tapping my fingers against the wood. Beside me, Jacob stood with a frown, arms crossed over his chest. We were both watching Marcus methodically hammer the head of yet another errand boy into the reception room wall, and neither of us was in any hurry to stop him.
The guy had shown up about an hour ago. Decent suit, smooth speech, standard offer: ten percent of the company's monthly income, and no problems. Classic racketeering, wrapped in words about partnership and mutually beneficial cooperation. Marcus had politely asked him to leave, and the guy could have walked out on his own two feet. Instead, he pulled a knife and pressed the blade to the secretary's throat.
For a man his size, Marcus moved instantly. He caught the knife hand, twisted the wrist, drove an elbow into the man's jaw. The knife clattered to the floor, the secretary stumbled back against the wall, and Marcus was already dragging our guest across the reception room to that same wall, which welcomed the visitor's head with open arms.
Impact. A dull thud, specks across the wallpaper.
Another impact. The guy groaned and tried to break free, as if that was going to happen.
A third. His legs buckled, and Marcus was holding him up only by the collar now.
"Enough," I said quietly.
Marcus opened his fingers. The guy slid down the wall, leaving a reddish smear on the wallpaper. His face was a bloody mess, his nose broken, dark saliva bubbling from his split mouth. Every breath came with a rasp.
I walked over and crouched beside him.
"Listen carefully, because I won't repeat myself. Tell your boss: I don't need his protection, I don't need his help, and I don't need anything from him at all. If he wants to talk, he can come himself, and I'll personally tell him to go fuck himself. But if even one of his people raises a hand against my employees again, I'll stop being this kind. And today I was very kind."
The guy nodded, dark drops falling from his chin onto his shirt. His lips moved, but only a wheeze came out.
I stood and nodded to Marcus. He grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck, dragged him to the exit, kicked the door open, and threw him onto the sidewalk. A couple of passersby recoiled; someone gasped.
Marcus returned, wiping his palms with a handkerchief.
"How's the secretary?"
"Scared, but unhurt." He glanced at the wall and grimaced. "We'll need new wallpaper."
"We'll replace it." I straightened and turned to Jacob. "How many of these have we had in the last month?"
Jacob pulled out his battered notebook and flipped through it.
"This one makes ten. Four from the Irish, five from the Italians, one from the Puerto Ricans. Looks like everyone finally figured out where Lucky disappeared to. Saw what you built and decided they wanted a piece."
"And all of them were refused."
"All of them got punched in the face," Jacob said with a crooked smirk. "The new boys are working well, no arguing that. The problem is they keep coming back. And each next one arrives with harder demands."
He was right, and we both knew it. The first messengers had come almost apologetically, saying it was nothing personal, just business. Then the tone changed, and hints about consequences began. Then the hints became direct threats. Today's man had already pulled a knife and put it to a living person's throat. The escalation was moving fast, and I didn't like the next step at all.
I walked to the window. The guy was still lying on the sidewalk, trying to get up. Some passerby helped him, caught him under the elbow, but the man shoved him off and hobbled away, pressing both hands to his broken face.
"They're testing us," I said without turning around. "Pushing little by little, increasing the pressure, waiting for us to bend. Standard tactic."
"And it works almost every time," Jacob confirmed. "Most people give in after the second or third visit. Easier to pay than go to war."
"We're not most people."
"I noticed. But they did too. And very soon they'll stop sending boys with knives."
I turned back.
"You think it's going to get ugly?"
"I'm certain it's going to get bloody ugly, boss. They've invested time, resources, reputation. Backing off now means showing weakness, and in their world weakness is worse than death. The number of Italians especially bothers me. Five in one month isn't habitual shakedown. They're the most interested."
Marcus shoved the bloody handkerchief into his pocket.
"Boss, maybe we should call the police? He threatened someone with a knife. We have witnesses."
I shook my head.
"The cops will only complicate everything. They'll open a case, start asking questions, dig into our business. I have some connections there, but crime has no fewer. The police won't help here."
"Then what do we do?"
"Prepare." I turned to Jacob. "How many people do we have who can actually protect our sites if this starts?"
"Thirty on posts. Another eight I'm vetting, all veterans. But that's not enough. If a real fight starts, we won't even have enough for rapid response, never mind covering key employees."
"Then we need more. Much more. It's time to seriously develop Aegis Security."
Jacob nodded, and from his face I could tell he had been waiting for this conversation for a long time.
"I can recruit another fifty men in a month, month and a half. There are plenty of veterans right now. After Vietnam, many can't find normal work, especially with the economy in the gutter. But that's serious money, and vetting each one won't be easy."
"We have money. Hire them. Run every candidate through Prescott. I gave him access to my contacts, so vetting shouldn't be a problem."
"Understood."
I went back to the window. Beyond the glass, New York spread out in all its rotten glory. Criminal groups divided territories and spheres of influence, businesses paid tribute or ceased to exist, people vanished in alleys and surfaced in the Hudson with a hole in the back of the head.
I didn't want to become part of that world. I wanted to build a legal business, earn money honestly, maybe even do some good. But in 1970s New York, it was impossible to do business and not collide with crime. Corruption soaked every floor of power, half the cops were on mafia payrolls, and politicians took bribes with the ease of men fulfilling their job descriptions.
And now this rotting city was baring its teeth at me and demanding payment for the mere right to exist.
"Jacob," I turned, "we need to change our approach. We keep reacting when the problem is already on our doorstep. What we need is a system that sees threats long before they reach us."
"Intelligence," he nodded, like a man who had reached the same conclusion long ago. "I've been thinking about that. But it's a different story altogether. We need people with access to the criminal environment. People who can collect information without anyone suspecting anything."
"We'll find them."
"That isn't our level, boss. We need professionals from the services. People who've handled agent work and know that kitchen from the inside."
"Then start looking. Through army channels, veterans' organizations, anyone. I need people who know how to obtain information and stay invisible doing it."
Marcus, who had been listening silently, cleared his throat.
"Boss, maybe it's worth making an arrangement with one of the groups? Pay a small tribute to one side and get protection from the rest? Half the city works like that."
I gave him a long look.
"Marcus, you've worked for me for more than a year. In all that time, have I ever agreed to blackmail?"
He thought about it.
"No."
"And I won't agree now. Pay once, and they'll come back for more. Then again, already for a larger amount. Then they'll start sticking their noses into management, putting their people in key positions, meddling in decisions. A year will pass, and the company will be mine only on paper. Understood?"
"Understood, boss."
"Good. Now find a painter and clean this up. By morning, the reception room should look as if nothing happened."
Marcus nodded and left. Jacob and I stayed alone.
"You're sure?" he asked quietly. "A war with organized crime in New York rarely ends well for businessmen."
"I'm sure." I ran my hand through my hair, combing it back. "I have no other way out, Jacob. If I give in now, I'll keep giving in for the rest of my life. And I didn't crawl through all this shit just to become someone's milk cow."
One corner of his mouth twitched.
"You're stubborn, boss."
"That's what they had in stock. No returns."
Jacob pulled out his notebook and began writing notes.
"All right. I'll start recruiting and probe contacts in the intelligence world at the same time. I still have a few acquaintances from the service. Maybe someone can lead us to the right specialists."
"Do it. And one more thing. I need a strike team. A small unit capable of making anyone regret what they've done. Pick from your own people, and if there aren't enough, look outside."
Jacob looked up from the notebook.
"Boss, you understand this is a completely different level? Ordinary veterans are used to blood, know basic tactics, and understand which end of a rifle to hold. But you're talking about elite, right?"
"Right. Twelve men. The best of the best. Former special forces, Marines, Rangers. Men who won't run when things truly start smelling of burnt meat."
"Those boys know their worth. There's always work for them, and not for pennies."
"How much?"
He calculated in his head.
"Twelve thousand a year per man, minimum. Plus bonuses for difficult operations, plus equipment, training, operating expenses. It'll be very expensive."
"Do it. We'll find the money."
"When do we start?"
"Yesterday. The sooner you assemble the team, the better."
Jacob put away his notebook and headed for the door. He stopped there.
"Boss, are you ready for what may begin?"
"What exactly?"
"Killing. If we create a strike team and get involved in these disputes, people will die. And not only on their side. Everything before this will look like children's games."
I held his gaze.
"I'm ready to do what is necessary for the company's survival and the protection of the people who work for me. If that requires killing, then I'll kill."
"Just wanted to hear you say it." He nodded with satisfaction and left.
I remained alone in the reception room, where the smell of blood still hung in the air. Marcus was already dragging in a bucket of water and rags, preparing to scrub the wall. The secretary sat at her desk, pale, her fingers visibly trembling as she reached for the phone.
An ordinary day at my company.
We gathered in the conference room on the fourth floor. A long table of dark wood, twelve leather chairs, large windows overlooking Manhattan. Usually, meetings with partners were held here, but today only our own people sat at the table: me, Jacob, Ray, Victor, Eddie, Frank, Thomas, and a couple of disabled guys who had proven themselves well lately. The rest were on posts. Someone had to watch the perimeter while we built plans.
I stood at the head of the table and placed my notebook in front of me. The pages were covered in notes from the last few weeks: scraps of thoughts, structure diagrams, names, questions without answers.
"The situation is simple," I began, looking over everyone present. "They've decided to squeeze us. We don't know exactly who is behind it yet, though we have guesses. But the fact remains: we are not ready for what is happening."
Ray nodded and tugged at his empty sleeve.
"Types show up, we chase them off. They come back, we chase them off again. We can do that forever. We need to make them afraid to come here with demands in the first place."
"Exactly." I tapped my finger against the notebook. "We keep reacting when the problem is already at the door. We need to see threats in advance and put them out on approach, not patch holes afterward."
Victor, who usually listened more than he spoke, raised his voice.
"Intelligence."
"Yes, but intelligence alone isn't enough. We need a whole system of four directions, each with its own tasks and area of responsibility."
I opened the notebook to the page with the diagram I had drawn the night before. Four blocks connected by arrows. It looked simple, but the devil, as usual, hid in the details.
"First direction: physical security. Guarding buildings, warehouses, offices. Protection of key people. Cargo escort. Rapid response groups. We hire about a hundred men. You handle this, Jacob."
Jacob took out his battered notebook and began writing.
"A hundred men," he repeated aloud. "That's serious money, and not just salaries."
"That's the point. Aegis Security stops being our internal guard force. We begin operating as a full-fledged security company. We send vetted people to contracts for other firms: office security, cargo escort, personal protection. We train rookies, test them, then put them to work as well. That brings in income that will partially cover the cost of maintaining the whole structure."
"Reasonable," Jacob nodded. "Security business is growing right now. Demand is high. If we offer quality service, clients will come."
"Exactly. Plus, it's legal cover. When you have a hundred-man security company with licenses and contracts, no one asks unnecessary questions about weapons and training. Everything looks legal and clean."
"And the strike team?"
"The strike team officially does not exist. Formally, they are ordinary guards on the general roster, simply the best of the best. In reality, they train separately, receive triple pay, and are ready for tasks that don't get written into documents. Write this down separately: they do not talk about their work. At all. To anyone."
Jacob wrote it down and raised his eyes.
"Understood. What's next?"
I ran my finger along the diagram.
"Second direction: external intelligence. People on the streets, in bars, in circles where crime moves. Informants from different layers of society. Some in unions, some in the police, some among petty thieves and dealers. We need to know what is happening in the shadow world: which groups are gaining strength, who is fighting whom, where money and power are flowing. Later, we'll need our own eyes and ears in other companies too."
Thomas scratched the back of his head thoughtfully.
"That's very expensive, boss. Informants need to be found, checked, paid constantly. And the risks are enormous. What if one of them works for several sides at once? A double agent who sells us out to the same gangsters we're trying to protect ourselves from?"
"Which is exactly why the third direction is counterintelligence and internal security. A department that watches all the others. Checks employees for reliability, tracks leaks, catches rats. Plus technical protection: detecting wiretaps, securing phone lines, sweeping for bugs."
Eddie whistled, leaning back in his chair.
"Sounds paranoid."
"Realistic." I looked at him sharply. "Information about us is reaching criminals somehow. Someone is talking. Maybe an employee sold out. Maybe a contractor said too much in a bar after his third drink. Or maybe someone deliberately planted a mole. We need to find out and shut it down."
Frank leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"And the fourth direction?"
I hesitated. This part was the most difficult, because it sounded like direct distrust toward the people sitting around this table.
"Internal control and audit. A department that monitors financial flows, procedural compliance, ethical violations, abuse of authority. An independent structure inside the structure."
Ray frowned. The scar on his cheek whitened, as it always did when he tensed.
"Wait. You want to create a department that spies on us? On our own?"
"Not spies. Controls." I held his gaze. "Ray, right now we're all sitting here as honest guys who just want to protect the business and earn a living. Correct?"
He nodded, uncertainly.
"Now imagine what happens in a year. We have a hundred armed men. Connections in the police and City Hall. Access to confidential information about other companies and groups. A lot of money passing through our hands. What stops one of us from abusing that?"
Silence settled over the table.
"Nothing," I answered myself. "Power corrupts, and that isn't a pretty phrase, it's a historical fact. People change when they get strength and impunity. They start thinking rules are written for everyone but them. So someone needs to monitor that. An independent person who doesn't care about friendship or personal sympathies. A fanatic of procedure and honesty. Someone everyone will be afraid to lie to, including me."
Jacob leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
"Ambitious plan, boss. Very ambitious. Only one nuance: specialists like that are nearly impossible to find. Those are people from intelligence services, from secret programs the newspapers don't write about."
"I know. But they exist. We just have to look where people usually don't."
I turned the notebook page. The next sheet was filled with names and short notes, the result of an entire week of work: calls to familiar detectives, conversations at the golf club, studying newspaper articles about firings in government structures, asking veterans about former comrades. And, naturally, my own memories.
"Let's go in order." I tapped the first block of the diagram. "Physical security. Jacob remains head. No questions there. But he needs assistants and instructors."
I walked along the table, gathering my thoughts.
"Our security has to be the best in the city. Not boys with clubs standing at doors, but professionals others measure themselves against. You're all military, and you understand this better than I do, but I want to raise the bar so high that working for Aegis becomes a mark of quality. So when a man says he worked for us, everyone understands: this guy knows his business."
Jacob nodded. The others listened carefully.
"For that, we need constant drilling. Physical training, shooting, tactics, hand-to-hand combat, all paid, naturally. Someone can't handle the load, starts whining? We pay severance and find the next one. No favors, no lowering standards. The only people allowed to slack physically are our disabled men, but they have another task: teaching rookies and drilling them into combat readiness."
Jacob wrote, nodding occasionally.
"But training is only part of it," I continued. "I need you to create a brotherhood. Not just a group of people working for wages, but a real team. Code of honor, rules of conduct, a culture of mutual help, call it whatever you want, but that's the essence."
Eddie frowned.
"Boss, brotherhood was in the army. This is civilian life. People work for money."
"I understand that for many it will be just a job. Came in, stood a shift, got paid, went home. But I want us to become more than that. I want the men ready to cover a comrade's back, help if someone has problems, talk about difficulties instead of quietly nursing resentment."
Frank cleared his throat.
"And if the problems are serious?"
"Then directly to me. Financial trouble, family issues, conflicts at work, anything. I don't promise to solve everything, but I promise to listen and try to help. In the end, it benefits me if my people are satisfied with their lives and thinking about work, not personal problems."
Several of the men nodded. It was clear they liked the idea. The army had a similar system: the commander cares for his subordinates, the subordinates respond with loyalty and readiness to follow orders. For people with a military background, that was a familiar and understandable arrangement.
"Now, instructors." I returned to the table. "I'll bring in a couple myself. I'm already negotiating with people considered legends in their fields. But that won't be enough. Jacob, you need to find more specialists. Men who will drag our boys through blood and sweat."
Jacob flipped through his notebook.
"I have contacts. Guys from my battalion who came back from Vietnam and couldn't settle properly. Good fighters, good instructors, now working as loaders or night guards for pennies."
"How many?"
"About twenty I know personally and can vouch for. I can reach another twenty through them, but those will need heavier vetting."
"Start gathering them. In a month, I want a list of candidates with full dossiers: biography, military service, recommendations, where they work now. Every one goes through Prescott before hiring. No exceptions."
"Understood, boss."
Victor raised a hand.
"What about specialization? Guarding warehouses and guarding people are completely different things. Cargo escort is a separate science with its own specifics. Generalists won't handle this. We need specialists for every task."
"You're thinking correctly." I nodded. "Jacob, write it down. You'll need instructors in at least three key areas."
I bent one finger.
"First: personal protection for VIPs. How to protect a person in a crowd, how to act under threat, how to evacuate a client under fire. Escorts on foot, in cars, in public places. Everything needed for bodyguard work."
A second finger.
"Second: tactical work in buildings. Patrols, access control, response to intrusion. How to defend an office or warehouse from an attack, how to work as a team during assault or defense. Urban tactics applied to security work."
A third.
"Third: transport escort. Route planning, countermeasures against ambushes, actions during an attack on a convoy. Coordination between vehicles, communications, weapons work in the tight space of a car."
Jacob wrote quickly, without lifting the pen from the paper.
"That's three different specializations. We'll need separate people for each. One instructor won't cover everything."
"You'll find them. You have contacts, experience, and an understanding of exactly whom to look for. Plus, you can offer good money. An instructor earns more than an ordinary guard. For competent men, that's a serious incentive."
Jacob frowned, but kept writing.
"Physical security budget: three hundred thousand a year, plus whatever Aegis Security earns itself. That includes guard salaries, instructors, equipment, and operating expenses."
Eddie whistled.
"That's a lot of money for a security firm. You work thoroughly as always, boss."
"Security is expensive. Especially when someone is trying to kill you or ruin you. Moving on. External intelligence. This is the most difficult direction because finding the right people…"
I stopped, choosing my words.
"To be honest, I don't even know where to look."
Thomas leaned forward.
"I can probe a couple of contacts."
His face darkened, as if he had remembered something he would rather not.
"In Vietnam, there were guys who worked with the local population. Recruited informants among the Viet Cong, built agent networks in villages. After the war, no one needed them. The government wrote them off, and in civilian life no one is eager to hire a man with that skill set. Some drank themselves half to death, some live under bridges, some disappeared entirely."
He rubbed his face with both hands.
"That kind of work does things to your head. Constant tension, having to lie and pretend every day, recruiting people who later die. I was lucky I didn't completely lose it, but many didn't hold."
"If you know such people, contact them. Check their condition and willingness to work. Obviously not everyone will fit. But maybe someone is still capable of returning to the job for good money and a chance to feel needed again."
Henry Kowalski, the guy in the wheelchair, spoke up.
"I know several too. Serious injuries. One had his arm cut off when they found out who he was. Viet Cong caught him, tortured him, left him to die. He survived by a miracle, got evacuated. His head isn't in great shape now. You could say the roof is held together by bolts. But he knew his job perfectly. Worked informants better than any manual teaches."
"Henry, if the man can speak coherently, think more or less normally, and be useful, bring him. I'm giving you a quota of twenty men, but look specifically for intelligence and counterintelligence. I'll try to find good psychologists who can help them cope with trauma. Or at least teach them how to live with what's there."
Henry straightened in his wheelchair as much as he could.
"Thank you, David. Seriously. Many of those guys think they're scrap material. Useless to everyone, burdens to their families. Work will give them meaning again."
"Do it. But select strictly. I need people with damaged bodies, not damaged minds. If someone is completely gone, hears voices, sees enemies on every corner, he won't do. That's dangerous for him and for all of us."
"Understood. I'll be strict."
I turned the notebook page.
"Third direction: counterintelligence and internal security. The head of this department must be a natural paranoid. A man who trusts no one by default. Someone who checks his own mother before allowing her near secret information. Someone who lives by rules and instructions and doesn't step away from them by an inch."
Eddie grimaced.
"Sounds like some kind of psychopath."
"A healthy paranoid," I corrected. "A psychopath enjoys control and power over people. A paranoid simply does his job because he is convinced that if you don't check everyone, someone will definitely betray you. And you know what? Most of the time he's right."
Victor nodded thoughtfully.
"People like that usually work in the services. CIA counterintelligence, military police, internal security at major corporations."
"Exactly. And among them there are people kicked out for excessive principle. Those who refused to look away from their superiors' sins. Those are the ones we need."
Jacob tapped his pen against the notebook.
"And the fourth direction? Internal control. Who do we put there?"
I stayed silent for a moment, choosing the wording.
"That person must be ready to report on everyone, including himself. Where to find someone like that, I don't have the slightest idea yet."
Frank raised a hand.
"And who commands all this? We're looking at four independent departments. If each one boils in its own pot, we'll get chaos."
"I'll coordinate personally. Once a week, the heads of all directions meet: information exchange, synchronization, conflict review. Plus, I need an assistant who will track the whole picture every day."
"Who?"
"I don't know yet. I'm looking. I need someone with an analytical mind and managerial experience, someone capable of seeing connections between scattered facts and assembling them into a coherent picture."
Jacob closed his notebook.
"When do we start?"
"We already have. Everyone probes their contacts. Jacob looks for fighters and instructors. Henry and Thomas reach out to intelligence guys. Through my own channels, I'll search for the heads of the directions. Every candidate without exception goes through Prescott. In a month, I want the first concrete results: lists, dossiers, recommendations."
"Starting budget?"
"One hundred thousand for launch. Then we'll see."
Thomas raised a hand.
"And the legality of all this? Private army, intelligence, counterintelligence… We're on the edge of the law. Maybe already over it."
I let the question hang in the air for a moment.
"Everything will be legal. Aegis Security is a licensed security company in the State of New York. We have all permits, certificates, weapons licenses. We provide building security, cargo escort, personal protection for VIP clients. Plus corporate security consulting. All documented, taxes paid, reports filed."
Ray frowned.
"But intelligence and counterintelligence aren't building security."
"Officially, it's called security consulting and risk analysis. We help clients identify threats to their business, collect information about competitors within the law, check employees for reliability. Private detective agencies do the same thing. We'll simply be better organized."
"And the strike team?" Thomas persisted. "Guys with automatic weapons ready to storm buildings, is that also consulting?"
I smirked.
"The strike team officially does not exist. In the documents, it will be a specialized rapid response unit trained to protect especially important sites from armed attack. Banks hire such teams. Jewelry stores. Warehouses with expensive goods. We simply offer a premium service to clients who need serious protection."
Victor slowly nodded, digesting what he had heard.
"So on paper, everything is clean. In reality, we're building a private intelligence service with the spirit of a brotherhood and special forces skills."
"In reality… yes, that's exactly what we're doing." There was no point denying it.
Everyone went silent, taking in the scale of what we had just discussed. Then Jacob cleared his throat, drawing attention.
"Boss, we understand. Protect ourselves from crime, secure the business, stop them from eating us alive. Logical. But here's what bothers me…"
He paused.
"With the resources and people we've been talking about, you can do more than fend off crime. You can tear it out by the roots. If, of course, you give this thing time to grow and harden. This is a force that can change the balance in the city. It looks more like preparation for war than defense."
Several people nodded in agreement.
I walked to the window and silently looked at Manhattan for a while.
"You're right," I said finally, without turning around. "What I'm planning is larger than protecting one company. You know me: if I take on something, I do it fully."
I turned back.
"In the long term, I intend to grow a full PMC out of this security organization. A private military company."
Eddie straightened in his chair.
"A PMC? Seriously? That's a completely different level."
"Yes. But not now. In a few years, when we have experience, money, connections. When Aegis becomes a known brand with a spotless reputation. Then we can move internationally: guarding sites abroad, escorting cargo in dangerous regions, training foreign security forces. Legal business with enormous growth potential."
I could see the idea had hooked many of them, though questions remained. I myself didn't fully understand how to explain the real reason. I couldn't exactly say aloud that in this world gods, aliens, magic, and other nonsense existed, the kind that would make a normal person twirl a finger by his temple. That I needed an army not only against New York crime, but against the madness that sooner or later would cover all of us.
"Later, you'll understand why I started this," I said, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "For now, I'm asking you to trust me. I'm not going to run wild or start a war with the city. I'm not going to become a crime boss or build an empire of violence."
I returned to the table and leaned on it with both hands.
"The world is changing, boys. Changing fast. Economic crises, political shocks, violence in the streets. This city is rotting from the inside, and sooner or later something will break for good. When that happens, only those with enough strength to protect themselves and their people will survive."
Ray slowly nodded.
"Logical. After Vietnam, plenty of people are waiting for the country to fall apart. The economy is cracking, trust in the government is zero. Maybe it really is time to prepare for the worst."
"Exactly." I grabbed onto that thought, grateful that at least someone had given me a hook for explanation.
The meeting ended. The men began to leave, discussing details among themselves. Jacob left last, gathered the papers, and silently nodded to me in farewell.
I remained alone in the conference room, looking at the notebook filled with names and diagrams. Truthfully, I didn't want to deal with this now. Not at all. The plan had been different: focus on developing production, establish access to international markets, invest in promising technologies, use knowledge of the future to accumulate capital, and only afterward, in a calmer environment, think about security.
But life had made adjustments. Crime came earlier than I expected. Information began leaking God knows where. The problem caught up with me at a moment when I wasn't ready for it.
Now I would have to pour serious money into security. And money was needed everywhere: research, production, buying shares in promising companies. Every dollar invested in security was a dollar not invested in future profit.
On the other hand, if this structure was built correctly, over time it would defend my interests everywhere. Not only in New York. Across the country, and maybe, something I sincerely hoped for, all over the world. Intelligence would provide information on competitors and partners. Counterintelligence would protect against industrial espionage. The strike team would solve problems by force when diplomacy proved powerless.
And if you added a specialist on the level of Phineas Mason to that…
I involuntarily smirked, imagining the picture. Then we would have a technical advantage over any intelligence service in the world. Surveillance equipment head and shoulders above anything the CIA had. Anti-wiretapping systems that simply did not exist yet. Weapons and gadgets decades ahead of their time.
With resources like that, you could handle anything. Identify enemy agents. Protect yourself from government surveillance. Maybe even stand against organizations like S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra when they finally turned their attention to us.
Besides, this direction would bring in good money on its own. The security business was profitable even in its basic form. And if we grew to the level of a PMC and entered the international market, started taking contracts from governments and corporations… those were entirely different numbers. Hundreds of millions in turnover. Connections and reputation all over the world.
Blackwater, in my previous reality, had become one of the largest PMCs, earning enormous money on contracts in Iraq and Afghanistan. Here, in the Marvel world, the opportunities were far greater. Conflicts, terrorists, unstable regions, supervillains, and organizations waging shadow wars. Demand for professional military force would only grow.
I was lucky that in my previous life I had studied this topic carefully. For entirely different reasons, of course. But I had read the memoirs of Blackwater and Executive Outcomes founders, analyzed their business models and management structures, and all of it now sat in my head, ready to be used.
And there was one more trump card no ordinary intelligence service would have.
Superhumans.
Mutants, enhanced humans, people who gained abilities one way or another. Those whom society rejected or feared, but who could become incredibly useful if given a chance and directed properly. If the right rumors were seeded in the right circles, many could be intercepted before someone else reached them.
Plus geniuses among ordinary people. Engineers, scientists, strategists. Those I remembered from comics and from real history. Young specialists still unknown to anyone, but whose potential was already obvious to someone who knew where to look.
Planning again…