New York City

             Ted Snyder nervously tapped his foot against the floor.

“Relax,” the younger of the two Biermann brothers told him, seeing the worried expression on his face.  “The medical examiner confirmed that it was a heart attack.”

“Maybe they weren’t looking for the right thing in the tox screen.”

“Wait until the old man gets here and then we’ll get this all sorted out,” the older Biermann brother said, dismissively waving his hand.

They were seated for brunch just a few minutes ago and the waitress was now bringing their drink orders.  Ted was the CEO of a major defense company and knew his share of heavy drinkers in his industry, but the fact that the Biermann brothers routinely drank bourbon for breakfast was something that he could never quite figure out.  The waitress set down the Bloody Mary he ordered in front of him.

They sat in the old man’s favorite room, which had been reserved for their private meeting ahead of time.  The walls were painted in pastels and long, tall windows let the morning light in, giving the Upper East Side club a very warm feeling inside.  As one of Manhattan’s most exclusive clubs, the décor was strongly in contrast to the other stuffy formal clubs, some of which dated back to the Revolutionary War.

The Biermann brothers clinked glasses and drank up, but Ted wasn’t in the mood.  He’d spent a week holed up in a safe room eating military rations after Area 14 in Nevada got hit and then lived under unbearable amounts of security while still trying to run G3 Communications.  Only recently had he identified who was behind the strike in Nevada.  They believed that he had been killed in Syria.  Then General McCoy turned up dead in his backyard.  The coroner said it was a heart attack, but Ted wasn’t taking anything for granted at this point.