February 4, 2004
When I was a boy, I always wanted to be a superhero. One of the good guys. Saving kittens. Saving people. Hell, saving the entire planet. It's all I thought about. I spent my childhood lying on the top bunk in that tiny bedroom of our small apartment drawing pictures in my mind. Pictures of me saving the world. I never wanted to wear a cape. I didn't need to. I was that good.
But everyone grows up. And bills need to be paid. After years of red tape and bureaucratic bullshit, private security seemed like a good path. An adult path. Where I could run the show— help people...keep them alive. And I'm good at it. And in Southern California there's no shortage of hotshots needing to be kept alive. Now, looking back, it's not hard to pinpoint the moment things took a turn for the worse.
Head of Security, my ass.
A henchman, that's what I've become. A fucking henchman who does all the tough work while Jake sits around looking pretty with his hands squeaky clean. Not that I'm complaining. I'm paid well. Better than well.
This is just not what I'd thought my life would be back when an offer to be Head of Security for a software company had floated across my desk. I'd imagined tossing employees out on their ass for stealing corporate secrets. Or thwarting kidnapping attempts. That's the bread and butter of private security for billionaires.
Not carrying around bags of ice to chill down teen girls' bodies. Not framing men for murder. Not stalking innocent young girls to take pictures. Girls that have already been through enough. And definitely not sitting here on a random Thursday playing with Photoshop of all damn things in order to draw crosshairs on her face. It's bullshit. And where is the mastermind behind all this? Not here, that's for damn sure. And the kicker is that she's not even the one signing my paycheck. Turns out there's more than one Kane running the show around here.
The damn printer isn't working well again, and I know less than nothing about hardware. Ironic considering the company name on my paycheck. I bang the printer a few times and it hums to life. Success. It's time to finish this and get the hell out of the building.
The pictures print out in slow succession, but they look good. Professional even. My work here is done. I slide them into an unmarked folder and tuck it into my leather briefcase with my laptop and latch it closed. I'd love to go home, but tonight's work isn't done. The envelope will need to be delivered. And then all hell will break loose again tomorrow.
But that's the life of a henchman. A generously paid henchman. A henchman who can retire young and spend countless days on the beach, dreaming of being a little boy who could save the world.
