It always was.
We’d been doing this song and dance for nearly two years. Ever since my team had created the most superior bulletproof material on the market. Rubicon, named due to its natural red coloring, was not only stronger than the competition but half the weight and thickness, making it easier to wear for long periods of time and conceal under uniforms during covert operations. In the last year, it had become the most sought-after product in the business.
I knew it.
And so did Simon Wells.
Which was precisely why he was sitting in my office for the tenth time in so many months, attempting to buy a bulk order at less than half of its current asking price.
Done with the games, I dropped my hand and stood from my chair. After fastening the top button on my suit coat, I strolled away while casually shoving a hand into the pocket of my slacks. I stopped at the door and gave him my full attention. “I hope to God this is your final offer, Simon. Because, if you come back with a number that low again, you may want to consider wearing some Rubicon of your own.” Arching an eyebrow, I dared him to argue.
I should have known better. Simon lacked the ability to quit. It was annoying as fuck when you were across the table from him, but I suspected it was what kept his company on top for the last decade.
The muscles in his jaw ticked as he remained in his chair. “Cops are dying out there,” he seethed through his clenched teeth.
I shrugged. “Yes. They are. Because they’re wearing your vests. Maybe you should do something about that.”
His fist slammed down on my desk as he shot to his feet. “You bastard! Have you no conscience? I know for a fact you made a deal with the military for half of what I’m offering.” His hand shook as he raked it through his gray hair. “Sign the fucking contracts and let those officers dying on the streets go home to their families.”
I tipped my head to the side but otherwise remained impassive. “And how exactly would you know what the bottom line on my contract with the military read?”
He squared his shoulders and attempted to regain his composure. A flicker of pride hit his eyes as he assumed he’d guessed correctly. “I’m not stupid, Leblanc. Word gets around.”
He wasn’t wrong. The body armor community was small.
For nearly fifty years, Kevlar had dominated the market. But, as new weapons and ammunition capable of penetrating the material began flooding our battlefields—and then, eventually, our streets—it was time for a change. Always the entrepreneur, I saw the literal and figurative gaping hole in the industry and pounced.
I wasn’t a scientist though, and I quickly found myself nose-to-nose with the same brick wall most of the country was facing. Companies were pouring millions into research, knowing that the pot of gold at the end of the race was going to be astronomical.
I didn’t have millions, but what I did have was a life I refused to face, a marriage I was hiding from, and the idea that dollar bills could fix it all. I threw myself into research, took a few investors on, and then hired the best team of scientists I could afford: two ex-cons with MIT degrees and my old Army NCO, who had been struggling to find a job in the civilian sector.
It wasn’t exactly ideal.
But maybe that’s why we were successful.
Desperation was one hell of a motivator.
For months, the four of us spent every waking moment huddled together in a makeshift lab, running on cheap coffee and fueled by hopes and dreams. Research was extensive, and failures were a daily occurrence.
Too heavy.
Too thick.
Too bulky.
Until Rubicon.
One day, I woke up miserable, alone, and broke.
The next, I woke up miserable, alone, and in the running for Time magazine’s man of the year.
In a matter of months of going live with our product, Leblanc Industries had revolutionized the entire market—if not the world.
And it was exactly why Mr. Wells was beating my door down in order to save his own business. People weren’t buying his second-rate products anymore, and as the days passed, Defender Armor fell deeper and deeper into the hole.
Now, he was hoping I could save his ass.
But I’d never been known as a philanthropist.
And his idle threats only served to piss me off.