“This is Judy,” I answered, my voice professional, calm, the voice of a woman who isn’t currently watching a company implode.
“Judy!” Crystal shrieked. She sounded like she was crying or hyperventilating. “You have to give us the passwords. The drivers are calling the police. They’re stuck at the gates.”
“Crystal,” I said gently, “I don’t have the passwords. They’re on the server.”
“We can’t get into the server! It keeps asking for codes sent to your phone.”
“Ah,” I said. “That’s the two-factor authentication security protocol. Very important for data integrity.”
“Well, give me the code!” she screamed.
“I can’t, Crystal. I’m a civilian now. Sharing security credentials with unauthorized personnel is a violation of the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act. I could go to jail. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
There was a silence on the other end. A stunned, baffled silence.
“But Travis says you’re holding the company hostage.”
“Travis fired me, Crystal, effective immediately. That means my clearance is revoked. If I give you that code, I’m hacking. I won’t break the law for a company I don’t work for.”
“I’m putting you on speaker,” she hissed.
“Judy.” It was Travis. His voice was tight, strained. The arrogance was cracked, leaking panic. “Stop playing games. Give us the code or I’m suing you for corporate sabotage.”
“Travis,” I said, leaning into it, “you fired me for culture fit. You said I was replaceable. Surely your agile leadership team can figure out how to reset a password with the IT provider.”
“We called IT. They said the account admin has to authorize the reset. That’s you.”
“Sounds like a flaw in your org chart,” I said. “I’d suggest you call the IT provider’s emergency line. It costs $5,000 a minute, but they can override it in, oh, maybe 24 hours.”
“Twenty-four hours?” Travis exploded. “We have 400 tons of frozen seafood sitting in Miami. It’ll rot!”
“Seafood, ooh, that’s tricky. You need the reefer units running. Did you renew the fuel cards for the refrigeration trucks? Those expire on the 15th of the month. Today is the 16th. I usually handle that manually because the automated system glitches with the Florida vendors.”
I heard a thud. It sounded like someone punching a desk.
“Fix it, Judy. Come back in. Fix it and maybe we won’t sue you.”
“Are you offering me my job back?” I asked.
“I’m offering you a chance to not be destroyed!” he yelled.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m busy. I’m cleaning my apartment. Feng shui, very important for the vibes.”
I hung up.
I stared at the phone. My hand was shaking slightly, not from fear, but from adrenaline. I had just hung up on the CEO of a billion-dollar company.
I looked at the map. More red dots. A cluster in Miami now. The seafood.
I felt a twinge of guilt. Not for Travis, but for the seafood and the drivers. The drivers were the innocent pawns here.
I opened my contact list. I found the number for Miami Mike, the foreman at the cold-storage facility where our trucks were likely idling.
I texted him: Mike, it’s Judy. I’m out. The kid is driving the bus off a cliff. The fuel cards are going to bounce. Don’t let the drivers sit there. Tell them to decouple and hook up to the shore power at your yard. Charge it to the emergency contingency account. I set it up three years ago. It’s prefunded.
Mike texted back instantly: Roger that, Mama Bear. I heard the news. We got you. Screw the kid. We’ll save the shrimp, but we ain’t releasing the trucks until you say so.
I smiled. The shrimp were safe. The drivers were safe. Travis was screwed.
I realized then that I wasn’t just unemployed. I was a freelancer, and my currency was influence.
I closed the laptop. The diner rush was dying down. I needed to make a move.
Sitting here was reactive. I needed to be proactive.
I thought about who stood to gain the most from Arcadia’s collapse. Global Logistics Corp., GLC, our biggest rival. Their regional VP, a shark named Marcus Thorne, had been trying to poach me for a decade.
I always said no out of loyalty to Old Man Henderson. Loyalty is a two-way street, and Travis had just paved over it.
I picked up my phone. I dialed Marcus’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“Judy Miller.” His smooth baritone voice purred. “What do I owe the pleasure? Did you finally get tired of saving the world for peanuts?”
“I’m free, Marcus,” I said.
“Free?”
“Fired this morning.”
There was a pause. A thoughtful, expensive pause.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“At The Depot on Route 9.”
“Stay there,” Marcus said. “I’m sending a car. We have lunch and we talk about the future.”
“Marcus,” I said, “one thing.”
“Yes?”
“I’m not coming alone.”
“Oh?”
“I’m bringing the Port of Los Angeles, the Gulf Coast Union, and the Canadian Border Control with me.”
I could practically hear him smiling through the phone.
“I’ll send the limo,” he said.
A black Mercedes S-Class pulls up to a truck-stop diner. It sticks out like a diamond in a pile of coal.
The driver, a guy who looks like he doubles as a bouncer for a high-end club, opens the door for me. I grab my beat-up tote bag and my laptop.
