I woke before the alarm, the way I’ve done for decades. Navy habits don’t fade easily. Linda was still asleep, so I went downstairs quietly and made coffee. The house felt different—lighter, maybe. Or maybe that was just me.
Through our kitchen window I could see Mrs. Kowalski scraping ice off her Buick’s windshield across the street. She’s been our neighbor twelve years, a retired Ford secretary who still drives to morning mass at St. Alphonsus. Regular people doing regular things while my professional world tilted.
Two missed calls from unknown numbers and three unread emails waited on my phone. I deleted the voicemails without listening. The emails were from reporters—Detroit Free Press, Crain’s Detroit Business, and someone from Reuters who somehow found my personal address.
The countdown read: 76 hours, 45 minutes, 22 seconds.
Halfway through my first cup of Folgers—Linda buys it because it reminds her of her dad, and I’ve grown to love it—my email chimed. Rebecca Martinez at Automotive News: “Thunder Automotive Personnel Changes—Request for Comment.” Professional, direct: Mr. Thompson, we’ve received information suggesting personnel changes at Thunder related to the pending Stellantis merger. Industry sources indicate potential impact on technical timelines. Are you available for a brief call to discuss?
I replied with one sentence: I’d suggest asking Thunder’s leadership about Section 12 compliance and essential‑personnel requirements.
That would be enough. Rebecca’s the kind of reporter who reads SEC filings and merger agreements, not just press releases. She’d find Section 12, compare it with the changes, and start asking sharp questions.
At eight on the dot, the phone rang. Auburn Hills area code. Catherine Walsh from Stellantis.
“Mr. Thompson, thank you for taking my call. I’m lead counsel for Stellantis North America. We’ve had questions raised about the Thunder merger, specifically the essential‑personnel provisions.”
“Section 12?” I asked.
“You’re familiar.”
“I should be. My name is first on the list.”
A pause. “Yes, it is. Mr. Thompson, there seems to be confusion about your employment status. Our records show you as essential for integration, but we’ve received… conflicting information.”
“What kind?”
“A reporter asked about personnel changes affecting timelines. When we contacted Thunder, we were told you are no longer with the company as of yesterday.”
“That’s accurate,” I said.
“Mr. Thompson, if you’re no longer employed, that creates substantial complications. Section 12 states—”
“That departures of essential personnel trigger renegotiation rights. I know the language.”
“Then you understand our position. We need to verify the status of all licensing tied to essential personnel, particularly AutoSecure.”
“You’ll need to ask Thunder for those certifications.”
“We have. They’re… having difficulty locating the current certificates.”
I almost smiled. Brady was probably turning filing cabinets upside down looking for documents that weren’t where he expected.
“That’s unfortunate,” I said.
“I’ll be direct,” she continued. “Stellantis has invested fourteen months and considerable resources. If there are issues with AutoSecure licensing—”
“I can’t speak for Thunder’s current licensing status. I’m no longer an employee.”
After we hung up, I watched the countdown. 74 hours, 12 minutes, 33 seconds.
Instead of waiting, I took a different approach. I wrote a detailed email to Gerald Pierce, Thunder’s longest‑serving board member—he’s been there since Frank founded the company.
Gerald—
I assume you’re hearing from Stellantis about Section 12 compliance issues. As you know, my departure triggers contractual obligations that may affect Thunder’s licensing arrangements. If the board wants to discuss options before Friday’s deadline, I’m available. But not through Brady.
—Marcus
I sent it and waited.
By late morning, Linda found me in my office, staring at the countdown while WJR’s morning talk show murmured in the background—something I haven’t had time to listen to in years.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Honestly? Different than I expected. I thought I’d be angrier. I just feel… tired. Like I’ve been holding my breath for twenty‑seven years and finally let it out.”
She sat in the chair where employees used to sit when they needed help with impossible problems.
“Your chest been bothering you?”
I touched my sternum. The tightness has been there for months—stress introducing itself to a fifty‑two‑year‑old body.
“A little. Nothing serious.”
“Marcus, remember what Dr. Singh said at your last checkup. The pre‑diabetes, the blood pressure. You need to reduce stress before it becomes something bigger.”
“I remember.”
“Do you? Because I’ve heard promises about slowing down for three years. You still take calls during Emma’s birthdays. You still work weekends when we’re supposed to be together.”
She was right. I’ve missed too many dinners, too many school plays, too many small moments because some system was down or a client was in a panic.
“This is different, Linda. This is about protecting what Frank built.”
“Is it? Or is it about proving to yourself that twenty‑seven years meant something?”
That landed closer than I wanted to admit. Part of me—maybe a big part—needed Brady to face consequences. Needed him to understand the size of what he tossed away with casual indifference.
“Maybe both,” I said.
“Then finish it. But when this is over—when the timer hits zero and whatever happens, happens—you’re done. Truly done. No more midnight calls. No more weekends lost. No more picking work over family.”
“Deal.”
My phone buzzed with Gerald’s response: Conference call at two. Richard will be there. We need solutions, not problems.
The call was tense from the first minute. Richard Lawson sounded older than yesterday.
“Marcus, first, I want to apologize for Brady’s actions. They shouldn’t have happened.”
“Apology accepted,” I said.
Gerald cut in. “Marcus, we need to know what we’re dealing with. Stellantis wants documentation we can’t locate. Their lawyers are using phrases like ‘material breach’ and ‘contract termination.’”
“The AutoSecure licensing certificates are in a secure partition tied to my employee credentials,” I said. “When my access was terminated, the system locked.”
“Can you unlock it?”
“I could. But that would require reinstatement, which contradicts the termination Brady signed.”
Richard cleared his throat. “What if we offered a consulting contract? Temporary. Just to get us through the merger.”
“At what rate?”
“We were thinking two thousand a day.”
I did the math. The merger was supposed to close in six weeks. Even at that rate for forty‑two days, it wouldn’t come close to the value of owning AutoSecure outright in two days.
“Richard, generous—but it doesn’t solve the underlying problem.”
“Which is?”
“Brady removed me to avoid paying $180,000. But my bonus isn’t just compensation—it’s tied to intellectual‑property transfer rights Frank negotiated fifteen years ago.”
Silence. Finally, Gerald: “IP transfer to who?”
“To me. Personally.”
“Marcus,” Richard said carefully, “are you saying that if your bonus pays Friday morning, you’ll own AutoSecure?”
“I’m saying Frank was thorough about protecting core assets from hostile takeover and poor management.”
More silence. Then Gerald, under his breath: “Frank, what did you set in motion.”
Part 3
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