CHAPTER ONE: KICKED TO THE CURB
Thomas Dalton, lead architectural engineer at Rosen International, was putting the final touches on a highly classified design. The file was destined for General McInerney at the Department of Defense. Rosen International had secured a contract to build military installations overseas, and Thomas held the highest civilian clearance on the project.
He leaned in, scanning the plans for the final time. This wasn’t just another government job—it was part of a vast, compartmentalized initiative spanning continents. Rosen International’s contract represented hundreds of millions of dollars and geopolitical reach that spanned into the next decade. Most team members saw only fragments of the puzzle. But Thomas? He saw it all.
His direct supervisor, Nigel Rosen, was president of the company and the cold, controlling son of its late founder, Arnold Rosen—a former intelligence officer tied to the Manhattan Project and postwar military industrial operations. Rosen International, founded in 1947, had roots in the classified core of America’s defense machine. Now publicly traded and based in Charlotte, North Carolina, it remained in family hands. Randall Rosen, Nigel’s son, served as CEO.
Thomas had been with Rosen International since graduating top of his class from Georgia Tech in 1994. He was clean-cut, dedicated, and had dated the same girl—Wendy Reynolds—since high school. The son of Barry and Mary Dalton, Thomas had been raised with a strong moral code. Treat everyone with respect, especially those who had nothing to offer in return. That’s what his parents taught him. He lived it every day.
He wasn’t one to suck up to executives. He greeted janitors, guards, and assistants with the same dignity he showed anyone else. If someone needed help, Thomas offered it. And now, at the height of his career, he was about to deliver the final plans for one of the most sensitive military construction projects in the world.
His phone buzzed.
“Thomas, are you completed yet?” It was Randall Rosen, the CEO.
“Very close, sir. I ran into a measurement correlation issue earlier, but I resolved it by lunch. I’ll be sending the file to Major Collier shortly. I understand General McInerney moved the deadline up, but I’m ahead of schedule.”
“Thank you, Dalton.”
He hung up, puzzled. It was unusual for the CEO to call directly. Still, he turned back to his monitor. Just as he prepared to upload the final file, another call came in—this time from Nigel.
“Thomas, I need you in my office. Now.”
“Sir, I’m minutes away from finalizing the file. Can it wait twenty?”
“No. It’s urgent.”
Frustrated but obedient, Thomas saved his work and made his way to the top floor.
It had been a warm June morning in 1994 when Thomas first stepped through the revolving glass doors of Rosen International.
Fresh out of Georgia Tech, still carrying the energy of graduation week, he wore a navy blue suit he couldn’t quite afford and a tie his father helped him pick out. The building seemed to hum with power—polished floors, mirrored walls, and men in dark suits talking into pagers. He clutched his clearance packet like it was a passport to a new life.
He remembered the receptionist—Denise, with her silver hair and warm smile. “Welcome to Rosen, Mr. Dalton. They’ve been expecting you.”
Nigel hadn’t smiled that day. Just a cool nod and a firm handshake that felt more like a test than a greeting. “Let’s see if your résumé lives up to the hype,” he had said.
Thomas wasn’t intimidated. He was focused. Grateful. Determined to prove himself.
Later that afternoon, Randall stopped by to shake his hand and welcome him to the “family.” Back then, Thomas believed it. Back then, he thought Rosen was built on legacy and honor, not shadows and secrets.
He’d called his dad that evening from his one-bedroom apartment and said, “It’s everything I hoped, Pop. I really think I can build something here.”
Now, nearly four years later, standing in the same hallways under very different circumstances, Thomas could hardly recognize the place—or himself.
Nigel stood behind his grand desk, stone-faced.
“You’re aware General McInerney moved the timeline. Your leeway is gone.”
“Yes, Mr. Rosen. I’ve already adjusted. The file would’ve been done now if I weren’t here.”
“Do you have complete section correlation?”
“Yes. The only pending item is a formal checklist from DOD, but we’re not at that stage yet.”
“Good. Before you go—give me the file.”
“Sir? That’s out of protocol.”
“General McInerney asked me to review it personally. Here’s the letter.”
Thomas scanned the document Nigel handed him. Something didn’t sit right.
“I’ll need to verify this with Major Collier. The clearance chain—”
“Don’t make this difficult. We’re all on the same side. Just follow orders.”
Thomas returned to his office disturbed. On the way, Sally Stewart, Nigel’s secretary, told him someone was already waiting.
“Dylan’s in your office,” said Samuel, his assistant.
“What?”
Thomas burst in. Dylan North, head of IT, was at his workstation.
“What are you doing?”
“System updates. We detected a virus. You’re priority.”
“You’re not cleared for this terminal. Step away.”
Dylan slowly stood as Thomas reclaimed control. He changed his password immediately and checked his email. No response from Collier. That was strange.
Thomas informed Sally he needed to speak to Nigel again.
“He’s in accounting. I’ll let him know.”
Moments later, Nigel appeared at his door.
“You emailed the Major. Why?”
“To verify a chain-of-custody issue. That’s my protocol.”
“He wasn’t happy. You’re getting a pass. This isn’t a game, Thomas. We’ve had federal clearances since the ‘40s. You don’t question internal reviews.”
“Then explain Dylan in my office.”
“He found a virus. That’s it.”
“Something’s wrong.”
Before Nigel could reply, Thomas was summoned again—this time to Randall’s office.
When he arrived, both Nigel and Randall were there.
“Thomas, the file is corrupted,” said Randall.
“What? That’s not possible. It was clean when I uploaded it.”
“According to IT, the virus originated from your system,” Nigel added.
“We just discussed this. Dylan accessed my machine without clearance. I have backups—”
“Dylan hasn’t been on the third floor today,” said Nigel coldly.
“That’s not true. Ask Samuel.”
Randall called him in on speaker.
“Was Dylan in Thomas’s office today?”
“No, sir. I haven’t seen him in months.”
“Samuel!” Thomas shouted.
Randall held up his hand. “And Nigel?”
“Last week, I think.”
Nigel snarled. “Your employment is under review.”
“No, it’s not. It’s being sabotaged. I followed every protocol, and I demand an investigation.”
Randall leaned in. “You’re terminated. Effective immediately.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“Sally, call security.”
“Mr. Rosen, I’ve done nothing wrong. Check the surveillance—”
“IT is upgrading the system,” Nigel snapped. “Convenient for you.”
Security Chief David Jackson entered with Ralph Fleming.
“Escort Mr. Dalton off the premises. Issue a trespass order.”
“I need my wallet, keys, laptop—”
“They’ll be boxed and sent,” said Nigel.
David placed a hand on his sidearm. “Let’s go.”
Thomas was marched through the office. Heads turned. He couldn’t believe this was happening. In the lobby, Charlotte PD officers were waiting.
“Mr. Dalton, you are hereby issued a trespass order. Return to 81,100 Rosen Circle and you will be arrested.”
“This is madness.”
“Take it up in civil court,” an officer said.
Ralph looked at him. “You were the only one who ever treated us like people.”
Thomas was silent as they walked him to the curb.
It was 2:00 p.m.
Thomas didn’t move right away.
He just sat there—on the low stone wall near the curb—hands still trembling, heart pounding with disbelief. The summer sun pressed against his skin, but he barely felt it. A few employees across the street glanced over, then looked away.
No one said a word.
His keys, his badge, even his coffee mug—gone. His reputation? Eviscerated in under an hour. And for what? A file he didn’t corrupt. A system he’d devoted his life to, turning on him like a rigged machine.
The same hands that had built their flagship design were now treated like a threat. A liability. A ghost.
A delivery truck rumbled past. Somewhere behind him, a lawnmower hummed. The world carried on, unaware that everything he’d built had just collapsed. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he didn’t look.
Not yet.
He stared out across the parking lot, eyes unfocused, as if searching for the moment it had all gone wrong. But there was nothing to find—just silence, heat, and the dull ache of betrayal.
For the first time in years, Thomas Dalton had nowhere to go.
And no idea what would come next.
Thomas Dalton had just been kicked to the curb, and no idea what would come next.