The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,114
or so in, Lane finally stopped and looked around. “This’ll do.”
“If you turn on me and ask me to start digging my own grave with my hands? Then our relationship really is over.”
But Lane just went over to a tree that was dead, its skeletal branches and partially hollow trunk at odds with the verdant everything-else-that-was-around. Putting the handgun in the outer pocket of his linen suit jacket, he took out a sheaf of papers … and nailed them to the rotting bark.
Then he walked back to where Jeff had come to a halt, put two fingers in his mouth and blew a whistle so shrill, Jeff’s third-great-grandmother heard it in her grave. Up in New Jersey.
“Fore!” the guy yelled.
“Isn’t that for golf—”
Pop! Pop! Poppoppoppoppopop!
Lane was an excellent shot, the bullets shredding the paperwork into a flurry of white pieces that fell to the decaying leaves and bright green undergrowth.
When that gun muzzle was finally lowered, Jeff looked over. “Man, you Southern fruit loops with your NRA. Just out of curiosity, what was that?”
“My father’s seventy-five-million-dollar key man term life insurance policy through MassMutual. Turns out he stopped paying the premiums so it woke up dead.”
“Okay. Good to know. FYI, most people would merely throw the thing out. Just sayin’.”
“Yeah, but this was so much more satisfying, and I’ve about had it with bad news.” Lane turned around. “So you wanted to tell me something?”
“You got any more bullets in that thing?”
“Nope. Emptied the clip.”
Lane pulled some fancy moves with the gun and produced some kind of slide-thingy that, yup, appeared to be empty. Not that Jeff would know what any of it was.
“So?” Lane prompted.
“I’ve decided to accept your little job offer, John Wayne.”
As his old college roommate said the magic words, Lane’s sense of relief was so great, he closed his eyes and sagged. “Thank you, sweet Jesus—”
“And I found you two point five million dollars—”
Lane pulled a snatch and grab on his old friend, dragging Jeff in for a hard embrace. Then he shoved the guy back. “I knew if I waited long enough, there had to be some good news coming. I knew it.”
“Well, don’t get too excited.” Jeff stepped back. “There are conditions.”
“Name them. Whatever they are.”
“Number one, I’ve fixed the news leak.”
Lane blinked. “What?”
“Tomorrow morning you’ll be reading in the paper that what looked like improperly diverted funds were actually part of a diversification project sanctioned by the chief executive officer, William Baldwine. The projects have failed, but poor business decisions are not illegal in a privately held corporation.”
Lane ran the words back and forth in his head a couple of times just to make sure he had them right. “How are you managing that?”
Jeff checked his watch. “If you really want to know, get me a car at five o’clock. And not your kind of car—a nothing special. I’ll show you.”
“Deal. But yeah, wow.”
“And I’ve decided I want to invest in your little bourbon company.” The guy shrugged. “If there’s a federal investigation, with all that negative press? It’s going to slow sales in this moralistic, judge-everyone-and-everything Facebook and Twitter era. And what I need, if I’m going to turn the organization around, is time. Income from operations gives me time. An investigation takes away my time. And you’re right. Your family are the only shareholders. If the company is in debt, goes into bankruptcy, fails? Your father fucked you all, no one else.”
“I’m so glad you’re seeing things my way. But what about the two and a half million for the board members?”
Jeff put his hand in his pocket and held out a small, folded check. “Here it is.”
Lane took the thing and opened it up. Looked at his friend. “This is your account.”
“I told you, I’m investing in your business. Those are live funds, and I made it out directly to you so you can keep this incentive thing off the corporate books for now. Pay them privately.”
“I don’t know how to thank you for this.”
“Wait for it. That part’s coming. I’ve finished my analysis and I’ve accounted for all the money—and the total diverted, including that loan from Prospect Trust to your personal household account, is one hundred seventy-three million, eight hundred and seventy-nine thousand, five hundred and eleven dollars. And eighty-two cents. The eighty-two cents is the real kicker, of course.”
Shit. And that was in addition to the hundred million missing from his mother’s trust.
The magnitude of it all was so great, Lane’s body felt the impact even though