released Lizzie’s palm and strode off, heading around to the soccer-field-sized rear courtyard where the business center stretched out behind the mansion. In his wake, people were talking to him, but he ignored all that.
“Lane,” Samuel T. said as he jumped in front. “What are you doing?”
“Saving electricity.”
“I think we should call law enforcement—”
“I just did. Remember the finger?”
The business center’s back door was locked with a big fat dead bolt secured by a coded system. Fortunately, when he and Edward had broken in a couple of days ago to get the financials, Lane had memorized the correct sequence of digits.
Punching them in on the pad, the entry unlocked and he walked into the hushed, luxurious interior. Every inch of the nearly twenty-thousand-square-foot, single-story structure was done in maroon-and-gold carpeting that was thick as a mattress. Insulated walls meant that no voices or ringing phones or tapping on keyboards traveled outside of a given space. And there were as many portriats on the walls as most iPhones had selfies.
With private offices for senior management, a gourmet kitchen and a reception area that resembled the Oval Office of the White House, the facility represented everything the Bradford Bourbon Company stood for: the highest standards of excellence, the oldest of traditions and the very best of the best for everything.
Lane didn’t head for the higher-ups and their private offices, though. He went to the back, where the storage rooms and the kitchen were.
As well as the utilities.
Pushing through a double door, he entered a hot, window-less enclave full of mechanicals that included blowers for heat and air, and a hot-water heater … and the electrical panel.
Overhead lights were motion-activated, and he went directly across theconcrete floor to the fuse box. Grabbing hold of a red handle at its side, he pulled the thing down, killing all current to the facility.
Everything went dark, and then low-lit security panels flared.
As he stepped back out into the hall, Samuel T. said dryly, “Well, that’s one way to do it—”
Like wasps riled from a nest, executives came running, the three men, one woman, and receptionist clown-car’ing their way into the narrow corridor at the same time. They stopped dead as soon as they saw him.
The CFO, a sixty-year-old, Ivy League–educated know-it-all with manicured hands and shoes spit-shined at his private club, recoiled. “What are
you
doing here?”
“Shutting this place down.”
“Excuse me?”
While another suit came skidding into the group, Lane just pointed to the back door he himself had come in through. “Get out. All of you.”
The CFO got robin-chested and authori-voiced. “You do not have the right to—”
“The police are on their way.” Which was technically true. “It’s your choice whether you’re leaving with them or in your own Mercedes. Or do you drive a Lexus?”
Lane watched their expressions carefully. And was entirely unsurprised when the CFO went on another you-have-no-right offensive.
“This is private property,” Samuel T. said smoothly. “This facility is not on corporate land. You have just been informed by the owner that you are not welcome. You all look smart enough to already know trespassing law in Kentucky, but I am more than happy to provide you with a quick lesson or a refresher as necessary. It will involve a shotgun, however, and a—”
Lane elbowed his lawyer in the liver to shut him up.
Meanwhile, the CFO pulled himself together and ran a hand down his red tie. “There are critical functions managed from this—”
Lane went in face-to-face with the guy, prepared to grab him by the Brooks Brothers and drag him out onto the lawn. “Shut up and start walking.”
“Yourfather would be appalled!”
“He’s dead, remember. So he doesn’t have an opinion. Now, are you leaving peacefully, or am I getting a gun like my lawyer was talking
“Lane,” Samuel T. said as he jumped in front. “What are you doing?”
“Saving electricity.”
“I think we should call law enforcement—”
“I just did. Remember the finger?”
The business center’s back door was locked with a big fat dead bolt secured by a coded system. Fortunately, when he and Edward had broken in a couple of days ago to get the financials, Lane had memorized the correct sequence of digits.
Punching them in on the pad, the entry unlocked and he walked into the hushed, luxurious interior. Every inch of the nearly twenty-thousand-square-foot, single-story structure was done in maroon-and-gold carpeting that was thick as a mattress. Insulated walls meant that no voices or ringing phones or tapping on keyboards traveled outside of a given space. And there were as many portriats on the walls as most iPhones had selfies.
With private offices for senior management, a gourmet kitchen and a reception area that resembled the Oval Office of the White House, the facility represented everything the Bradford Bourbon Company stood for: the highest standards of excellence, the oldest of traditions and the very best of the best for everything.
Lane didn’t head for the higher-ups and their private offices, though. He went to the back, where the storage rooms and the kitchen were.
As well as the utilities.
Pushing through a double door, he entered a hot, window-less enclave full of mechanicals that included blowers for heat and air, and a hot-water heater … and the electrical panel.
Overhead lights were motion-activated, and he went directly across theconcrete floor to the fuse box. Grabbing hold of a red handle at its side, he pulled the thing down, killing all current to the facility.
Everything went dark, and then low-lit security panels flared.
As he stepped back out into the hall, Samuel T. said dryly, “Well, that’s one way to do it—”
Like wasps riled from a nest, executives came running, the three men, one woman, and receptionist clown-car’ing their way into the narrow corridor at the same time. They stopped dead as soon as they saw him.
The CFO, a sixty-year-old, Ivy League–educated know-it-all with manicured hands and shoes spit-shined at his private club, recoiled. “What are
you
doing here?”
“Shutting this place down.”
“Excuse me?”
While another suit came skidding into the group, Lane just pointed to the back door he himself had come in through. “Get out. All of you.”
The CFO got robin-chested and authori-voiced. “You do not have the right to—”
“The police are on their way.” Which was technically true. “It’s your choice whether you’re leaving with them or in your own Mercedes. Or do you drive a Lexus?”
Lane watched their expressions carefully. And was entirely unsurprised when the CFO went on another you-have-no-right offensive.
“This is private property,” Samuel T. said smoothly. “This facility is not on corporate land. You have just been informed by the owner that you are not welcome. You all look smart enough to already know trespassing law in Kentucky, but I am more than happy to provide you with a quick lesson or a refresher as necessary. It will involve a shotgun, however, and a—”
Lane elbowed his lawyer in the liver to shut him up.
Meanwhile, the CFO pulled himself together and ran a hand down his red tie. “There are critical functions managed from this—”
Lane went in face-to-face with the guy, prepared to grab him by the Brooks Brothers and drag him out onto the lawn. “Shut up and start walking.”
“Yourfather would be appalled!”
“He’s dead, remember. So he doesn’t have an opinion. Now, are you leaving peacefully, or am I getting a gun like my lawyer was talking
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