Read Online Game Over by Fern Michaels - Free Book Online

tracks. We don’t want any unnecessary explosions. Mr. Jellicoe is partial to quiet, especially at this time of night.”
    Claymore mines. Unlike Fish’s spread in the Nevada desert and his pretend mines, Charles knew there were indeed mines surrounding Hank Jellicoe’s hundred-acre spread here at the foot of the Allegheny Mountains.
    When he’d been here a lifetime ago, it was just wild brush, scraggly trees, and a rustic three-room cabin. As he bounced along behind his escort, Charles tried to remember exactly when he’d seen an architectural rendering of Jellicoe’s spread, as he liked to call it. Someone brave enough at the time had taken some aerial shots of the man’s property, then had the audacity to publish his drawings in Architectural Digest. Why he’d never submitted the actual photos he’d taken was something that was never explained. Nor was the man’s disappearance ever explained to anyone’s satisfaction. He had heard, but was never sure if it was the truth or not, that AD had paid through the nose for invading Hank Jellicoe’s privacy. Along with sending a note of sincere apology.
    It was a wise man, or, in some cases, a wise woman, who learned that you did not bring down the wrath of one Hank Jellicoe, aka Jellicoe Securities, aka Global Securities. At least if you valued your life.
    There were more lights now. To Charles’s keen eye, it looked like a winter wonderland with all the lighting, the shimmering snow, and the fragrant pine trees. Christmas-card perfect. The cabin was still there, nestled among a copse of pine trees. He turned to the right and saw the house. Gabled and turreted, it spread out for what, Charles thought, could be several city blocks. The house was lit up from top to bottom. And there was a light on on the front porch. And it was a porch, one that wrapped around the entire house, from what he could see. Just like Motel 6, Hank had the light on for him. Good old Hank.
    Charles strained to see beyond the house and thought he saw a row of garages, a stable, which made sense because Hank loved to ride early in the morning. Hank also liked to swim, so he knew somewhere there was a heated indoor pool and probably one outside, too. A tennis court was somewhere. He was sure of it. Just the way he was sure there was an airplane hangar and a helicopter pad, and if there was any deep water around, a yacht would be moored somewhere. Hank Jellicoe had it all going for him.
    The four-wheel drive in front of him came to a stop. The man climbed out, his AK-47 slung over his shoulder. Charles knew the drill. He remained in the Hummer until the man approached his vehicle.
    â€œYou can get out now, Mr. Martin. Mr. Jellicoe is waiting for you. He held dinner for your arrival.”
    â€œVery sporting of him,” Charles said. He reached behind him for his bag, but quicker than lightning, his escort had his arm in a vise.
    â€œNo need to carry your bag, Mr. Martin. I’ll bring it up.”
    As soon as you go through it, you mean . Charles slid out of the Hummer and made his way up the steps to the old-fashioned front porch.
    The monster cathedral-style door opened, and there stood his host. “What the hell took you so long, Charlie? Thirty years is a long time.”
    Charles winced at being called Charlie. If anyone else but Hank Jellicoe had called him Charlie, he would have decked him on the spot. The men shook hands the way men do, then pounded each other on the back the way men do, before Jellicoe led Charles into the main part of the house.
    It was a man’s house, all leather and wood and polished wood floors. It smelled like a man’s house, too. The scent of burning wood, pipe and cigar smoke hung in the air, but it was not unpleasant.
    â€œCome along before dinner is ruined. We’ve been keeping it warm until you got here. We have all night to palaver. Venison is on the menu. I remembered how you like venison. A