Read Online Stephen Frey by Trust Fund - Free Book Online Page B

to look as if you were
both
targets.”
    Whitacre put the cigarette to his lips again and drew on it deeply to calm his nerves. “I suppose,” he agreed.
    â€œIn a few minutes everything will be fine,” Scully assured him. “It will all be over and you’ll be the new chief executive officer of the largest information technology company in the world.”
    Whitacre watched Scully slink away. “James Whitacre, CEO of Global Media,” he said to himself quietly. He liked the sound of it.
    A few minutes later Whitacre spotted Richard Randolph, Global’s CEO, lumbering up the street toward the café lugging a bag filled with gifts for his wife and children back in the United States. Randolph was a bear of a man—six and a half feet tall—with a grand vision for Global Media and the determination and courage to make the vision become reality. In three years he had assembled the company with an adept string of mergers and a hard-nosed attitude. Randolph believed he had done the public a favor by bringing such an incredible array of technology together in one package. Randolph had no idea what he had really done, Whitacre thought to himself as he rose from his chair and shook Randolph’s hand.
    The instant their hands met, Whitacre heard the first crack of the rifle, felt Randolph’s grip loosen, and watched the huge man topple to the pavement before him with a muted groan, presents tumbling from the bags as he collapsed. Then Whitacre felt a searing pain and he too crumpled to the street.

    B o sat in a wicker chair on the playhouse veranda, smoking a cigarette as he watched darkness yield to dawn over the lake. He’d spent the night out here, staring into the darkness, attempting to understand how flesh and blood could be so cruel. He had tried to talk to Jimmy Lee one-on-one several times since the confrontation in the study yesterday morning, but had been unable to gain an audience. The decision had been made. Paul was the victor. That was the reality. So was Montana.
    â€œBo.”
    He turned slowly in the direction of the voice, suddenly aware of how tired he was.
    Bruce Laird nodded as he sat down in the chair beside Bo’s. “Morning.”
    Bruce Laird was Jimmy Lee’s personal attorney. A man who knew more about Jimmy Lee’s dealings, both business and personal, than anyone else. Jimmy Lee had lured Laird away from the white-shoe firm of Davis Polk seven years ago to be his point man. Bo and Teddy were privy to all issues concerning Warfield Capital; Paul had been introduced to all of Jimmy Lee’s many political contacts; and certain nonfamily insiders ran or had access to other specific areas of information within the Hancock empire. But Laird had access to everything.
    Laird was only five six and a hundred forty pounds, but he made up for his lack of physical stature with a steel-trap mind that never forgot a name, a face, a place, or a document. He had a take-no-prisoners attitude when it came to negotiation, whether that negotiation had to do with a piece of beachfront property Jimmy Lee wanted to purchase or the price of a cup of coffee from a street vendor. Price tags and suggested legal language were starting points to Laird, and with the Hancock name behind him, he rarely caved to anyone on the other side of the table concerning either issue.
    As Laird sat down it occurred to Bo that he knew very little about the man even though he was an integral part of the family team. All Bo knew was that Laird was a workaholic who rarely had time for his wife and two small children who lived with him in a sprawling Park Avenue penthouse; that Laird had little respect for Teddy or Paul; and that he was brusque with everyone, even the formidable Jimmy Lee.
    â€œHow are you, Counselor?” Bo asked. Jimmy Lee had addressed Laird as such from the beginning and now everyone inside the family called him by that title. And in return only Laird dared to