The Loyal Nine by Bobby Akart Read Free Book Online

Donald strode confidently to the reception desk, which was hosted by two attractive, professionally dressed women. On closer inspection, Donald could see how they trained their eyes on him—no doubt performing a threat assessment. He suspected their security training equaled, if not exceeded the men escorting him. Though it had been nearly a year since Donald’s last visit to the thirteenth floor, he felt an increased security presence. One of the women broke eye contact to glance at one of his escorts, who simply nodded. Do they have mental telepathy too?
    “Just one moment, Mr. Quinn,” she said, never taking her eyes off him again.
    Pushing a button on her desk, she spoke softly into a wireless microphone attached to her jacket collar. “Mr. Quinn is here to see you, sir.”
    The male escorts stepped back to flank the elevator while one of the women circled the desk. She pointed to an intricately carved set of mahogany doors at the end of the reception hallway. This is new. He took in the details of the woodwork. Sheep and sheepdog on a hillside. Donald searched for the meaning, knowing these functional works of art had been purposely commissioned. The security guard opened the right door before he could form a theory.
    “This way, please,” she instructed, leading him past a wide bank of windows.
    Of the many incredible views of Boston from the city’s high-rise buildings, none matched the view west across Boston Common from the top floor of 73 Tremont. From the thirteenth floor’s unique vantage point, one could also observe the Charles River, Commonwealth Avenue and the Massachusetts State House on Beacon Hill. The State House was particularly spectacular in the late afternoon, with the setting sun reflecting off the State House’s twenty-three-karat gilded gold-leaf dome. The dull winter scene blazed to life, drawing the viewer’s attention away from the bare trees and naked sidewalks directly below.
    Opening another mahogany door, she motioned for him to enter his host’s office—the inner sanctum. With slight trepidation, Donald stepped into a world out of reach for most. Measuring more than forty feet wide, the office was bigger than most Americans’ homes. Gas fireplaces flanked both ends, rising through the two-story ceiling. The furnishings consisted of oriental carpets, dark chestnut furniture and overstuffed chairs, more resembling a gentlemen’s lounge than an office. On the broad leather inlay desk centered in the middle of the room, two crystal glasses sat beside an opened bottle of Perrier.
    Donald stood silently, waiting for the man standing in front of a set of velvet-clad French doors to acknowledge him. Appearing deep in thought, his benefactor finally spoke.
    “Hello, Mr. Quinn, thank you for coming,” he said, in the New England accent associated with people of aristocracy.
    “Yes, sir, it is a pleasure to see you again,” said Donald. Not that I had a choice.
    He didn’t expect the pleasantries to last for too long. The meeting had been hastily arranged. Something was brewing.
    “I trust you have everything you need for your various projects,” he said.
    “Yes, sir, and I hope my reports are satisfactory,” said Donald.
    Donald always remembered to choose his words deliberately and concisely.
    “Of course. Mr. Quinn, you will need to take care of something for me—immediately following the close of the markets today,” he said. “There are a number of transactions to be made, and you must use the highest levels of discretion.”
    I knew it; this couldn’t be trusted to a phone call. Donald retrieved a small Louis Vuitton notebook from his suit jacket pocket.
    “Immediately following this meeting, you are to execute the following transactions,” said Donald’s benefactor.
    Listening intently, Donald took meticulous notes. The instructions represented the largest series of transactions he had executed to date. Donald had established a complex network of international