The Chauffeur Chapter 2
Harold Crane sat at the head of the long conference table but to the right of the CEO of Crane Investments. Richard Asherton had been Harold’s friend as well as Nathan’s for over twenty years. They had first met during the start-up phase of IFT and had worked along with Nathan, teaching him the business end of the ropes. Even in later years, after Nathan became the corporate beard of IFT, Asherton stayed on as Ingram’s right hand man. He’d never questioned why Harold wished only to be seen as Ingram’s IT guy and not as his partner.
Neither did Asherton question why after eleven years of IFT’s success he was made CEO of Crane Investments. Richard just took the fledgling company as he had IFT and made it the business juggernaut it was today. When IFT basically shut down operations while The Machine was being built, Asherton’s business genius kept them all afloat. Except for John Reese, Asherton was the only person alive that knew Harold Crane really didn't exist. For all these reasons, Harold trusted the man almost as much as he had trusted Nathan himself.
All that trust came with a price; Harold was bored senseless. His mind kept wandering to earlier in the car. Before Harold even knew it, they were all breaking for lunch.
Still in the haze of his daydream, Harold mindlessly walked to a tea and sandwich shop several blocks from his building. So preoccupied with his musings, Harold did not see the four men following him. He used Mr. Crane’s cane heavily. With his $10,000 suit, 24kt gold topped cane and pronounced limp, it was obvious that not only could Harold not defend himself but he was worth a large fortune. Harold Crane was a perfect mark.
Harold didn't mind the walk to Tilley's. His hip was throbbing from sitting just those few hours in one of the least ergonomic chairs his company’s supply department could find. Crane would have to make sure that situation would be rectified before their next board meeting in thirty days. Though he only spent maybe eight hours a month sitting in it, he would have his secretary order a duplicate of the one in Crane’s office. The dark chocolate and butter-soft leather covered a high-back chair built to accommodate Harold's injuries, but so exquisitely designed it exuded power like the man that rarely sat in it.
That decision made, Harold focused a bit more on stretching his legs. Finch hated taking the Lortabs he had been prescribed for pain. He didn't like the way the drug sometimes dulled his senses as well as the pain. Harold hoped the combination of an exercising walk, a fresh cup Earl Gray with one of the delicious watercress sandwiches Tilley's served and the half-dose of the Lortabs he'd taken earlier would have him prepared to sit through four more hours of meetings. Four hours that he really needed to focus on business, not today's early morning activities with his chauffeur.
Harold had also made another decision that morning, although it had nothing to do with business. Finch had come to an understanding. Even though he was still completely bewildered why someone like John would ever be interested in him, Finch knew Reese was very interested as evidenced by the hardness jutting into his own backside this morning. Harold was determined to find out why John would only show his attraction when both men were playing a role.
Harold wanted John Reese, not Reeves or Riley or Rooney or Warren. Just John Reese, and Finch planned to show him. What frightened Harold was the possibility of discovering that John didn't want the man he knew as Finch. Crane, or Wren, or Gull or even Howard French might be the only ones John wanted. Harold didn't want to play any more games, tonight he would have to know.
Waiting to cross the street, Harold was preparing to pull his cell phone out of his coat pocket to ask John to dinner. At that moment, a late model van rounded the corner nearly running him down as it stopped on the curb in front of him. Before he could shout out in surprise or for help, someone grabbed him from behind while another man opened the van door. Two other men, one on each side of Finch, grabbed a leg and the three hoisted him into the back then jumped inside. The van sped off as one of the men slammed the door shut.
One of them roughly jerked Finch up into a sitting position, another started going through Harold’s pockets. Finding only a little over four hundred dollars and a few credit cards in Crane’s wallet, the man pocketed the cash and tossed the wallet on the floor. When he found Harold’s cell he angrily shoved it in Finch’s face and menacingly growled at Harold. “Four hundred dollars isn't enough to save you. Let’s get all we can out of you, Gimp. You’re gonna call your pretty friend and he’s gonna bring us some real dough.
Harold tried to swallow but his throat was drying up and closing from the panic he felt. Finch choked and stammered out, “I need to call my company. If I don’t come back they’ll phone the police. The man I’m calling won’t do anything that I don’t tell him to do. He can contact my driver. Mr. Reeves will then bring you whatever you want.”
The apparent leader of the group pointed a gun in Harold’s face and threatened with a scowl, “Make the call. No tricks.”
When Harold was finally able to speak with Asherton, he had was only allowed to say, “Richard, call John Reese…” before the phone was yanked out of his hands and a needle jabbed in his thigh.
Harold only heard a few words of the kidnappers’ demands before whatever they had injected him with knocked him out cold.
~*~
The Chauffeur
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
Neither did Asherton question why after eleven years of IFT’s success he was made CEO of Crane Investments. Richard just took the fledgling company as he had IFT and made it the business juggernaut it was today. When IFT basically shut down operations while The Machine was being built, Asherton’s business genius kept them all afloat. Except for John Reese, Asherton was the only person alive that knew Harold Crane really didn't exist. For all these reasons, Harold trusted the man almost as much as he had trusted Nathan himself.
All that trust came with a price; Harold was bored senseless. His mind kept wandering to earlier in the car. Before Harold even knew it, they were all breaking for lunch.
Still in the haze of his daydream, Harold mindlessly walked to a tea and sandwich shop several blocks from his building. So preoccupied with his musings, Harold did not see the four men following him. He used Mr. Crane’s cane heavily. With his $10,000 suit, 24kt gold topped cane and pronounced limp, it was obvious that not only could Harold not defend himself but he was worth a large fortune. Harold Crane was a perfect mark.
Harold didn't mind the walk to Tilley's. His hip was throbbing from sitting just those few hours in one of the least ergonomic chairs his company’s supply department could find. Crane would have to make sure that situation would be rectified before their next board meeting in thirty days. Though he only spent maybe eight hours a month sitting in it, he would have his secretary order a duplicate of the one in Crane’s office. The dark chocolate and butter-soft leather covered a high-back chair built to accommodate Harold's injuries, but so exquisitely designed it exuded power like the man that rarely sat in it.
That decision made, Harold focused a bit more on stretching his legs. Finch hated taking the Lortabs he had been prescribed for pain. He didn't like the way the drug sometimes dulled his senses as well as the pain. Harold hoped the combination of an exercising walk, a fresh cup Earl Gray with one of the delicious watercress sandwiches Tilley's served and the half-dose of the Lortabs he'd taken earlier would have him prepared to sit through four more hours of meetings. Four hours that he really needed to focus on business, not today's early morning activities with his chauffeur.
Harold had also made another decision that morning, although it had nothing to do with business. Finch had come to an understanding. Even though he was still completely bewildered why someone like John would ever be interested in him, Finch knew Reese was very interested as evidenced by the hardness jutting into his own backside this morning. Harold was determined to find out why John would only show his attraction when both men were playing a role.
Harold wanted John Reese, not Reeves or Riley or Rooney or Warren. Just John Reese, and Finch planned to show him. What frightened Harold was the possibility of discovering that John didn't want the man he knew as Finch. Crane, or Wren, or Gull or even Howard French might be the only ones John wanted. Harold didn't want to play any more games, tonight he would have to know.
Waiting to cross the street, Harold was preparing to pull his cell phone out of his coat pocket to ask John to dinner. At that moment, a late model van rounded the corner nearly running him down as it stopped on the curb in front of him. Before he could shout out in surprise or for help, someone grabbed him from behind while another man opened the van door. Two other men, one on each side of Finch, grabbed a leg and the three hoisted him into the back then jumped inside. The van sped off as one of the men slammed the door shut.
One of them roughly jerked Finch up into a sitting position, another started going through Harold’s pockets. Finding only a little over four hundred dollars and a few credit cards in Crane’s wallet, the man pocketed the cash and tossed the wallet on the floor. When he found Harold’s cell he angrily shoved it in Finch’s face and menacingly growled at Harold. “Four hundred dollars isn't enough to save you. Let’s get all we can out of you, Gimp. You’re gonna call your pretty friend and he’s gonna bring us some real dough.
Harold tried to swallow but his throat was drying up and closing from the panic he felt. Finch choked and stammered out, “I need to call my company. If I don’t come back they’ll phone the police. The man I’m calling won’t do anything that I don’t tell him to do. He can contact my driver. Mr. Reeves will then bring you whatever you want.”
The apparent leader of the group pointed a gun in Harold’s face and threatened with a scowl, “Make the call. No tricks.”
When Harold was finally able to speak with Asherton, he had was only allowed to say, “Richard, call John Reese…” before the phone was yanked out of his hands and a needle jabbed in his thigh.
Harold only heard a few words of the kidnappers’ demands before whatever they had injected him with knocked him out cold.
~*~
The Chauffeur
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue