John Lenghe’s Embraer Legacy 650 was just coming over, and Lane hit the brakes and killed his engine. As they waited, he thought about him and Jeff going at it.

Man, you’re just like your father.

Glancing over at Mack, Lane said, “I should have called beforehand and told you what was up. But right now, there’s so much going on, I’m scratching my watch and winding my ass.”

Mack shrugged. “Like I told you, we got no problems if my silos are full. But explain something to me.”

“What?”

“Where the hell is senior management? It’s not like I miss the bastards, but I got voice mail on every single one of them yesterday. Did you fire them all? And you could make my day by telling me that they cried like babies.”

“Pretty much. Yup.”

“Wait—what? That was a joke, Lane—”

“They’re not coming back anytime soon. At least not to the business center at Easterly. Now, as for what they’re doing down at headquarters?

I haven’t a clue—probably looking to throw me off a bridge. But they’re next on my fun-filled to-do list today.”

As his Master Distiller’s jaw dropped open, Lane got out of the convertible and jacked his slacks up. Lenghe’s jet was similar to the ones that made up the BBC’s fleet of six, and Lane found himself doing the math on selling all that sky-bound steel and glass.

There had to be sixty million right there.

But he was going to need brokers to handle the sales properly. You didn’t Craigslist something like an Embraer.

Mack stepped in front of him, the man’s big body the kind of thing you couldn’t walk through. “So who’s running the company?”

“Right now? This moment?” Lane put his finger up to his mouth and cocked his head like Deadpool. “Ah … nobody. Yup, if memory serves, there’s nobody in charge.”

“Lane … shit.”

“You looking for a desk job? ’Cuz I’m hiring. Qualifications include a high tolerance for power plays, a closet full of tailor-made suits, and a disaffinity for family members. Oh, wait. That was my father and we already got stuck in that rut. So blue jeans and a good mid-court jump shot will work. Tell me, do you still play basketball as well as you used to?”

The jet’s portal opened and a set of stairs extended down to the asphalt. The sixty-ish man who emerged had the stocky build of a former football player, a square jaw like an old-school comic book superhero, and was wearing a set of golf shorts and a polo shirt that probably needed safety glasses to be viewed properly.

Neon fireworks against a black background. But somehow, it worked on the guy.

Then again, when you were worth close to three billion dollars, you could wear whatever the fuck you wanted.

John Lenghe was on the phone as he came down to the tarmac. “—landed. Yup. Okay, right—”

The accent was flat as the Midwestern plains the man came from, the words as unhurried as the stride of his easy descent. But it was wise not to be fooled. Lenghe controlled sixty percent of the corn-and wheat-producing farms in the nation—as well as fifty percent of all milking cows. He was, literally, the Grain God, and it was not a surprise that he wouldn’t waste even a trip down a set of stairs when he could be doing business.

“—I’ll be home later tonight. And tell Roger not to mow my grass. That’s my damn job—what? Yes, I know I pay him and that’s why I can tell him what not to do. I love you. What? Of course I’ll make you the pork chops, honey. All you have to do is ask. ‘Bye now.”

Okaaaaaay, so that was his wife on the phone.

“Boys,” he called out. “Unexpected surprise.”

Lane met the man halfway, putting out his palm. “Thanks for seeing us.”

“I’m sorry about your dad.” Lenghe shook his head. “I lost mine two years ago and I’m still not over it.”

“You know Mack, our Master Distiller?”

“First time in person.” Lenghe smiled and clapped the Master Distiller on the shoulder. “I have enjoyed both you and your dad’s bourbon forever.”

Mack said a bunch of right things. And then there was a pause.

“So,” Lenghe jogged his Independence Day shorts a little higher—“about half an hour ago I got a call from your board chair, son. You want to talk about this in private?”

“Yeah, I really do. I need this all to be kept confidential.”

“Understood, and consider this in the vault. But I don’t have long. Gotta be home for dinner in Kansas, and I’ve got two stops to make before I get there. Let’s use my little paper airplane as a conference room?”

“Sounds good to me, sir.”

The inside of Lenghe’s jet wasn’t at all like what the BBC’s planes looked like. Instead of cream leather and burl ash, the Grain God had personalized his to be cozy and welcoming, from the handmade braided blankets to the University of Kansas throw pillows. Buckets of popcorn, not caviar, had been put out, and there were soft drinks instead of anything alcoholic. No stewardess. And if there had been one, she no doubt would have been his wife, not any kind of pneumatic bimbo.

When Lenghe offered them Cokes, he was clearly prepared to serve them himself.

“We’re good, thanks,” Lane said as he took a seat at a small conference table.

Mack sat next to him and Lenghe took the seat across the way, linking his thick-fingered hands and leaning in, his pale blue eyes shrewd in his tanned face.

“I hear senior management is not happy with you,” Lenghe said.

“No, they’re not.”

“Your board chair told me you locked ’em all out of their offices and shut the corporate server down.”

“I did.”

“Any reason why?”

“Not anything I’m proud of, I’m afraid. I’m trying to get to the bottom of everything now, but I have reason to believe someone’s been stealing from the company. And I’m worried some or all of those suits are in on it. I don’t know enough to say anything more than that, however.”

Liar, liar, Loudmouth Golf on fire.

“So you haven’t talked to your board chair?”

“Before I have the full story? No. Besides, I don’t owe him any explanation.”

“Well, son, I think he’s got a different opinion on that.”