The Billionaire's Revenge (Tycoon Billionaires 3)

Joseph glanced at Robertson and saw his brow was prickling with sweat. He was starting to panic. Surely he didn’t believe Bob would actually go through with this?

“You don’t want to kill him,” Joseph said. “You don’t want to end up back in jail.”

Bob’s fingers gripped the gun tight. “I need to show him he’s not the superhuman he thinks he is. He needs to be reminded that no one’s above the law. He’s flesh and blood, like everyone else.”

Sympathy arose in Joseph’s chest. Bob wasn’t a killer – he was a man in pain who thought he could get peace by destroying the object of his anger. But that would only make him feel worse and send him straight to hell. “Bob, come on, point it back at me.”

Bob ignored him, resolutely aiming the gun in his shaking hands at Robertson. He flicked off the safety with a terrifying click, meaning all he needed to do now was pull the trigger. Joseph realised brute force was going to be required. His desire to protect Eleanor overrode his sense of personal welfare and he launched himself forward to grab Bob’s wrists.

Bob yelled in protest, but the force of Joseph’s dive pulled them both down, and they crashed to the ground – with Joseph on top gripping Bob’s wrist tightly. He squeezed hard, crunching Bob’s wrist bones with such power that his fingers opened and he dropped the gun as he screamed in pain. They writhed together on the expensive carpet as Bob struggled to push Joseph off him, but Joseph was determined. He pushed himself up to his hands, then – resting all his weight on one arm – he pulled back his fist and punched Bob hard in the face, rendering him dazed. Joseph jumped up and drew back his foot to kick him, but he realised that would be brutal and unnecessary – the man was stunned and wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. He lowered his foot, restraining himself. Then he reached down and grabbed the gun. It was surprisingly light for a military weapon…

“You’d better call security,” Joseph said to Robertson. “And get this guy back behind bars.”

Matthew – who was cowering behind Robertson – darted into the office to make the call. Joseph realised he’d better keep the semi-conscious Bob talking while they waited the slow uncomfortable minute for the g

uards to arrive. But Bob seemed defeated now – he looked like a little boy who wanted to go home. The guards didn’t care about that though. They rushed over, grabbed him violently, and dragged him away – hopefully to the police station and back to prison where he clearly needed to stay for a long time.

Joseph turned to face the others. He noticed Matthew hadn’t reappeared.

“You okay?” he asked Eleanor, who was still sitting tensely on the couch.

She gazed at him with her mouth open. “Joseph… you...”

He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and ride off into the sunset with her by his side, but Robertson pulled him back to the stifling corridor with a hearty backslap. “Well, thank you, young man. I think you just about saved my life there.”

Joseph gazed at the gun. “Actually, it’s plastic. And I was only trying to save… anyone who might’ve gotten hurt.”

“You’re okay by me,” Robertson said gruffly.

Matthew crept into the corridor, straightening his tie as if he’d been the one saving the day. The atmosphere clanged with tension – the aftermath of the gun attack resonated in the air, smothering them.

“Er, Mr Robertson,” Matthew said. “This is Joseph Quinlan. He’s one of the musicians I manage. He’s rather popular with the young people.”

“I know who this is!” Robertson snapped. “I own a goddamn tabloid newspaper – I see his face on the front page every morning when I’m pouring maple syrup on my goddamn pancakes.”

Joseph scoffed. “Yeah, you’d need something to sweeten the bullshit you print.”

Matthew gasped. “Joseph! How dare you speak to Mr Robertson like that?”

Robertson laughed. “Don’t worry, Matthew. My life’s work has been called much worse. But don’t you forget who butters your bread, young man.”

“I butter my own bread, thank you, sir.”

He waved his hand. “Nonsense. No one had heard of you until we put you on the David Peterson Show – which – if you don’t know – I own.”

Joseph’s chest prickled with irritation. He didn’t know that.

“Listen, son,” Robertson said. “I know sometimes it must be hard having your private life splashed over the pages of the tabloids. But it’s for the greater good.”

“The greater good of who exactly?”

“Well, there’s me, Matthew, my bank manager, my shareholders… and you, of course.”

“So making up lies is all just part of the package?”

Robertson shook his head, growing weary of Joseph’s ingratitude. “We don’t make up lies. We report the news for the good of the people. The Truth will always be revealed – that’s what the free press is for. Or would you prefer it if we were censored – if the government told us what to print – like in China? You don’t want that, do you? My motto is ‘The Truth is King.’ Even when it’s slightly tweaked to make it more interesting. I’m running a business you know, not a charity.”

Joseph shook his head in contempt. He opened his mouth to disagree, but Matthew intervened. “Anyway, now that you two have met… Blair, shall we head back to our meeting? I’m sure Joseph has important work to do on his new album. He’ll be there at your birthday celebrations next week and you can see him in action. Mr Robertson was just telling me it’s going to be a masquerade ball – sounds fun, huh?”