White Collar Blackmail: White Collar Crime Financial Suspense Thriller Read Online Free PDF

breed who loved pain. He knew that he was within range of breaking his personal best time, but the shrill beep from his heart rate monitor warned him that he’d just gone through 190. All it did was drive him harder.
    The two men in the limousine following fifty yards behind him wore thick overcoats, and the heat was turned up to the max. Every second morning they watched their boss go through this ritual and on the other mornings he sparred six rounds with a former contender for the light heavyweight title. In the winter when there was heavy snow and the lake was frozen he was forced onto a treadmill. He hated it and on those days his men did everything they could to avoid him rather than feel his wrath.
    “He’ll be in a great mood today.” Farik smiled. “I might ask for a raise.”
    “Stupid is as stupid does,” Dirk replied.
    Farik didn’t respond. There were only two men in the world that he was wary of, and they were both within range.
    With four hundred yards to go, Borchard demanded that his body and legs give more. His face was contorted, and the heart rate monitor began emitting a constant beep. He disregarded it and instead focused on his stopwatch, breaking into a full sprint knowing he was about to break seventeen minutes for the first time in years. As his feet touched the sand, he came to an abrupt halt and hit the red button on his stopwatch. Seventeen minutes and three seconds, an outstanding time for a man his age. As he bent over, hands on knees, gasping for breath, he scowled and wondered whether he’d started his stopwatch a few seconds too early. Dirk got out of the limo, the collar of his overcoat turned up around his neck. “Great run, boss. Do ya wanna drink?” he asked, handing Borchard a bottle of water.
    “I broke seventeen minutes. There are very few men in the world my age who could come even close to that.” He took a swig from the bottle, dropped to the damp sand, and in one motion did the first of two hundred push-ups. He followed with two hundred sit-ups and then in push-up position, held himself for five minutes. It was five degrees, but the wind chill factor made it closer to minus ten when he kicked his Nikes off, dispensed with his tracksuit pants and threw his t-shirt on the sand. He was wearing a black pair of Speedos, and his body was ripped. His long, sinewy muscles rippled, and his six pack was cut to the max. The scars on his body told a story; one ran across his left arm, another about four inches long crossed his left pectoral, and the largest and ugliest sat just below his Adam’s apple.
    He pulled his goggles down before striding into the near freezing water. Without pausing he dived in and surfaced free styling strongly, churning through the water with smooth rhythmic strokes. When he was about three hundred yards from the shore, he turned, took a deep breath and started back, pulling the water through his powerful hands.
    As Borchard neared the shore, Farik climbed out of the limo carrying a large towel, a thick white dressing gown, and small bag. “Make sure the heat’s turned off before I get in, Farik,” Borchard shouted.
    “It’s done, boss. When have I ever forgot?” Farik shouted back as he picked up the damp and sandy t-shirt, the tracksuit pants, and Nikes. As he bent down, his overcoat opened at the top, and a gust of wind cut through his chest like a knife. He silently cursed his boss’s eccentricity.
    Borchard strode from the lake, hands locked behind his head, breathing deeply.
    “Good swim, boss?”
    “Yeah,” Borchard replied, taking the towel and rubbing his body vigorously. After a few minutes, he dropped his goggles, Speedos and towel on the sand and fully naked, held his arms out so Farik could put his dressing gown on him. “Is that okay, boss?”
    “Yeah,” Borchard grunted, striding toward the car with Farik waddling close behind.  
    Dirk was holding the rear door of the limo open, a small hand towel over his arm. Borchard