The Noah Reid Action Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (plus special bonuses)

by Wesley Robert Lowe

  Suddenly, the president of the Chad Huang Foundation was no longer tired.

  “Would you mind if I sat in on the meeting?” asked Noah.

  “Hey, this is not amateur hour where I bring along anybody who wants to tag along. Of course, I mind. This is business, my life’s dream. I’ve worked too hard and care too much to have any schmo come along for the ride.”

  “Some schmoes control a multi-billion-dollar charity,” said Olivia. “Like Noah. He’s the president of the Chad Huang Foundation. Seriously.”

  Queenie feigned surprise. “You? I’ve been trying to get hold of someone to speak to but nobody at your office ever returns my calls.”

  It was a calculated lie. Queenie never phoned anyone there but unreturned calls were common, especially when the person is requesting funds.

  Noah sighed. “Sorry, I’ll have to speak to the staff about that. I don’t know much about music but I like your ideas.”

  “In that case, I would be delighted to have you, Noah Reid, president of the Chad Huang Foundation, attend,” said Queenie.

  “Um, do you mind if I join you, too?” asked Olivia.

  Queenie shook her head. “I don’t need spectators.”

  “What if I come in as an example of the kind of artist you’re trying to promote?”

  Queenie laughed. “Harvard Law School grad. Spoiled rich kid who wants to play in a new sandbox because she doesn’t want to write wills and handle divorces so she decides to play the piano?”

  “How about if I come as your vice president of the New Amsterdam Arts Center, formerly VP of the Chad Huang Foundation, an organization that is involved with a very similar target demographic that you’re proposing?”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” asked Queenie. This is even better than I hoped for.

  The same question was running through Noah’s mind.

  “I was okay when I was accompanying Abby with solo piano, but in the studio tonight? I was the weakest part and couldn’t hold my own with all those great musicians. I am not going to hold Abby back. As much as I love to play the piano and am her best friend, I would only be a fifth wheel in the long run. But if I’m part of this deal you’re putting together, I can still be involved in the arts... and play that very nice piano in Studio 5.”

  “I don’t know, Olivia. You’ll always be wondering what would have happened if you’d stuck to music,” said Queenie.

  This girl’s no dummy. There was an almost imperceptible nod of Noah’s head.

  “I speak the language of business. That Harvard Law school degree you were mocking me about? Well, that will open just about any door in the world.”

  “I’m used to working solo. You will just get in the way,” countered Queenie.

  “Which is a flaw. Everybody in the world has a great idea to flog. Very few have the knowledge and support team to make it happen. I may not be the greatest piano player in the world, but I do have one hell of a Rolodex.”

  Queenie looked at Noah, then Olivia. “The Park Hotel. Devonshire Room. 8:00 a.m. Don’t be late. Either of you.”

  Chapter 21

  As the foursome left the Vector Building, Noah asked Olivia quietly, “So how’s it going?”

  Before Olivia could answer, a dark panel truck raced around the corner and screeched to a halt in front of them. Eight masked assailants wielding baseball bats leapt out. Two grabbed Abby and Olivia from behind. In their tight dresses and heels, they were easy pickings. The other six swung their bats at Noah and JJ.

  As the girls screamed in protest, their attackers taunted, “Shut up, bitch. You’re crazy. Yes, yes, yes.” The voices were those of young teenage males, maybe not even old enough to drive.

  Totally exhausted from their flight, shopping, the showcase, and meetings, JJ and Noah’s reflexes were shades slower than peak performance. Even though they were Shaolin masters, they were badly outnumbered, and their efforts were no match for angry, drug-fueled teenage hoods.

  Reaching up, JJ picked off one bat just before it cracked his skull. He twirled a flying kick to his attacker’s midriff, knocking him down and winding the guy, but he couldn’t avoid the two-handed thwack club directed at his chest from another direction.

  JJ reeled back to avoid getting his ribs crushed but found himself in the path of a switchblade aimed at his head coming from another direction. He saved himself by jerking his head back. A thin line of blood rolling down his cheek showed how close the call was.

  Now off balance, he couldn’t stop the convergence of three thugs swinging lumber at him like wild men. One blow landed on his butt. JJ buckled and a wallop to his head sent him to la la land.

  Noah did a handspring and landed on the back of the teen gripping Olivia’s throat. The harsh impact made the young thug release Olivia, but a vicious swat from another perpetrator slammed Noah’s legs. Only by falling backward to the ground did Noah escape the blow. But now he was vulnerable, flat on his back, and several of the gang rushed him and started kicking. Instead of retreating, Noah launched a counter-offensive, sweeping with his arms and kicking his legs out. One blow caught a young goon on the jaw, sending him crashing into one of his comrades before both hit the sidewalk.

  In the flurry of activity, Noah spotted an oncoming bat directed at his back but he had no time to react. The blow sent him crumpling to the ground.

  Gasping, Noah tried to pick himself up and was rewarded with a boot to the head. He gasped, “Just give everything to them.” Then he, too, flopped unconscious.

  Abby and Olivia helplessly watched the attacks on JJ and Noah with horror. They threw their purses at their assailants. Abby whimpered, “Please. Don’t hurt us.”

  Ignoring her, some of the hoods rifled through their purses and stuck their hands down the girls’ blouses to see if any money was hidden in their bras. Nothing but cheap thrills from their bodies but five hundred bucks from their purses. Quick searches of Noah and JJ’s wallets hit the jackpot—three thousand bucks.

  Thirty-five hundred bucks’ take. Not bad for five minutes’ work.

  “Let’s beat it,” ordered the leader.

  The hoodlums hopped back in the truck and took off. Fifteen minutes later, the truck would be abandoned. Gasoline would be poured all over it and it would be set on fire along with the baseball bats, gloves and masks. In a perfect world, someone would spend the time on forensics searching for traces that would allow law enforcement to track down and convict the criminals, but reality was nothing like TV or the movies.

  Decimated funding for law enforcement dictated that any complaint, if lodged, would stay at the bottom of the never ever pile. After all, nobody died and these rich foreigners weren’t going to lose any sleep over thirty-five hundred bucks.

  The city that never sleeps wasn’t sleeping now either. Half a dozen bystanders looked the other way while Noah and JJ got beat up. Abby and Olivia screamed for help but funny thing—no one heard them.

  With Olivia and Abby dousing bottles of water on their faces, Noah and JJ regained consciousness. The two women wanted to take them to the ER, but they refused. It was a guy thing and the two had suffered much worse in their martial arts training.

  “Still like New York, JJ?” asked Noah. “In less than a day we’ve been mugged, gotten new wardrobes, visited a cool jazz club, saw an awesome recording session, then been attacked, robbed and robbed again.”

  “Let’s cancel tomorrow morning,” said Olivia. “You’d be crazy to go to an 8 a.m. meeting.”

  “I’d be crazy not to,” replied Noah. “JJ told me earlier, ‘New York needs us here.’ I agree. If nothing else, it makes me want to do it even more.”

  Welcome to the Big Apple.

  The tentacles of darkness are interconnected and wide. One of the attackers had left a burner cell phone at the scene of the attack with its line open to transmit the conversation. One very determined young woman who had orchestrated the mugging to its last detail listened intently. She closed her phone, then made another call.


  “Well?” asked the middle-aged Chinese male at the other end of the line.

  “Everything going to plan. Tomorrow is D Day.”

  Chapter 22

  Queenie stood at the entrance to the private boardroom she’d booked at the Devonshire Hotel. A New York classic overlooking Central Park, the room was a balance of storied elegance and a distinctive contemporary spirit. No flowers on the ebony table that seated eight. This was a working meeting. Instead, a basket of fresh organic fruit, individual bottles of Italian mineral water and two flasks of Blue Mountain coffee sat discreetly to the side.

  While a personal room captain was included in the three-hundred-dollars-an-hour cost, Queenie dismissed him, preferring to keep the room’s occupants on a need-to-know basis only.

  Olivia and Noah were already seated. Olivia was none the worse for wear after last night’s activities and appeared the consummate professional in her power blue business suit. Noah? Well, even after Olivia spent half an hour on him, it was impossible to hide his shiner, even with thick make-up.

  At precisely 7:58 a.m., three grey-haired and dark-suited men arrived at the door.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Messrs. Field, Garvey and Styles,” greeted Queenie as she led the trio into the room. She pointed to Olivia and Noah. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought two guests along with me.”

  “I would have preferred to meet with just you,” interrupted Leonard Styles, the youngest of the three old guys.

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted you to meet…” said Queenie.

  “This is a business meeting, not a schmooze fest,” said Jeff Garry, the suit on Leonard’s right.

  “No problem. We understand,” said Olivia. “Noah and I will make our way out.” She and Noah arose.

  “Sorry about that, Olivia. My very bad. I should have cleared it first,” apologized Queenie.

  Byron Field, the most senior of the three, had been studying Noah and Olivia quietly. Hearing their names, he suddenly spoke out. “Noah as in Noah Reid and Olivia as in Olivia Southam from the Chad Huang Foundation?”

  Olivia, knowing Noah was on the verge of telling the stuffed shirts to take a hike, jumped in first. “Yes, we are but, in my case, I’m no longer with that organization. I am now the vice president of the New Amsterdam Arts Center. Noah remains the Foundation’s president.”

  Byron broke into a friendly smile. “Please stay. Both of you. I’m sorry my colleagues rushed to quick judgment. We hear so many requests for funds that we often have to be brutal in not wasting anyone’s time.” said Byron. “Noah, I’ve heard much about your foundation’s generosity to New York youth. Three new youth centers with operational funding for five years. We would be remiss if we didn’t hear what you have to say and what role the Chad Huang Foundation might play with the New Amsterdam Arts Center. I’m Byron Field, president of the Manhattan Investors Syndicate. My associate Jeff Garry is on my right. The junior of us…” Byron glared, “…is Leonard Styles.”

  “Pleased to meet you all,” said Olivia with polite diplomacy.

  Noah, on the other hand, just gave a simple wave of greeting. So if I have money you’ll meet with us, but if I’ve got no dough, I’m chopped liver?

  For the next forty-five minutes, Queenie made her impassioned pitch to the group about her concept of combining the arts, education and professionalism. She told of her visits to Pittsburgh’s Manchester Bidwell Corporation and how inspired she was by the vision of its founder, Bill Strickland. It led her not only to model the New Amsterdam Arts Center after Manchester Bidwell but to expand upon it. How wonderful would it be for new graduates from her center to be able to put on their resumes that they worked with some of the best recording artists in putting out chart-topping music? Or to be given the opportunity to be signed themselves to the New Amsterdam label?

  During Queenie’s presentation, Noah occasionally nodded. Olivia noted with amusement that, at those times, the suits nodded as well.

  Noah and Olivia marveled at how well Queenie made her pitch. She was poised, confident and knowledgeable. They didn’t know this was expected. Before Noah and Olivia arrived, Queenie got together early with Byron, Leonard and Jeff to rehearse and refine in front of them.

  Of course, these were not their real names. Byron Field was Frank Hodges, the white-collar connection made through Olivia’s and her own father. The Manhattan Investors Syndicate was a shell company Frank owned. Privately held, there was little information on it available but what information there was hinted at it being a monied credible firm with significant assets.

  Leonard and Jeff, or Ian Thorpe and Bill Davies—their real names—were bit players in the charade, hoods that Frank knew had a touch of the acting bug, having been extras on several of New York’s film sets. For them, it was an easy paycheck.

  “And that, gentlemen, concludes my presentation. One hundred fifty million dollars will buy all the equipment and five floors in the Vector Building. The Skyscape studio on the twelfth floor is presently operational. To change the eleventh floor into classrooms and labs will take less than six months,” said Queenie. “The other three floors will take a year to develop.”

  Byron inhaled deeply as he tapped his fingers on the table, first rapidly, then slowing to a stop. “Your presentation was very good, Queenie. However, there are several problems. First, you still have no track record at all in delivering what you promise. Second, we do not fund start-up charities. There has to be a track record of donor support and operational ability.”

  Queenie’s emotion was clear in her voice. “But we just need a chance. The kids need a chance.”

  “I realize that, but you must understand our position. At heart, you are a musical entrepreneur, Queenie, not a manager of people, officials, bureaucrats, and paperwork. The other matter is, and please forgive me for being blunt, our shareholders would think you were more prostitute than professional.”

  “I… I…” stuttered Queenie, devastated at the humiliation.

  Olivia jumped in. “Excuse me, but that’s where I come in. I have a law degree from Harvard that I’m sure your shareholders would respect. Practically, I was tutored by my late father, Garret Southam, one of Asia’s most prominent lawyers. However, my interest in young people led me to the Chad Huang Foundation where contracts, handling bureaucracy and management of funds were my prime responsibility. The only reason I left was to accept the vice presidential position at the New Amsterdam Arts Center. Why would I leave a well-funded foundation to be part of an organization that is barely more than a start-up? Well, that’s because I want to be with an organization that shares the same goals as the Chad Huang Foundation but has a focus on the arts. While basketball, martial arts and sports in general are Noah’s foundation’s core outreach methods, I must admit I’m not a jock. The arts are my passion and that’s where I want to spend my energies. As for track record, it’s short but I did manage to place or invest close to three billion dollars in the last three months. While Queenie will handle the artistic side of the New Amsterdam Arts Center, I will be its corporate face.”

  “But are you able to attract donors? We don’t like to give ‘first in’ money,” said Byron. “Moreover, your budget of one hundred and fifty million dollars is unrealistic for our organization to fund solely, especially given your lack of track record.”

  Queenie didn’t miss a beat. “We could lower it but that would mean we would have to compromise somewhere.”

  “If you could do that, we are willing to consider giving your organization a hundred-thousand-dollar loan.”

  Noah had been biting his tongue the whole time. Listening to these blowhard penny-pinchers reminded him of exactly why he’d formed the Chad Huang Foundation. It was so that people with great ideas wouldn’t have to deal with idiots like those in this room. Their bullshit meter reading was off the charts.

  Noah put his hand over his mouth to pinch his lips—and hide his smirk. He wasn’t much of a gambler but it was time to play wit
h some pretty high stakes. “Like you,” he said, “I am also here doing my due diligence. When Olivia came here a few weeks ago, she constantly apprised me of the situation and I gave a verbal commitment subject to personal inspection.”

  It was a lie, but they didn’t know it. Noah glared at the three mickey mousers. “I can’t stand guys like you. This is a great idea. The people to put it together are in place, and you want to kill them with bureaucratic bullshit. And, on the off chance you do decide to give them a few bucks, you’re going to constantly monitor them, which will kill off the creative spirit with which this group was founded. I want them to go into this fully funded so they can concentrate on the job they want to do and not worry about the next payments. Forget the hundred grand. You are either going to match the dough we’re putting in or I’m going to call a few of my other friends. They’ll jump at the chance.”

  Jeff, who had been silent so far, spoke up. “I appreciate your enthusiasm and willingness to support the New Amsterdam Arts Center, Mr. Reid. However, please remember, to date we have not had the same kind of ongoing discussion with them as you have had. If the Chad Huang Foundation were in fact to commit support, that confers immediate legitimacy. However, a key component of their application was the purchase of the studio and part of the building it’s housed in. Naturally, we understand real estate, but a recording studio is something that none of us here know anything about. We would definitely want to see it before we make a decision.”