My armored Chevrolet Suburban turned off the rural highway, slipping past an unmarked gate twenty miles north of Orlando.
Hidden behind a dense line of weeping cypress trees, the Johnson family's private country club retreat sat completely isolated from the world.
There was no public access roads. To anyone glancing at local records, the three-hundred-acre estate was a defunct citrus plantation.
The perimeter was patrolled by private security contractors vetted personally by Sam, and the outside was lined with Faraday shielding to scramble external parabolic microphones and radio interception.
If Wall Street knew what was about to be discussed within these walls, the trading floors would get really busy.
I stepped out of the SUV, adjusting the collar of my coat.
Within seconds, the mahogany front doors opened.
Sam stood in the entryway, dressed in a suit without a tie, leaning lightly against his silver-tipped cane.
