The crowd lingered for a moment. Whispers and murmurs started up again.
Reese gave Webster a hard look. Then she walked back into the auditorium. Her action had a ripple effect and before long, the rest of the crowd had regained sheep-status, following her back to their seats.
“That includes the two of you.” Donovan looked at Graham and I. “Get back in there.”
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“And I’m going with him,” Graham added.
“Remember what I said before, Cy? About you being a national hero? Well, act like it.”
With one quick yank, I sent him sprawling to the floor. Then I released the bolt mechanism, twisted the left knob, and pulled the door open.
My eyebrows rocketed to the top of my skull. What I’d seen in the auditorium wasn’t chaos. No, this was chaos.
Everywhere I looked, I saw people. Some hustled down the sidewalks, their arms full of television sets, computer tablets, racks of clothing, and whatever else they could carry. Others wielded pipes, wrenches, and heavy flashlights, which they used to reign havoc on windows, metal grilles and gates, the occasional parked car, anything really. Still others lofted Molotov cocktails, chucking them toward buildings, trees, and even crowds of people. It was a full-blown riot, big enough to explode the senses.
A puzzle piece clicked into place. Malware had known about the riot. That’s why she’d given me sixty minutes to reach my destination. And as I looked at the growing chaos and listened to frenzied chants about food and money and power, that hour suddenly felt very short.
“Wait here,” I told Graham. “I’ll be back.”
He crossed his arms. “You really think I’m letting you go out there alone?”
My satphone vibrated. I pulled it out of my pocket and stared at the screen. Just you, it read.
“I’m coming.” Graham burped. “And that’s final.”
Yeah, he was tipsy and his belligerence would probably get us into trouble. But he was still the best wingman I knew. Plus, I didn’t have time to argue with him.
My fingers flew across the virtual keyboard, typing my reply. We’re a package deal.
Malware’s response came almost instantaneously. The more, the merrier, I suppose. Malware approved.
As I pocketed the satphone, a few rioters turned my way. Their visages darkened in the pale moonlight and they began climbing the Explorers Society’s exterior staircase.
“Don’t you dare leave,” Donovan called out. “Or I swear to God I’ll give your award to someone else.”
“It’s a fake award.” I walked outside. “It deserves a fake winner.”
Chapter 6
“Oh really?” Terry Horst, the esteemed Secretary of the Treasury, crossed her stubby legs. “And exactly what are you going to do, Harold? Beat me like you beat Sharon?”
Harold Sanchez, the Chairman of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission, glowered at her. His jaw tightened. Deep lines formed upon his dark, doughy visage.
“That’s completely unnecessary,” Lori Scott said before he could respond. “And frankly, beneath even you, Terry.” Scott, the Chairwoman of the Securities and Exchange Commission, was tall and curveless. Her hair, dyed frosty blonde, was trimmed close to her scalp. She wore a tight navy blue blouse over white pants, along with an elaborate shell necklace consisting of multiple metallic chains hanging at different lengths.
Terry Horst brushed a wisp of hair away from her eyes. She wore a black pencil skirt and a form-fitting colorful top with plunging neckline. Her love of tight clothes, coupled with her plus-sized body, brought her plenty of disgusted stares from skinny folks. They expected — no, wanted — her to hate her body, to hide it under baggy, dumpy clothing. She had no interest in that. She clearly loved her figure, loved to show it off. And if she could offend a few skinnies in the process, all the better. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking,” she replied sweetly.
“Sharon was — is — a psychopath.” Sanchez exhaled a long breath. Despite his happy-go-lucky nature, or perhaps because of it, he was often found in the company of troubled women. Usually alcoholics with acid tongues and serious daddy issues. “She's just trying to get back at me for breaking up with her.”
“Women don’t lie about that sort of thing,” Horst said in a singsong voice.
“She’s not a woman. She’s a damn harpy. Just like you.”
You can choose your friends, Ben Marvin thought as he watched the three high-powered individuals bicker like children from the hallway just outside his home office. But you can’t choose your collaborators.
For him, at least, that was definitely the case. He didn’t particularly care for Horst, Sanchez, or Scott. However, their respective positions, as per Executive Order 12631, gave them permanent membership alongside him in the Working Group on Capital Markets. Or, as the press liked to call it, the Plunge Protection Team. And since his plans required the Working Group’s unique powers, he was stuck with the three of them, whether he liked it or not.
Ben was the appointed Chair of the Board of Governors at the Federal Reserve. He was a short, bespectacled man. At first glance, most observers pegged him as the stereotypical accountant, churning through endless reams of numbers in a brightly-lit, windowless room. And there was some truth to that. For he’d earned the right to use the CPA title many years earlier. But he was more than just an accountant. Indeed, Ben was widely considered the brightest financial mind the United States had to offer.
He lingered at the doorframe, listening to them argue, annoyed beyond belief. This was supposed to be a moment of triumph. Petty disagreements had no place here.
Decades, Father, Ben thought as he turned his attention to the framed photograph behind his desk. It took decades, but your dream is coming true. I just wish you were here to see it.
The blown-up black-and-white photograph depicted a slim, tall man with slicked back hair. The man — Roy Marvin — sat in a cushioned wood seat, surrounded by distinguished-looking men the world had long forgotten.
Nine months earlier, Roy had succumbed to heart failure. He hadn’t gone easily, battling the Grim Reaper every step to the grave. It was the final epic defeat in a lifetime full of them.
Reluctantly, Ben glanced back at his three collaborators. He’d heard enough of the argument to understand the situation. Quite simply, Horst had lost her nerve. He didn’t fully blame her, what with the violent riots currently plaguing the country. Still, he couldn’t exactly cut her loose at this point. Not when the end game was so close.
Ben cleared his throat.
The bickerers broke off in mid-argument. Swiveling in their chairs, they turned to face him.
“We’ve got a problem.” Sanchez sneered. “Terry’s wimping out on us.”
Secretary Horst eyed Sanchez with disdain. “Open your eyes, Harold. People are hurting and it’s our fault.”
“Typical Terry. First sign of trouble and—”
“Everyone, please calm down,” Ben said. “Let’s talk about this. By the way, any problems getting here?”
Scott shook her head. “We followed protocols to the letter. No one knows we’re here.”
“Thank you, Lori.” Briefcase in hand, Ben walked to his desk. For a second time, his eyes locked on the framed photograph. He’d discovered it shortly after his father’s death, locked away in a bedroom safe. It was just one of thousands of items Roy had saved from his long and troubled career in the field of economics.
The photograph had been taken in 1949, on the eve of what should’ve been Roy’s greatest triumph. And indeed, that was what Ben liked about the photo. It showed a light in his father’s eyes, a laugh upon the man’s lips. This was a Roy he’d never known, one full of youth, hope, and moral clarity. But even this photo hinted at the inner agony that would eventually darken Roy’s soul.