Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

“What the hell are you talking about? Is this something to do with Creed and whatever the hell he and Gordon were mixed up in?”

Gibbs fished a pack of cigarettes out of his desk draw. He studied the pack carefully but didn’t open it. “I’m talking about the end of the world as we know it,” he smiled, a slightly manic expression on his face. “The shit’s about to hit the fan, and guess where we’re standing.”

“Speak English, Ryan. What’s going on?”

“It’s going to be headline news in a couple hours. Our analysts have done the math. The board of directors has been here all night. Hell, I’ve been awake for thirty hours. The numbers don’t lie.”

“What numbers? What are you talking about?”

“A few months ago, we stumbled across a piece of information. It was a formula, a market model. Similar to the ones we use every day. Except this one was more accurate. We trialed it, made a freakin’ fortune. Problem is, we didn’t figure the market would shift more than a few points in a given week. We were wrong.”

“Yeah, so what? Happens all the time.”

“Not by thirty percent, Parks. Over the last month.”

Martin’s jaw dropped.

“You see what I’m getting at?” Gibbs said. “We used the new model to make smart buys. But we monitored the volatilities with our old model. Like some freakin’ amateurs, we didn’t notice until it was too late. We’re leveraged up the ass, Parks.”

“How bad?”

“Let’s just put it this way—our liabilities will exceed the value of our assets if we don’t unload everything in the next six hours.”

“We’ll get shut down.”

“That’s not the worst of it,” Gibbs said. “If we try to unload our stock now, before the value tanks, people are going to notice. We’ll have started a chain reaction.”

“What are we going to do?”

“The board voted last night. That’s why we’re all here.”

“They’re going to dump the stock.” Parks knew the answer already.

Gibbs nodded, staring intently at the packet of cigarettes. “Carson is going to brief you all. The first few hours are the most crucial. If we don’t sell the bulk of our options before lunch, the buyers will catch on and run for the hills.”

“They want us to sell the stock, knowing it’s going to tank?”

“They’re offering a bonus for the entire floor if we get this done on time. One mil each. Plus another mil each if we hit ninety cents on the dollar.”

Parks leaned against the desk, his head spinning. “This is a lot to take in.”

“Get your head around it quick, son. This is happening. Right now.” Gibbs stuffed the unopened packet of smokes into his jacket pocket and stood up. “Fair warning. Get your head straight.” He escorted Martin out the door. “And put on your game face.”

Martin paused in the doorway. “Wait a minute. You said you found this new model months ago? Why are we only just figuring out the problem now?”

“Some people asked questions at first, but I guess nobody wanted to hear it. The signs were all there, but we were all too busy riding the high to notice. The alarm bells started ringing when one of our biggest accounts pulled out their entire portfolio. Happened yesterday evening, pretty late. Obviously, that got people asking questions. Made us look at the numbers properly.”

“Which account?”

Gibbs leaned against the doorframe. “Blake Investments. They cleared out their stock options pretty much across the board.”

“Guess they saw this coming.”

“Yeah, and they left it ‘til the last minute to do anything. Could have given us a heads up. Instead, the bastards hung us out to dry.” Gibbs shook his head. “Carson’s getting ready. You need to go. Good luck.” He shut the door and disappeared back into his office, probably to sneak a cigarette.

Martin felt his throat close up. It was all over. Less than five years and his career was done—and two million dollars wouldn’t last long. Not in this town. Not after the IRS took half and the rest went on the house. Not with school loans. Not with car payments.

Across the office, Senior Vice President Jack Carson stood with his back to the window. With the sun coming up behind him through the tall glass, he was surrounded by an aura of light. Like some kind of bizarre angel. Or a prophet. Or a demon. Either way, Martin knew, in the next few minutes everything was going to change—and he’d better be ready for it.

The senior VP held up both hands. The room fell silent. Carson addressed the floor. Martin listened, feeling the tension in the air. The words were carefully chosen but, somehow, hearing Carson say them had a deeper impact than Martin had expected. There were hurried whispers in the audience. Looks of shock and surprise. The curtain had been pulled back, revealing a sham—one that an entire office of people had given their careers to support. And their leader, the man charged with guiding them through the storm, was selling out.

The whispers grew louder and Carson finished. He looked around at the worried faces. “I can’t pretend this won’t be difficult,” he said. “But we’re survivors. We’re warriors. You’re the best of the best and I have every confidence in you.” He waited as the murmurs died down.

“Are there any questions?”

_______

Nick Stephenson is an Amazon Kindle Bestselling author of mysteries and thrillers. To find out more information about Nick Stephenson’s work and other books featuring Leopold Blake, you can visit his website at: http://www.nickstephensonbooks.com

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Loose Ends

A California Corwin Mystery Thriller

By David VanDyke

With a clear docket and hope for a new case, I reached down to flip the drop box open, the one inside my Mission District office off of Valencia. The sounds and smells of San Francisco streets faded behind me as the door swung shut and latched automatically, a feature that said a lot about the neighborhood. If people wanted in to California Investigations, they had to buzz, or have a key.

Typical Monday mail. Bills, junk, bills. As I sorted, a business card fluttered to the floor. Bending over, I used my left forefinger’s sharp nail to lift it off the tile floor, then held it up with my thumb tip while I walked over to my desk. Never know where stuff has been.

On the front, the card read Miranda Sorkin, Pharm.D , with the phone number printed beneath it hastily scribbled out and obscured with ballpoint. I turned it over.

Cole said you can help—PLEASE CALL RIGHT AWAY and a Marin number scrawled across the back of the stiff cream stock, in a hand that was probably neat on most days, but not this time. This time it seemed shaky, anxious, like a woman in trouble might write. I was no expert, but as a former cop of almost a decade’s experience I boasted a passing familiarity with all of the forensic disciplines, including handwriting analysis.

And I got these vibes sometimes, ever since the bomb. The blast had left me with nerve damage in my right hand, put some scars on the far right side of my face and rang my bell but good. Ever since, I got the occasional flash of weird insight. My new-age hippie mother said “the spirits” had given me something supernatural in return for their pound of flesh, but I didn’t believe it. If anything, my brain had been rewired, and not necessarily for the better.

It was nice to get a line on a new case on a Monday, especially from Cole Sage. The journalist had sent me more than one lucrative commission, and I appreciated it, even if I couldn’t get him to take a serious look at me, what with him always drooling over that Sausalito houseboat hottie.