61: Chapter 61 The Shark Smelled Blood

New York, Wall Street.

It was 3:00 AM, but the top floor of the building was still ablaze with light.

Jack Martin sat in a $20,000 ergonomic chair, his feet propped up on the desk, swirling a glass of expensive single malt whiskey.

On the three giant screens in front of him, candlestick charts were jumping frantically—the EKG of flowing money.

The room was thick with the smell of Cuban cigars and anxious sweat.

"Boss, RTX (Raytheon Technologies) is up another two points!"

Trader Tom, sporting dark circles under his eyes, was as excited as a drugged-up monkey. "This Middle East situation is incredible! Should we increase our position?"

Jack Martin didn't speak.

He stared at the screen, his eyes bloodshot.

Since yesterday, his account had been like a rocket taking off.

That $60 million from Ava Rockefeller had turned into $90 million in just twenty-four hours.

This rate of profit was faster than a money printer, giving him the illusion that he was God.

Until that black pop-up window appeared again.

[ Legacy: Liquidate. ]

Just two words.

Jack slammed his glass down, spilling liquor onto the expensive carpet.

He sat up straight, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

[ Jack: Are you kidding me? It's a bull market! The defense sector is still surging! There are two more multi-billion dollar orders to be announced this week! ]

The other side of the screen was silent for a few seconds.

[ Legacy: I said, liquidate. All defense stocks, not a single share left. ]

Jack felt a nameless rage burn from his chest to his head.

He was a genius on Wall Street; he was a professional.

And that guy hiding behind a mask on the other end was just a lunatic who knew a little bit about hacking.

[ Jack: If you sell now, we'll lose out on at least $20 million in profit! This doesn't make sense! The war over there has only just begun! ]

[ Legacy: Logic? ]

A mocking emoji popped up on the screen.

[ Legacy: Within ten minutes, if you don't close the positions, I will send all your old skeletons—including those little tricks you pulled to retaliate against your former employer—to the SEC. ]

Jack's hands froze on the keyboard.

The suffocating feeling of being strangled by a venomous snake returned.

He had forgotten; he wasn't God. He was just a dog in God's hands, a dog that could be stewed and eaten at any moment.

"Damn it," Jack cursed under his breath, yanking his tie loose.

"Boss?" Tom was still waiting for instructions.

"Sell it," Jack squeezed the words through his teeth.

"What?" Tom thought he had misheard. "Sell what?"

"Everything! All defense stocks! Whether it's Raytheon or Lockheed, dump them all!"

Jack roared, his voice echoing in the empty office. "Now! Immediately! Right now!"

"But..."

"No buts! Execute the order!"

The traders looked at each other, but no one dared to disobey the order from their madman boss.

The sound of typing instantly intensified, like a downpour hitting a tin roof.

Jack stared fixedly at the screen.

As the massive sell orders were executed, the previously soaring candlestick chart paused for a moment before beginning to pull back.

[ Jack: Sold out. Are you satisfied? ]

[ Legacy: Very good. Now, go all-in on the healthcare sector. ]

Jack was stunned.

Healthcare?

Right now, the whole world was focused on war and energy; the healthcare sector was like a stagnant pool of water, without even a ripple.

[ Jack: Which ones? Pfizer? Johnson & Johnson? ]

[ Legacy: No. Buy Georgetown Bio (GTB), Vanguard Pharmaceuticals, and any company related to respiratory drugs or protective equipment. Especially those small-cap stocks with government connections. ]

Jack looked at these words, and lightning suddenly flashed through his mind.

Respiratory? Protective equipment?

He was a smart man, too smart.

On Wall Street, smart people often smell the scent of a corpse earlier than others.

[ Jack: ...What are you trying to do? ]

[ Legacy: I'm not doing anything; I'm just looking at the weather forecast. A rainstorm is coming, Jack. Remember to buy an umbrella. ]

The dialog box disappeared.

Jack sat in his chair, feeling the cold sweat on his back soak through his shirt.

He turned his head and looked at the night view of Manhattan outside the window.

Countless lights were flickering; they were the endless, tireless desires.

And beneath these lights, it seemed like a giant, invisible hand was stirring the sludge in the sewers.

"Boss, this..." Tom looked at the buy list Jack had provided, completely bewildered.

"I've seen the financial reports for these companies; they're absolute trash. Especially that Georgetown Bio; it's just a shell company registered to a university lab, without even a decent product."

"Shut up." Jack grabbed his glass; this time, he downed the rest of the whiskey in one gulp.

If that person said to buy, it meant this pile of garbage was about to turn into gold.

Or rather, this pile of garbage was about to become a life-saving straw.

"Buy," Jack's voice trembled, but the light in his eyes grew brighter—it was fear, but also greed. "Dump all the money in. Use maximum leverage."

If there really was a "rainstorm," he would be the one selling umbrellas.

Even if that umbrella was made of human skin.

...

Brooklyn, safe house.

Chen Mo closed his laptop.

"Did he buy it?" Old George was wiping a dagger, the blade gleaming coldly under the light.

"He bought it. Greed is the best dog leash." Chen Mo stood up and stretched his slightly stiff neck.

"As long as he gets a whiff of blood, he'd dare to bite God Himself."

"So, the target is Georgetown?" George asked.

"News from Ava." Chen Mo walked to the map on the wall, picked up a red pen, and drew a circle around Georgetown University in the northwest of Washington D.C.

"The Rockefeller Family is quietly withdrawing capital, selling off all their commercial real estate in Washington. What does that tell you?"

"It means that place is about to become a disaster zone."

George sheathed his dagger. "Looks like the business with Senator Gore got too big; those old fogies can't sit still anymore."

"They need a bigger piece of news to overshadow the old one."

Chen Mo sneered. "Nothing attracts attention like an 'accidental' biological leak. This is called cutting off the tail to survive."

"So what do we do?"

"Us?" Chen Mo looked at the red circle on the map, a flash of cruel pleasure in his eyes.

"We're going to help them fan the flames. Since they want to play Resident Evil, we'll make them the protagonists of a zombie movie."