86: Chapter 86 Scandals and Poison Pills

The rain hadn't stopped, pattering against the car windows.

The car's heater was blasting. Ava Rockefeller clutched the black USB drive in her hand, her palms slick with sweat.

"Is this... really the antidote?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Chen Mo was busy trying to clear a level on his phone's candy-matching game, not even looking up.

"For some, it's an antidote. For others, it's arsenic. It depends on how you use it."

A giant "Excellent" flashed on the screen. Only then did Chen Mo put his phone away and stretch.

"That old geezer Astor might have jumped to his death, but he was good at hiding things. An anonymous safe deposit box at the Bern bank—they claim not even a nuke could blast it open."

Chen Mo fished a cigarette from his pocket. He didn't light it, just spun it between his fingers.

Ava took a deep breath and inserted the USB drive into the laptop on her knees.

The screen flickered, and an encrypted folder popped up.

There was no password—or rather, the password had already been cracked by Chen Mo.

The moment the folder opened, Ava's pupils contracted.

It was packed with subfolders, each labeled with a name.

Philip Carter, Chairman of the Risk Control Committee at Astor Bank.

Inside the folder were dozens of high-definition photos and bank statements.

On the surface, this old bastard was a philanthropist; behind the scenes, he was a pedophile and a veteran money-laundering middleman.

The content of the photos was revolting.

Jonathan Brown, Head of the Credit Department.

This guy was even worse. To cover his gambling debts, he'd actually embezzled client trust funds to trade Bitcoin, and lost it all.

And that bald director who kept clamoring to trigger the "Poison Pill Plan"—what was his name again? Oh, William Ms.

His folder contained a paternity test report and a recording.

It turned out he was supporting three illegitimate children on the side, all using company funds.

The more Ava read, the more her hands shook.

This wasn't a board of directors list; it was a roster from hell.

"These people..." Ava swallowed hard. "They usually look so respectable."

"Just because someone wears a suit doesn't mean they're a gentleman. They could be a beast in human clothing." Chen Mo put the cigarette in his mouth, still unlit.

"Isn't that what Wall Street is? Everyone is rolling in the mud; no one should call anyone else dirty. It's just that some hide it well, and some get caught."

He turned his head to look at Ava. "Right now, what you're holding isn't a poison pill; it's a nuclear button. Press it, and they'll be destroyed. Don't press it, and they'll tear you to pieces."

Ava closed the laptop and shut her eyes to steady her breathing.

When she opened them again, the fear in her eyes had faded, replaced by a glint of ruthlessness.

"They want to trigger the poison pill plan and dilute our shares," Ava said coldly. "Then let them swallow this poison pill first."

Chen Mo smiled but said nothing.

He took out his phone and dialed a number.

"Old George, time to work. Go see our old friend Philip Carter. Remember to bring that cassette tape—it's the 'gift' Mr. Astor left for him."

After hanging up, he sent a text to Nightingale.

[Director B, William Ms. Leave him a red souvenir.]

After all that, Chen Mo took the cigarette out of his mouth and rubbed it against the leather seat.

"I should go meet that director Jonathan, too."

...

Manhattan Upper East Side, downstairs from a luxury apartment building.

Jonathan Brown had just put his mistress in a taxi and was humming a tune as he walked back.

He had been in a good mood lately.

Although Astor Bank was in trouble, he held leverage over several key clients. No matter who took over the bank, they would have to give him some face.

Plus, with those old geezers preparing to launch the poison pill plan, as long as he played his cards right, he could make a killing.

"Mr. Brown?"

A strange voice came from the shadows.

Jonathan jumped and turned around.

A man in a black trench coat stood where the streetlights couldn't reach, toying with a coin in his hand.

"Who are you?" Jonathan took a wary step back. "I don't know you."

"You didn't before, but you do now." The man stepped forward, revealing an Asian face.

It was none other than Chen Mo.

But he wasn't wearing that little mustache now, nor was he putting on that nouveau riche act.

His expression was indifferent, so indifferent it was like looking at a dead man.

"I'm here to pass on a message from Mr. Lawrence Astor."

Chen Mo flipped the coin and caught it. "He said, the twenty million you lost in Macau—you don't have to pay it back."

Jonathan's face went pale as a sheet.

"You... what are you talking about? What Macau? I've never been to Macau!"

"Oh? Is that so?" Chen Mo smiled.

"Then what about the VIP records from The Venetian casino? And that photocopy of the three-million-dollar check transferred from the client trust account—is that fake too?"

Jonathan's legs went weak, and he almost collapsed to the ground.

That was embezzlement of public funds, a huge amount. If it got out, he'd be picking up soap in prison for the rest of his life.

"You... what exactly do you want?" Jonathan asked, trembling. "Money? I can give you money! I have money!"

"I don't lack money." Chen Mo walked up to him and straightened his crooked tie. "I only want your vote."

"Vote?"

"Tomorrow's board meeting. The vote on the acquisition." Chen Mo patted his shoulder. "You know how to vote, right?"

Jonathan froze for a moment, then nodded frantically. "I know, I know. Unanimous approval! It will be unanimous approval!"

"Smart man." Chen Mo pulled a photo from his pocket and stuffed it into Jonathan's breast pocket.

"Take a look at this while you're at it. It's a photo of your son playing soccer at his private school. The kid is quite cute; don't let him end up without a father."

With that, Chen Mo turned and walked away, blending into the night.

Jonathan slumped to the ground, soaked in cold sweat.

With trembling hands, he pulled out the photo. On the back was a line of text:

[Your life is only worth that single hand raise tomorrow.]

...

At the same time, in a villa on Long Island.

Philip Carter was cuddling with a young maid, watching TV.

The doorbell rang.

The maid went to open the door, and a moment later, returned with a courier package.

"Sir, your package. There's no sender."

Philip frowned. Who would send something anonymous these days?

He opened the package.

Inside was an old-fashioned cassette tape with a sticky note attached. The handwriting was sloppy, looking like it had been written in a hurry: [Old pal, it's too cold in hell. Come down and keep me warm. — Lawrence]

Philip's hand shook, and the tape fell to the floor.

That was Lawrence's handwriting. He recognized it!

Like a madman, he chased the maid out and, trembling, shoved the tape into the player.

The TV screen flickered a few times, and an image appeared.

It was a dim basement where a group of masked people were performing some disgusting ritual.

Standing right in the middle, laughing the most maniacally, was none other than himself, unmasked.

Philip felt as if his heart had been gripped by a cold hand.

The phone rang.

It was an unknown number.

"Mr. Carter, is the movie good?" The voice on the other end was old and raspy, as if it had crawled out of a grave.

"Who are you... what do you want?"

"Tomorrow at 9 AM, board meeting. Don't be late."

Beep—beep—beep—

The call ended.

Philip slumped on the sofa, staring at his ugly self on the TV, feeling as if he'd been stripped naked and thrown onto the street.

Meanwhile, in another neighborhood, in William Ms's bedroom.

He had just woken up from a nightmare. He reached for his pillow and felt something wet.

He turned on the light and took a look.

A blood-dripping dagger was stuck into his nightstand, next to a group photo of his three illegitimate children.

On the photo, a red line had been drawn across each child's neck.

William Ms let out a shriek and rolled off the bed.

For the directors of Astor Bank, this night was destined to be sleepless.