The Maritime Bank building was a fortress of gray stone, a relic of the 1920s, looming over the narrow streets of downtown Manhattan. It was supposed to be empty, awaiting renovation. Victor’s SUV skidded to a halt in front of the chained bronze doors. “Keep the engine running,” Victor told Graves. “If we aren’t back in twenty minutes, burn the building down.” Victor straightened his tie, grabbed his briefcase, which now contained a single laptop, and looked at Selena. “Walk tall. You own the place. Remember, money is a language. If you speak it fluently, doors open.”
They approached the side service entrance. A camera swiveled to face them. Victor held up his phone to the lens. On the screen was a live transfer authorization for one hundred forty million dollars. “Tell your boss I’m here to negotiate a refund,” Victor said to the camera. A moment later, the heavy steel door clicked and swung open.
They walked into the dark belly of the building. It did not look like a bank anymore. The lobby had been stripped, filled with rows of high-end servers and satellite uplinks. It was a shadow exchange, a place where illegal trades were washed before hitting the public market. In the center of the room, under the massive dust-moted light of the atrium, sat a single chair. And in the chair, tied with zip ties, was an old man.
“Dad!” Selena screamed, running forward. “Selena, stop!” Victor grabbed her arm. From the shadows of the mezzanine, a slow clap echoed. A man stepped into the light. He was elderly, dressed in a suit that cost more than Victor’s car. He leaned on a cane topped with silver. Victor recognized him instantly. It was Theodore Prescott, the chairman of the Federal Banking Oversight Committee, a man who was supposed to be the regulator, not the criminal.
“Victor Callaway,” Prescott smiled, his voice raspy. “And the prodigal daughter. I must admit, the stunt with Triton was inspired. Crude, but inspired.” “Let him go,” Selena demanded, struggling against Victor’s grip. Her father, Arthur Pendleton, looked frail. His hair was white, his face gaunt, but his eyes were alert. “Selena,” Arthur croaked. “Get out of here. The algorithm. You can’t let them have it.” “Ah, yes. The algorithm,” Prescott said, descending the marble stairs. “Your father, Selena, is stubborn. We’ve had him for five years, and he still refuses to correct the error in his code. The God code. It predicts market crashes with ninety-nine percent accuracy. We want to use it to steer the global economy, to ensure stability for us.” “You mean to rig the game,” Victor spat. “The game is already rigged, dear boy. We just want to own the dice.”
Prescott signaled to two guards who stepped out of the shadows, aiming rifles at them. “Now, you have cost us a great deal of liquidity today. Transfer the Triton profits back to our account and hand over the laptop. Perhaps I will let you live.” Victor stepped forward, placing the briefcase on a rusted table. “I can do better than that,” Victor said. “I can give you the money. Or I can give you the world.” Prescott raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”