Read Online The King of Fear: Part Two: A Garrett Reilly Thriller by Drew Chapman - Free Book Online Page B

perilous the state of his bank was; how their capital reserves were low, their loans were bad, their investments were shit. And, of course, how their CEO was making things worse with his arrogance and spite.
    Wells let out a long hiss of breath and pushed open the door to the bank’s stock-trading floor. Thomason kept pace behind him, as did Stephens, the young woman from Boston. Those two assistants kept his schedule, manned his phones, and made sure he was up-to-date on everything that was happening in the world. Wells could not survive without his assistants, although one was probably enough to handle the job—but a second was nice. He was giving more people jobs, and that could hardly be called a bad thing.
    “Don’t bug me about Charlotte again today,” Wells barked.
    “Yes, sir,” Thomason said meekly.
    Wells took in the trading floor with a satisfied stare. The room was massive, stretching out almost the entire length of the building, jammed full of busy employees buying and selling shares in the nation’s—and the world’s—biggest and best companies. Phones rang, conversations were shouted, buy and sell orders blinked across myriad computer screens. The room buzzed with activity, roared with commerce, and oozed prosperity—even if the naysayers argued otherwise. The place gave him strength; the room proved to him that the American economy still had legs to stand on. The future was bright. He needed that feeling because, no matter how much he believed in himself, the last few days had given him a dark sense of foreboding.
    Wells marched across the room and caught, out of the corner of his eye, all the traders and analysts sneaking a peek at him. He was hard to miss, with his broad shoulders, head full of white hair, and his posse scrambling behind him like a pack of dogs. He liked that feeling—that people knew who he was and wanted to catch a glimpse of him. It wasn’t just that it made him feel important—it also proved that the bank still had a hierarchy, that even the lowest stock seller could aspire to be CEO one day. Could aspire to be the next Robert Andrew Wells Jr.
    Wells rapped on the metal doorframe of an office that fronted the trading floor. Aldous Mackenzie, the bank’s chief investment officer, looked up from his computer screen. Behind him, through the plate-glass window, midtown Manhattan and the East River were visible in the afternoon sun.
    “What’s the latest?” Wells asked, stepping into the room and motioning for his assistants to wait outside.
    Mackenzie shrugged. “More anxiety. Rumors about a toxic derivative coming out of our trading floor.”
    “That possible? Could we have missed it?”
    “Anything’s possible. But Christ Almighty, we paid twenty million dollars for that risk-analytics software. Thing is supposed to catch any bad bet, anywhere in the company. So . . . I’m saying no. We couldn’t miss it.”
    Wells closed the door behind him, then noticed a young man sitting on the couch opposite Mackenzie—Mackenzie’s assistant. Wells couldn’t remember his name, Benny something, but he stayed close to the CIO the way Wells’s assistants stayed close to him. “Could you give us a second?”
    The young man jumped to his feet and practically fled the room.
    “Our stock is getting hammered, Mac. Down another five points today. That’s fifty billion in market cap.”
    “I’m well aware.” Mackenzie, a large man, had a florid face and not a lot of hair left on his head. “It hasn’t traded over thirty in two years. Another five-point drop isn’t going to kill anyone.”
    “It might kill me. Or the press might kill me. Or some crazy woman with a pistol might walk up to me and blow my fucking head off.”
    Mackenzie didn’t laugh. He pushed away from his desk. “That’s why you have a bodyguard. And Steinkamp should have been using his.”
    “Who shoots a Fed president? What the fuck is wrong with the world?”
    “Is that why you’re here, Robert?