Victor's private jet had just landed at JFK when the Bloomberg Alert suddenly broke the news that his hedge fund was shorting pharmaceutical stocks. It wasn't a coincidence that Emily had used thirty-seven fake accounts to create the illusion that the antigen testing market was collapsing, luring him into stepping into what he did best.
"Mr. Stone, AMGEN Pharmaceuticals' stock price is falling vertically." The trader's voice carried a high-frequency trill, "But our quantum computers show that all the trade orders came from..." Before the words left his mouth, the young assistant professor's head suddenly slammed down on the keyboard, cerebrospinal fluid flowing from his nostrils forming a miniature weir at the space bar.
Victor smelled the bitter almond odor if anything in the air. He yanked back his tie, the titanium buttons scanning the ventilation ducts for cyanide crystals-precisely calculated molecular weights, specific only to his genetic profile. It was a bio-customized assassination exclusive to the Blackstone Group, and the price was usually a fraction of the Congressional budget.