Project Northwest

by C. B. Carter

Wright was back in front of Mark. Mark had taken a beating and was busted up pretty badly. “You’re a tough son-of-a-bitch; I’ll give you that, Hansel. What’s your name?”

  Mark could barely breathe. He blew the blood from his nose and it congealed and slowly ran down his chin, “My name is Mark.”

  “Okay, Mark, how much do you want?”

  Mark looked up, his right eye was swollen shut and blood was stinging his left eye. “Well, a new cell phone for starters. Let’s see, I need twenty thousand, plus fifteen hundred for the printer, five thousand for my leg, plus thirty thousand for the car.”

  Wright tallied up the numbers. “You did all this for less than sixty thousand dollars? Are you simple?” Mr. Wright slapped him across the face, blood splattered everywhere and he stepped back shaking his head.

  “Didn’t do it for the money, but that’s what you owe me,” Mark said, spraying blood from his mouth as he spoke.

  “You didn’t? Then, Mark, why are you here if you didn’t do it for the money?”

  “Did it for a friend.”

  “Who? DuVall? He was a weasel. He jumped on this deal like he was a street hooker from Cherry Street. Can’t believe you did this for him. You need to pick better friends.”

  “Didn’t do it for DuVall. Did it for a friend that saved my life once, James Spain.”

  “Spain?” Mr. Wright’s expression glazed over as he struggled with the realization. He had miscalculated everything and somehow Spain had been communicating without him knowing. It was an internal sickening feeling of betrayal that made him want to destroy James and Mark. Mr. Wright was coming unhinged.

  “So, here’s the deal,” continued Mark barely able to speak. “We have what’s called a Mexican standoff.” He caught his breath. “I can’t really go to the FBI because, even though you and your boys will have fine accommodations in our fabulous prison system, you’re still connected and will take us out. Revenge is a bitch. We both know that James will take some heat, but will be offered a deal.”

  The Lorcet was wearing off and Mark could feel the broken bones in his rib cage move as he talked. He struggled to get the sentence out. “And you can’t do anything to me or James because if we die, then the FBI will get those files.”

  Wright’s anger ignited and he quickly pushed the barrel of his gun deep into the soft tissue underneath Mark’s chin. He so wanted to pull the trigger and let Hope take care of this problem. “You underestimate my resolve. I’m death’s caretaker and have no problem splattering your brains all over this warehouse. I’ll take you out, then take myself. I have nothing to lose. What do you think about that?”

  His mouth was now just inches from Mark’s ear as he hissed, “Standoff, huh? Don’t the three gunners always die in the end? Each taking the other out?” Wright pulled away, fury concentrated itself into some type of primal rage, and he exploded, “You did this for a fucking friend?”

  He raised the gun in the air and cracked it into the left side of Mark’s skull. “A friend! This was over principle?”

  The blow was so violent that Mark couldn’t see or hear anything for a few seconds and felt his body start to go limp. He was surprised that he didn’t pass out and he shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs.

  Cricket was chirping in Mr. Wrong’s earpiece.

  “What? A little busy here,” responded Mr. Wrong.

  “Nathan, listen to me, switch to channel four.”

  Mr. Wrong switched the channel and said, “Okay.”

  Cricket verified that he and Wrong were the only ones on the channel and started. “Look, there are seven of us including Mr. Wright. Minus expenses, we’re looking at about five million each. I can move the money now.”

  Mr. Wrong was listening to Cricket as he watched Mr. Wright’s face turn a dazzling scarlet color and could see the veins in his throat jut with each infuriated heartbeat.

  Mr. Wright screamed, his arms flailed out to his side, “Fuuuuuuck!” he screamed as loudly as he possibly could and it was deafening in the small bay.

  Cricket was still talking. “Make no mistake, Mr. Wright will cut us out because he’s finished. He’ll never get another contract after this fuck up. Nathan, I have the accounts, I have all the information. My name is on everything. We can still walk away from this as rich men. But you have to prevent Mr. Wright from killing this guy and you know how he is. If this Mark guy dies, we’re all screwed. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Mark was moving again and Mr. Wright stopped screaming. He grabbed Mark’s jaw with his left hand, then let go and used the blood on his fingers to shape an X in the middle of Mark’s forehead. He grabbed Marks jaw again, held his head steady and brought Hope to Mark’s forehead, burying the muzzle into the bloody X.

  Mr. Wright locked eyes with Mark. “When a principled man faces a gun, sometimes the ending is a hero’s tale, the beginning of a legend. Most times, though, it ends with a spent bullet and the body of a dead man who had principles. Guess we’re going to find out which one you are—”

  The bullet’s exit from the muzzle allowed the compressed gases to rapidly expand and the sound of the explosion ricocheted off the concrete walls. The sound was so loud that everyone jumped and covered their ears, everyone except Mr. Wrong. He knew it was coming.

  Mr. Wright fell to the floor, his body twitched a couple of times before the blood started flowing from the exit wound on the right side of his skull. Mr. Wright had once again miscalculated history—this time not between a husband and wife, but between two friends.

  The other associates were confused and pulled their guns, pointing them first at Mark then at Mr. Wrong. Mr. Wrong put his hands in the air and slowly lowered his weapon to the floor. “Stay cool guys. Cricket will explain this.”

  “Nathan. Nathan!” Cricket was screaming. “Who fired that shot?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Wright is dead. Bring the other associates onto this channel,” Mr. Wrong ordered.

  Cricket was now in charge. He convinced the other associates that he was right. If Mr. Wright were allowed to kill Mark, then they were all screwed. Cricket ordered them to clean Mr. Wright’s body, collect his gun, clean the scene, and rush Mark to the hospital.

  “Take Mark to the hospital, don’t just dump him. Roll him in. We have to make sure he gets the required care and make sure you give him that laptop.”

  Mark could feel every bump in the road as the Tahoe moved on Pacific Street.

  “What time is it?” Mark asked.

  “It’s eight sixteen, do you need that laptop?” Mr. Wrong asked.

  “Yeah, and a cell phone.”

  “Who are you going to call? You know if you call the cops, today, tomorrow or twenty years from now, we’re going to hunt you down and take you out, right?” Mr. Wrong warned.

  “I know. I’m going to call James and let him know he’s out.”

  Mr. Wrong was reluctant to give him the phone. “I’ll call him from Wright’s cell and put him on speaker. Listen, don’t say anything that would cause him to call the cops. Don’t tell him you’ve been beaten up or you’re going to the hospital. I’ll confirm he’s out when you’re done. You got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it. Just dial the number.”

  * * * *

  James was dead to the world when his phone started buzzing across the nightstand. He looked at the display and saw it was Mr. Wright. “What did I do now?” he thought as he accepted the call.

  “James, this is Mr. Wrong, got a friend of yours here. Mark wants to talk to you,” he said, and he switched the phone to speaker.

  James was already thinking the worst and immediately grew sick to his stomach. They had caught Mark and were about to snub him out, right then and there, to make a point while he listened. “Where is Mr. Wright? Tell him if he hurts Mark he can forget me playing nicely. I’ll go to the cops.”

  “Wright is dead,” Mark piped up.

  James jumped from the bed, his heart pounded when he heard Mark speaking on the distant speaker pho
ne, “Mark is that you? What do you mean Mr. Wright is dead?”

  “He’s dead, James. You’re out, buddy.”

  James fell onto the bed, almost forgetting that Mr. Wrong was there. He hugged Bridget, waking her up and put his cell on speaker, “Mr. Wrong, is this true?”

  “Yes, it’s true. Mr. Wright is dead and you’re out. You can go about living your life now. It was business, nothing personal.”

  “What about Shelly Spenser? What about her daughter?”

  “She’s out too. We’re pulling the plug on the whole project. Remember what I told you the first time around. This never happened.”

  “Does Shelly know?”

  “No.”

  “Mark, Mark, Mark,” James said with a high level of disbelief tinged with excitement. “How did you? What did you do?”

  “That’s enough for now. He will call you later,” Mr. Wrong interrupted.

  “Wait, I want Shelly’s cell number,” James said and Bridget, now up to speed, added, “Mark, are you okay?”

  “I’ll live, Bridget, thanks. Everything is okay and I will call you guys in a few.”

  Mr. Wrong gave James Shelly’s cell number and hung up. They pulled into Washington University’s Medical Center, placed Mark into a wheelchair, gave him his laptop, and rolled him into the emergency room. Marks appearance brought about more questions than physicians and Mr. Wrong and his team silently slipped out the door.

  * * * *

  James and Bridget were celebrating. James couldn’t believe they were out, that it happened so fast. James promptly dialed the number for Shelly. She didn’t immediately answer. He was about to hang up when he heard her, “Hello?”

  “Shelly, it’s me, Mark.” He was excited and speaking far too fast.

  “Why are you calling me, Mark, is everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine. Mr. Wright is dead—we’re out!” he screamed into the phone.

  Silence.

  “Shelly, did you hear me? We’re out. Mr. Wright is dead.”

  “I heard you. Is this true?”

  “It is, absolutely. I wouldn’t joke about something like this. Call Mr. Wright’s number and Mr. Wrong will answer and confirm. Just wanted to call and let you know. We’re free.”

  Shelly was in shock and could only say, “I will, James, I’m praying you’re right.”

  “I am. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  * * * *

  Shelly looked at Madeline, who was eating her favorite breakfast, pancakes drowning in maple syrup. Shelly began to cry.

  “Mom, are you alright?” Madeline asked.

  “Yes, baby. We’re going to be fine.”

  * * * *

  Cricket logged into the Cayman bank and created six separate accounts. He transferred 25 million to his account and one million to each of the other five accounts. It wasn’t the promised five million, but by the time the rest of the team found out, he’d be long gone.

  He printed out a letter to each with their account information and a weak explanation about unexpected expenses. He folded them, wrote their names, and placed a cricket novelty on each.

  He entered a couple of keystrokes on the keyboard, unplugged the four terabyte external hard drive and placed it into his suitcase. A few more keystrokes and the servers were systematically destroyed by his virus. He waited a few minutes and checked each one. The hard drives were completely unresponsive and he removed each one from its case. He’d clear the remote server later.

  He found Mr. Wright’s suitcase, peeled back the cover, and collected a little over eighty thousand dollars in cash. He split sixty thousand dollars into three piles and placed each pile into an envelope, then labeled them ‘Mark’ and put the remainder of the cash into his suitcase.

  As he headed to the elevator, he was doing the rough math. He’d take 20 million dollars and short the bank’s stock. He guessed he’d have nearly 50 million dollars by the end of the year. He pressed six on the elevator panel, exited onto the sixth floor, and slid the three envelopes under the door of Mr. Spain’s condo.

  Back in the lobby, he called for a cab and soon he was on his way to the airport.

  Chapter Twenty three

  ~ September 26th, 2008 ~

  On the western shore of Grand Cayman, Todd Morgan, also known as Cricket, sat in front of the real life version of his screensaver. His bare toes danced on the horizon of the deep blue waters as he settled into the white Caribbean beach chair.

  He’d shorted the stock of Washington Common Bank over the last four months and amassed a respectable small fortune of almost 55 million dollars, and rented a nice villa just off Seven Mile Beach. He was in the lap of luxury.

  Margarita in hand, he read the news and watched the news videos on his laptop. Washington Common knew they were in the cross-hairs of a well-connected enemy bank, but helpless to stop it. The enemy had private numbers, had painted a terrible picture in the minds of those responsible for the TARP program, and it certainly didn’t help that Washington Common wasn’t part of the Wall Street club. The bank was an outsider with few political connections and vulnerable to those with interconnected advocates.

  Deals were struck between all the large financial institutions. They were made to temper the financial meltdown and to encourage the flow of money. At least that was what the public was led to believe. But there was also an epic battle for power being waged between the institutions—not only to make or reserve money, but also to limit exposure to debt and rid themselves of competitors.

  The playing field was not fair, in fact, according to some investigative journalists, the rules of the playing field changed, were modified or ignored, apparently on the whim of the federal regulator and the bank to which the rules were being applied.

  He knew the pundits and politicians were all screaming, “too big to fail.” But in the end, three or four banks would consume all the others and the U.S. would end up with even larger banks.

  Todd Morgan knew all of this and took advantage.

  He wasn’t surprised when news hit that the well-connected Wall Street bank, his Project Northwest client, had won the fire-sale bid. A bid of 1.9 billion dollars for the 300 plus billion assets of the troubled Washington Common Bank was completed within hours and on a Thursday, no less. He silently laughed. It took longer to buy a 15 thousand dollar car. He closed his laptop and stared across the Caribbean Sea.

  Cricket never saw Nathan Jones, also known as Mr. Wrong, creep up from behind.

  About the Author

  C. B. Carter resides in the historic art community of Ocean Springs, Mississippi. He spent much of his youth with his grandparents, uncle, and aunt near Roanoke, Virginia, where he was exposed to classical music and the great writers of the 50s and 60s. He's a veteran of foreign wars, having served two operations with the Joint Task Force Southwest Asia after the Gulf War. Chaos Theorem is his first novel.

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/writer.cbcarter

  Website: www.cbcarter.com

  Other Works by C. B. Carter with Melange

  Chaos Theorem

  Crimson’s Captivation

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  Chaos Theorem

  C. B. Carter

  Chaos n 1: a state of a system (the condition of any system at a given time) where a system exhibits disorder, confusion, uncertainty, or instability. 2: (Physics) a dynamic system that is extremely sensitive to its initial conditions.

  Theorem n 1: a statement which can be proven true within some logical framework.

  Chaos Theorem n 1: a time catalyst system that drifts by planned and unplanned actions, producing projected and random results.

  "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man."

  - Heraclitus (Greek philosopher of the 5th-6th centuries B.C.)

  Chaos Theorem is set in the futur
e and follows the Director of the House Committee of CIS Administration, Senator Abja Monis. Dr. Joseph Mark DeSantis, a troubled mathematician and the stylist of the Chaos Theorem, and Caroline Brown, a government geneticist battle Senator Monis in a game of haves and have nots. The characters struggle, have plans and dreams like we all do and strive to fulfill them with actions and re-actions, but time and its hidden companion, teaches them a lesson – only one thing continues on forever, only one thing continues to grow and it battles chaos with each passing second.