The sound of the Nasdaq opening bell is the sound of a starting pistol. For some, it signals a race to unimaginable wealth. For others, a final, public execution.
I watched from a temporary command center I’d set up in a sterile, anonymous office suite overlooking the Hudson River. The space was rented under a shell corporation, paid for with a fraction of the thirty million dollars Mark had used to buy his own destruction. Three monitors formed a clean arc on the desk in front of me. The first showed a multi-panel feed of every major financial news network. The second tracked Chimera’s pre-market trading and the algorithm I’d set up with Julian Croft’s team to execute our short positions. The third, the largest, was a direct feed of the Nasdaq Marketsite in Times Square.
There they were
