by Ken Benton
Buck Out
Ken Benton
© 2015 Andrew Kasch
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, religious bodies, corporate or governmental entities, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author is only telling a story. Neither he nor the publisher are experts in survival techniques and advise the reader to seek qualified resources before engaging in foraging, gardening, hunting, fishing, operation of firearms, first aid, medical care, or attempting to produce their own food. Any such activities described in this book are solely for entertainment purposes and should not be considered accurate or necessarily safe.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including scanning, photocopying, or otherwise without the prior written consent of the author.
Chapter header image (melting dollar icon) licensed by gograph.com.
Table of Contents
March 10
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
A Word from the Author
March 10
Beijing, People’s Republic of China
A black Hongqi limousine carried three distinguished emissaries through the streets of Beijing. None of the guests knew why they were here. That didn’t bother Tomo much. The Chinese were often discreet in their invitations.
“What do you suppose they want?” Tomo’s assistant asked, leaning as the long car took a corner too tightly.
Tomo looked to the bank governor before responding. It was an honor he resented bestowing on him. Tomo was, after all, an important cabinet member and high-ranking government official. But everyone knew who really held the reigns of the Japanese economy.
Bank of Japan Governor Himura remained a statue, as usual. Tomo finally answered his assistant.
“They’re going to pester us, of course—for stronger trade commitments, and a promise to purchase more of their bonds, most likely. I must confess I find it irksome. The minor downturn they’re experiencing is long overdue, and wholly to be expected. China’s economic growth remains among the most robust in the world. To panic and ask help from us, when we’re struggling to recover from such a severe extended recession, is insensitive and nearsighted. Sometimes it’s difficult to believe they’re Marxists.”
The ever-silent Himura turned and glanced through the glass at Tomo’s comment, as if he were concerned about the driver overhearing their conversation.
Tomo lowered his voice. “We’ll agree to their requests, as always, but consult with the Prime Minister upon our return before deciding on what actions to take, if any.”
Tomo’s assistant nodded with respectful appreciation. Himura, however, only frowned.
“Do you wish to add something, Governor Himura?” Tomo asked.
Himura stared back blankly for a moment, and then shook his head.
The limousine came to the busy part of the city—but it turned in the wrong direction. Tomo pushed the button to lower the interior window so he could speak to the driver.
“The People’s Bank building is east,” Tomo said in his best broken Chinese. “Is it not?”
“The meeting location has changed,” the driver replied in perfect Japanese.
Strange. Tomo closed the window, only to immediately reopen it when the car pulled over on the next block.
“Why have we stopped?”
“We’ve arrived.” The driver exited the vehicle before Tomo could object further.
“This can’t be right.” Tomo looked out the window. He noticed Governor Himura eyeballing him with that irreverent look again. Tomo didn’t care. He wanted clarification.
“There must be a mistake,” Tomo said when the driver opened the rear door. “This is a Bank of China branch. A small one at that. I am the Minister of Finance of Japan, here to attend an important meeting with the Finance Minister of China. We always meet in the People’s Bank building.”
“I know who you are,” the driver said bowing a little too slightly for Tomo’s taste. “There is no mistake. The conference will take place here. Your party is waiting for you.”
Tomo was about to let loose with a display of indignation when Governor Himura promptly climbed out of the back seat, diffusing him. Tomo’s assistant moved as if to follow, but Tomo restrained him with his left hand and glared. His assistant apologized and humbly looked to the floor. Satisfied, Tomo exited. His assistant trailed behind.
The three of them were led to the front door of the bank building, of all places. This is where common citizens went to conduct their personal banking needs. Tomo stopped, and may have refused to enter, but Governor Himura bowed before the doorman and went in. Tomo had no choice but to follow.
A security guard waited for them inside. Only one. He led them to a side room behind the vault, a place where large depositors were likely culled. They were then taken farther back to an additional adjoining room.
A small party of high-ranking Chinese officials stood up from an ordinary glass conference table when the three Japanese delegates entered. Formal introductions were made, though unnecessary. Everyone here already knew each other.
The Chinese Finance Minister was the only one who looked dressed for an important occasion. He had a traditional black tunic on, buttoned to the collar. Everyone else wore everyday business suits—including Zhang Chun, long-time Governor of the People’s Bank of China. In fact, Zhang Chun’s top button was undone and his tie slightly loosened, as if he were handling some routine bit of business in his office near the end of the day.
“Please excuse our appearances,” the Chinese Finance Minister said after everyone sat down, “and the unorthodox location of our meeting. Our President, who is apprised of our business today, thought it best if we drew as little attention as possible. Did you have a pleasant flight?”
Tomo was happy to learn they hadn’t been coaxed away from home on some matter as trivial as it first appeared. If the Chinese President was involved, perhaps the topic of today’s conference actually merited the Japanese presence.
The countries’ two Finance Ministers exchanged customary greetings and engaged in polite political gossip for fifteen minutes before the real business began—at which point they shut up and let the two Central Bank Governors do all the talking. At the first natural break in the conversation, Governor Zhang Chun finally blurted the reason for the meeting.
“We’ve decided to sell American bonds.”
The silence which followed his statement was unnaturally heavy, so Tomo spoke, knowing it would violate protocol somewhat.
“And you wish for us to purchase a number of them from you?”
Zhang Chun tilted his head. “That would be extremely foolish.”
Governor Himura ignored his fellow statesman’s question and responded directly
to Zhang Chun.
“You can’t mean—”
“Yes,” Zhang Chun said. “We’re dumping them on the open market. Our entire portfolio.”
Governor Himura suddenly came to life. Tomo had rarely ever seen him act in an animated fashion. Now he watched as Himura bared his soul.
“You can’t do that! You must know what will happen!”
“Yes, we’ll very likely lose our largest customers—and so will you. Temporarily, hopefully. We feel it is inevitable, and wish to bring about an economic restructuring of the west in a swift manner. Now figures to be the most advantageous time for us. We can currently afford it—and so can you.”
“No, we can’t!”
“With our help,” Zhang Chun continued, “you can. The policy decision has been made. We’re informing you as a courtesy, an olive branch extended if you will, so that your country is not left holding the bag unawares. Japan and China have made great progress in trade relations over the last decade, and we wish for that to continue. Perhaps the historic animosity between our peoples can further be eased as we come to depend on each other more.”
“Our industries will be devastated,” Himura said.
“As will ours. Temporarily. But both our currencies will become strong as the U.S. Dollar crashes. Our import businesses will thrive as never before. That will carry us through.”
“Carry us through to what?”
“The emergence of a more fundamentally sound U.S. currency, one way or another—at which point we can both resume business with them, using a much stronger Yen and Yuan, more than making up for our interim losses.” Zhang Chun paused and lowered his tone. “You know as well as I do, Governor Himura, that the American situation is unsustainable. The manner in which they carelessly pile on mountains of debt and print money to pay the interest with is comical. It’s all coming tumbling down at some point in the future, probably much sooner than the world expects. We feel it is best for us to choose that point, when we are in a position of control, rather than concede to the continual foolishness and be caught as another domino when the inescapable consequence finally occurs.”
The talk stopped when a tea master entered the room and filled cups in front of everyone. Governor Himura seemed to shift from his state of combativeness to one of resignation by the time the tea master left.
“How?” Himura asked in a much calmer voice.
“Here.” Zhang Chun slid a single sheet of paper across the glass tabletop. “This is a liquidation schedule which presumes your cooperation. You’ll see that we are to sell lightly for the first few weeks, then gradually dump larger and larger blocks. I advise you to follow the schedule and resist any temptation to unload your positions in advance of ours. Such an acceleration would force us to react in like manner, and be noticed too quickly by the rest of the world—resulting in greater financial devastation for everyone.”
After another moment of silence, Himura appeared to fully regain his usual collected poise. He lifted his teacup in an obvious act of capitulation. Zhang Chun did the same.
Tomo marveled. These two Central Bank Governors may regard their Finance Ministers as nothing more than puppet figures, but Tomo was educated enough to understand what was happening. Here in the back room of an insignificant bank office in Beijing, the two most powerful men in Asia had just agreed to a joint action that would likely result in the collapse of the world’s largest economy …while casually sipping tea.
Six Weeks Later, New York City
Chapter One
The Westside Rifle and Pistol Range happily resounded with the usual music—lots of popping, with occasional thunder mixed in. Malcolm Carter contributed to the popping. The thunder mostly came from individuals firing their own .357 Magnums, including some who Malcolm figured for law enforcement. It did, admittedly, make Malcolm feel a little childish shooting the .22 lever-rifle.
Ryan Boone, shooting next to Malcolm, must have been thinking the same thing. He set his rifle down as soon as he was empty and waved the rangemaster over.
“Let me guess,” Stan said. He was the same stout rangemaster Malcolm always saw working here. “You want the Marlin?”
Ryan smiled and nodded. Malcolm chuckled to himself, perceiving the truth of his long-time friend’s mannerisms. Ryan probably intended on switching to the pump-action .38, as was his routine. But when the rangemaster suggested the .44, Ryan accepted it because he didn’t want to appear timid. Perhaps Stan knew that, too.
In reality, appearing timid wasn’t anything Ryan needed to worry about. At six-foot-three with a runner’s body and chiseled chin, he commanded a certain respect from strangers, including often-obvious admiration from the ladies. Though most people would correctly place his age in the early forties, he also looked like he would never age another day in his life. Malcolm had known him since high school, and was probably one of two people in the world familiar with his hidden frailties. No one is ever as tough on the inside as they appear.
Stan came back with the lever-action .44 carbine. He glanced at Malcolm before presenting it to Ryan as if it were an offering to a god, along with one box of ammo. Malcolm knew that look as well. The big-barreled gun was undeniably a thing of stainless-steel beauty, but Malcolm wasn’t ready to fork over $500 a year to become a member. Occasional shooting sessions with Ryan were fun, nothing more. Malcolm was content to rent the .22s when he came.
These outings had become more than just fun for Ryan, though. Over the past year, Malcolm watched him morph into an outright firearms aficionado. As of late he even began talking in terms Malcolm could only nod and pretend to understand. What started as an outlet for alleviating the frustrations of Ryan’s divorce grew into a genuine passion. He stopped extending Malcolm invitations to accompany him to the gun stores months ago when he realized Malcolm simply wasn’t into it. Malcolm wondered how many weapons Ryan actually had purchased by now, and why he didn’t seem to like bringing them to the range—at least on the occasions when Malcolm joined him.
Malcolm hit the button to retrieve his target as Ryan pushed the .44 Magnum cartridges in the loading tube.
“You’re veering high and left again,” Ryan said without taking his eyes off his weapon.
Malcolm found himself annoyed at the comment. “How do you know I didn’t start there, then work my way low and right?”
Ryan looked at him now, raising one eyebrow as if the question were stupid.
Malcolm laughed and tore the paper target free. “Well, if this were a zombie I still would have stopped him.”
“No,” Ryan said. “You need headshots for those.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot.”
Ryan put the tenth round in the carbine and held it forward. “Don’t fret. Those shots would have stopped a real zombie.”
“Pray tell what that is.”
“The ones who’ll be after your supplies in a real apocalypse. You might want to put the earmuffs on for this.”
“No,” Malcolm said. “I’m done. Got some things I need to take care of. Kill a few zombies for me, real or otherwise.”
“All right. Thanks for meeting me. See you Friday.”
“See you.”
* * *
The week ended too fast. Malcolm found himself in a hurry. He hated running late, especially for this. Curse the abominable subway. But parking in Lower Manhattan on Friday afternoons was impossible, and a cab ride during rush hour likely wouldn’t get him there much quicker than walking.
The crowded subway wasn’t the most attractive of alternatives. Having to stand holding the germ-incubating handrail reminded Malcolm of the agricultural-trade he entered yesterday: bad risk/reward ratio. If it hadn’t been for that, this would have been one of his best weeks ever.
Alas, there was always one bad trade keeping his recent activity within the realm of mortals. Having been a professional day trader for the last seven years now, he knew all too well he could never fully escape them. Losing trades were part of the business, and nothing to wa
ste time lamenting over.
It wasn’t always so easy to live with the necessary swings. That part took a while to learn. Hannah certainly couldn’t handle them, and deep down Malcolm knew that’s why she left him. Not that she would ever admit it. Her explanation—that she was more in love with her career than she could ever be with any man, even Malcolm—was good, but not quite believable. Malcolm accepted it anyway. In the end, it was easier than trying to prove to his disgruntled wife that what he did for a living didn’t deserve to be categorized as professional gambling. Besides, Hannah did have one hell of a career, one most people could only fantasize about.
So did Malcolm. He loved his life. There was only one thing he would trade it for: Hannah back. And that’s exactly what he intended to do. It shouldn’t be long now. He was getting close. He could feel it.
The subway screeched to a halt at the Wall Street exit on Broadway. Malcolm exited with the crowd, too many of which bumped into him from behind. Malcolm paid them no heed. The first time he got pickpocketed in this town was the last. He now carried a money clip instead of a wallet, up in his front left pocket, which held some cash, his ID, and one card. If he lost that wad it would be no big deal, as his trading account had finally grown to more than a quarter-mil. That’s what paid all the bills. Not bad from the eighty-grand he started off with, considering the six-figure annual income required to survive in New York City.
“Hi,” the petite hostess said as Malcolm entered the front door. “Welcome to TGI Fridays.” Then she recognized him. “Going to the bar?”
“You know it, sweetheart.”
“Your friend’s waiting for you. Enjoy.”
Malcolm gave her a wink. She wiggled her shoulders in a flirtatious response. That hostess would be a real temptation if Malcolm didn’t always have other issues on his mind.
“I almost gave up saving this for you,” Ryan said removing his sport coat from the empty barstool next to him. “A big construction guy wanted it, but he was easier to ward off than the cute investment banker. She’s at the table on the right now.”
