by Ken Benton
Immediately, the remaining supply of his chosen call option vanished. It was replaced a few seconds later with an offer price of fifteen cents. That’s what Malcolm figured would happen. He could probably finagle his way out of these for no more than the cost of commissions, if he had second thoughts.
Malcolm had now invested his entire account balance in his current open positions, most of which were done on impulsive whims.
But he still had margin available.
Malcolm’s brokerage account was versatile. He could trade equities, options, currencies, and even some futures contracts. But he rarely messed around with anything other than stocks. Today was a rare day. He found the USD/Yen contract and called up a chart. His broker allowed twenty-times margin on forex. As long as his average TBT position was above water, he could trade currencies as well. But the broker would automatically start closing out his TBT trades if they went the wrong way and he was leveraged too far in a forex trade. Heck, that might even be a good way to exit the position.
Malcolm didn’t wait for an attractive pattern on the currency pair to develop. He simply started buying Yen. A little here, a little more there. That position soon turned green as well.
The chatter on the television turned from talk about the bond market carnage to play-by-play reporting of a sudden stock market selloff. It had all the appearances of being severe. Investors everywhere were panicking, and there were few safe havens.
Malcolm looked at the gold chart. The price had suddenly spiked up and looked to be running.
Back to the Yen. That too now began to rally. Malcolm leaned back in his chair.
But he wasn’t leaving that chair. No way was he getting up. Not to get food, not even to go to the bathroom. He was all-in with everything he had and everything he could borrow. Never in a million years did he ever imagine himself doing this.
He glanced back at Hannah’s picture, and was glad she couldn’t see him at this moment. If she could, the completed divorce papers would probably show up for him to sign tomorrow. Hannah couldn’t even handle his normal trading activity.
It didn’t matter anymore. If Malcolm pulled this off, there was no reason for Hannah to ever know the details how.
All that would matter is Malcolm being done trading, forever.
Chapter Five
“Agents Alton Brown and Hannah Carter, meet Agents Darian Smith and Steve Schneider.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Darian and Steve replied in turn.
“It’s Hannah Lane now,” Hannah said shaking their hands.
“My apologies,” the Pittsburgh Director said. “You’re aware this field assignment will take place in the actual field?”
“Yes!” Hannah’s eyes landed on the wall map in the Director’s office. “We’ve been looking forward to it.”
The Director laughed. “I understand your enthusiasm, with all the trouble this gang has given you in New York. How much have you removed from circulation to date?”
“Too much,” Alton groaned.
“At last count we’ve retrieved more than three million in Fifth Avenue Fivers,” Hannah said, “in Manhattan alone. The newly-captured truckload contained an additional five million, uncirculated.”
“That’s a lot of Abraham Lincolns,” Darian Smith said.
Hannah looked at him and smiled. Darian was a large, muscular black man with a teddy-bear facial expression. He looked like someone who would help an old lady across the street just before tackling a wide receiver in the backfield. Quite a contrast to his partner, Agent Steve Schneider, whose expensive suit and highly-polished wing-tips failed at fully masking the thin limbs and pale complexion they attempted to cover. But something told Hannah they were both experienced field agents.
“We’ve been working on that,” the Director said, “in conjunction with Charleston, Columbus, and Roanoke. I’m pleased with our progress. The map there shows the locations of suspicious accumulation points, where we believe your Fifth Avenue gang has been procuring their ‘paper.’ It’s not completely reliable, but reveals an interesting pattern.”
“Nice,” Hannah said.
“Strip clubs?” Alton asked.
The Director nodded. “Yes, including the one in town here where the FBI got their informant. Lucky break, as they were pursuing a check forger. But these counterfeiters are more resourceful than most. They’ve also been using some other, more inventive methods for acquiring the fives. Unlicensed $5 car washes, tables at flea markets offering to pay $6 for $5 bills, even phony school fundraisers selling those $1 candy bars for $5 each outside of supermarkets.”
“Wow,” Alton said. “They’re working hard. Guess they can no longer casually stroll into a bank and ask for a stack of them.”
“We think they’ve done that, too.” The Director opened a manila envelope and spread some photos on his desk. “These are the primary suspects, caught on security camera after exchanging sizable quantities of larger bills for fives at small community banks in Roanoke and Charleston.”
Hannah walked to the wall map and ran her fingers across the red pins. “Well, this places their printing facility in Northern West Virginia.”
“Yep,” the Director said. “It’s amazing how simple our job can be sometimes. Just look to the middle of all your crime scenes and you’ll find your suspect’s home. The industrial parks and public storage facilities in Morgantown shouldn’t take the four of you longer than a few days to check out. If I was a betting man, I’d wager you’ll find your printers there.”
“Me too,” Hannah said.
“But be careful. All of you. These guys are sophisticated, and have a substantial operation to protect. Field work often turns into more than you bargained for. I want you to visit the armory before leaving and load up as if you were headed to Armageddon. And don’t be afraid to wear your armor.” The Director looked at Hannah. “Do you carry a five-seven?”
“Why do you suppose that? Because I’m female?”
“Now, Agent Lane…”
“Just kidding. Yes, that’s what I carry.”
“Good choice,” Darian said. “Me too.” He patted the left side of his large rib cage, causing Hannah to chuckle.
“All right.” The Director pointed out his open office door. “Come with me. We’ll get you set up. I’m issuing you our two best vehicles.”
Hannah liked the Pittsburgh Director. She followed him down the hallway with the rest of the team in tow. Along the way they passed a large open room where several more agents were standing around a television set, looking disturbed.
“What’s happening in there?” Alton asked.
“Stock market crashing,” the Director replied. “Pretty bad, from what I hear. Interest rates still going up, and all kinds of other chaos, as I understand it—including the U.S. Dollar tanking. Doesn’t affect me much personally, thank God. Like I said, I’m not a betting man. But if any of you have financial issues you might need to attend to, better get that done before heading out. You don’t want anything mucking up your focus.” He paused. “I suppose it would be poetic justice if our currency fails, and your counterfeiting gang ends up with a huge pile of useless paper. This way, please.” He opened a door to a secure courtyard.
Hannah briefly thought about Malcolm when she heard the stock market was crashing. But only briefly. Once outside, she increased her pace towards the armory to get outfitted for her field assignment.
* * *
Contrary to what many people believe, the hardest part of professional stock speculation isn’t choosing which stocks to trade. Nor is it deciding what size position to put on, or even when to exit a losing trade.
No, the most difficult decision for a trader is figuring out when to exit a winning position. That part is critical. Winning trades are what pay all the bills. You need to make enough on them to cover all the losing trades, plus enough extra profit to live off of. Unfortunately, your profitable positions are under no obligation to cooperate towards that end.
&n
bsp; There are many different approaches to this dilemma. Some traders pick target points in advance and depend on their batting average being high enough to make it all work. Others are “big score chasers,” and are willing to let most of their winners completely erode in pursuit of those rare positions that ultimately go to the moon. This is the philosophy the famous “turtle traders” used.
Malcolm had tried about every method there is of managing his winning trades, and finally settled on using adjustable trailing stops. He rarely adjusted them, but every once in a while he had a runaway breakout play that was so far in profit by lunchtime he wanted to give it more wiggle room in the afternoon, in hopes of a late-day continuation. Those situations ended well often enough to justify the tactic. Malcolm’s system worked for him, and that’s what was important.
Today his system was cast aside. He had abandoned every sound principle he knew getting himself into this beautiful mess, so now he needed to find a satisfactory way out. Should he wait for the close and exit everything during the last five minutes, letting the chips fall where they may? That had a certain undeniable appeal—especially since it was already mid-afternoon.
Malcolm purposefully kept his present account value off the screen. He didn’t want to be influenced by that. He knew he was sitting on an unrealized fortune, and that was good enough. Now he just needed to squeeze everything he could out of it. One thing was for sure: he was spending the weekend flat as a flitter. The human body required sleep.
“The selloff appears to be gaining further momentum as we head into the final trading hours of the week,” a woman on CNBC said. “As it sits right now, this is already the second-largest one-day percentage loss in history, exceeded only by Black Monday in 1987. On that fateful day, however, Treasury Bonds rose significantly as investors flew to them for safety. Today’s crash is occurring in conjunction with a historic bond market tumble, and has been nicknamed the bond bombing by exchange floor traders. The 10-Year T-Note is down an additional ten full points today, bringing the current yield to a whopping 7.5%, something not seen since the mid-nineties. In foreign exchange markets, the dollar is now also freefalling out of control as institutions across the planet move to protect themselves by selling U.S. assets. The only flight to quality left seems to be in precious metals, as the price of gold has suddenly jumped more than a hundred dollars per ounce—”
Malcolm muted the volume. He needed to get serious. Everyone else was panicking, moving into gold and foreign currencies. Well, Malcolm had some gold and Yen he could sell to the hysterical masses—at nicely overinflated prices.
Gold was still rocketing upward. Malcolm checked the options chain. He had to blink twice to make sure he was looking at the right strike price and expiration. Those calls he bought this morning for ten cents now displayed a solid volume of transactions at $3.40. And Malcolm had sunk a big chunk of cash into them. The current offer was $3.60. Good enough. Malcolm entered a limit sell order for $3.50, for his entire supply. The option chain updated and Malcolm’s position was now the front offer. It didn’t last. Within two minutes he had sold them all. Close the damn gold chart.
All right, what about the Yen? This is a 24-hour market, so no real rush here. But, the U.S. Dollar was tanking hard at the moment. Malcolm decided to cover half his position. That took three seconds.
Okay, bonds. Back to TBT. Man, the thing looked like Jack’s beanstalk on a 15-minute chart, with the previous 4-day’s price range starting to look like the village below. Malcolm had never seen anything like it. And here he was on top of the beanstalk. These kinds of things usually correct pretty hard after the fever pitch blows. Malcolm was now in full sell mode, so he decided to start dumping it. A market order here, a market order there. Good, he was getting honest fills. Three more market orders and he was out.
Back to the Yen. What to do here? Maybe let the remaining position ride and have a little more fun.
Malcolm went to the kitchen. It was only 3:00, but man was it ever Miller time. Of course, he hadn’t had a Miller—or any tasteless fizzy yellow beer—in over ten years. Thank God for the craft beer revolution. Malcolm retrieved a Stone Brewing Company Pale Ale from his fridge and carefully poured it into a pilsner glass.
That’s when he noticed the unusual sounds—through the walls of his apartment, and distantly reverberating from the ceiling and floor. Voices yelling, hands pounding on walls. It was reminiscent of a Super Bowl or World Series game going on. Malcolm’s neighbors didn’t sound like they were backing the winning team.
Malcolm had. His life was about to change, forever. Yet here he was in the kitchen with a beer instead of checking his account balance. Good. That meant he still had his priorities straight. How much was it? He really had no idea, other than seeing a seven-figure sales transaction flash when he sold the gold options.
Malcolm drank half his beer straightaway in an effort to calm his accelerating heart rate. That failed. He purposefully walked slower than his legs wanted to back to the den, and forced them to stop at Ryan’s desk. A short stack of magazines Ryan brought with him yesterday sat next to the mouse pad. The Economist was on top, no surprise there. Under that was Fortune. Malcolm had already read the current issue. On the bottom was Off Grid Magazine.
Malcolm laughed, set his beer on Ryan’s desk, picked up Off Grid, and thumbed through it. Lots of pictures of semi-automatic rifles and uniquely-geared off-road vehicles.
A smaller ad near the back caught his attention. It was for a business called Survival Properties. They had a website. Malcolm moved the mouse on Ryan’s desk, bringing the screen to life. He opened the web browser and went to the Survival Properties site. Lots of land lots for sale out in the sticks. Malcolm checked the West Virginia listings. Hey, there was a ten-acre plot near the town of West Union, fairly close Ryan’s property in Pennsboro. Foundation laid and a well already drilled. Only $48,000. Hell, a drop in the bucket for Malcolm now. Maybe he should buy it, just to freak Ryan out. They could be neighbors in the apocalypse.
That wasn’t such a crazy idea, actually. A land investment would show both Ryan and Hannah that he was a changed person. Hell, why not buy it? Malcolm almost picked up the phone. Then he remembered he still had a position to close. And shouldn’t he take proper stock of his liquid assets first?
He went back to his own desk, forgetting about his beer, and sat down. Forty minutes left in the trading day. Everything was still tanking. The Yen was still shooting up. Well, nothing wrong with selling into strength. Malcolm closed out his remaining position.
And then he was flat.
How much? Malcolm opened his account overview page and scrolled down to the cash value figure …ever …so …slowly, squeezing it out like a bad poker player checking to see if he drew a flush. The upper top edge of the number brushed the bottom of his screen just enough to verify there were seven digits in it. That top horizontal line on the first digit could only belong to a five or a seven. Malcolm had made either five or seven million dollars in the last two days. He scrolled all the way down in a final quick movement.
It was seven. His account now held $7.3 million and change, what was $261,000 yesterday morning. Wow. Even after taxes, that was enough to buy a place on the Upper East Side, and maybe even a beach house in Jersey to boot. He and Hannah could have everything they ever wanted together. Well, as long as she also got to spend her work days protecting some important person or another. Malcolm knew better than to pick that battle.
Malcolm couldn’t wait to tell her. He dialed her work number.
“Hannah Carter, please. This is her husband.”
“Hannah Lane is unavailable, Malcolm.”
“Hi, Leslie. Can you page her for me? It’s important.”
“She’s on field assignment.”
“Field assignment? When did this happen?”
“You know I can’t give you details, Malcolm.”
“All right, thanks. I’ll call her cell phone.”
Hannah’s cell phone went
direct to voice mail. Knowing her, she probably had it set to reject all calls except those from her office. That girl was such a damned workaholic.
“Hannah, its Malcolm. I hear you got a field assignment. Good for you! Honey, call me. It’s important. You probably heard about the stock market today. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay. Better than okay. In fact, way, way, better than okay. I have big news, Hannah! Everything’s going to be all right. Seriously. Anything we want now. Oh, and I’ve turned over a new leaf. You’re going to love the new me. Just …call me. Please. Bye.”
Well, that was goofy. Malcolm never was good at leaving messages.
His phone rang. Good, she didn’t have time to listen to the voice message. Malcolm picked it up on the first ring. Static on the other end. She must be out of the city somewhere.
“Hannah?”
“Hey buddy,” a faint male voice said through the crackling. “How’d you make out?”
That was Ryan’s voice. He was obviously in a poor cell reception area. Malcolm glanced at the clock. It was now after four. The market had closed.
“Great!” Malcolm answered. “I’m rich!”
“What’s that?”
“I said great! Made a friggin’ fortune! Thanks to you.”
“You’re breaking up, Malcolm. If you can hear me, please just listen. I think this is only the beginning, and all markets are going to crash—maybe all the way to zero. Things could get ugly. Don’t go anywhere, understand? No matter what happens, hole up at home and wait for me. I’ll be there within a week, and I’ll take care of you. I’ve got it all handled, okay?”
“Ryan, I’m the one who has it all handled! It’s me who’ll be taking care of you, knucklehead! Where are you?”
