Evening Storm Read Online Free
Author: Anne Calhoun
the room a man stood in front of a projection screen, giving a presentation about high value targets.
It looked like a typical business meeting. It could be happening at any one of thousands of companies or multinational corporations around the five boroughs. It could even be happening at MacCarren, the firm Ryan had called home since he graduated from the Wharton School of Business a decade earlier. Not even the late hour, after eight in the evening, disqualified this meeting from the realm of normal.
What launched it into the realm of unbelievable was the fact that every individual in the room except for Ryan wore a badge that identified them as agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. But not Ryan. Ryan wore a temporary badge labeled VISITOR , which was being polite. His correct title was âwhistleblower.â Which was also being polite.
He was a rat, pure and simple. No matter how often he told himself he was doing the right thing, he knew he was a rat. There were laws governing the running of investment houses and banks: federal laws, state laws, local laws. MacCarren hired lawyers, well-paid, well-educated lawyers, to navigate those laws. Then there were the unwritten laws governing the conduct of employees within those corporations. Rule number one: make as much money as you can, as fast as you can. If the SEC catches you doing something wrong, take the fine and deal with moral and ethical questions not at all.
There was no rule number two.
If you did decide you couldnât stomach the world of hedge funds, derivatives, and investment banks, the right thing to do was to quit and take a job somewhere else. There was the right thing to do, and then there was the rat thing to do. Ryan had chosen the rat thing.
A few weeks ago, when heâd accidentally stumbled upon rarely used accounts and followed the money into offshore accounts and the sure knowledge that Don and Charles, the father and son team leading MacCarren, were running a massive Ponzi scheme behind the scenes, heâd taken an early lunch, hailed a cab, and gone to the federal building in downtown Manhattan where heâd asked to see an agent working on white-collar crime. Daniel Logan, the agent heâd sat down with that day, now sat directly to his right, with another agent Daniel worked with seated to Ryanâs left. Ryan had labeled him the Jock; based on the way the Jock looked at him, heâd classified Ryan as the kind of skinny math geek he used to torment in the hallways. Ryan was pretty sure they were both dead-on.
Technically speaking, Daniel was his handler, checking in with Ryan every twenty-four to thirty-six hours, arranging meetings, and generally making sure that Ryan didnât bolt for a country with no extradition treaty. Ryan had no intention of bolting, and anyway, he turned over his passport at the beginning of this process. Besides, when he started something, he finished it, even if finishing this would end him.
The agent at the front of the room was droning on about time lines, indictments, subpoenas. Ryan zoned out, thinking about something that heâd started at Irresistible. Not with Jade. That was over before it began, although she didnât know it. No, he was thinking about Simone.
He wanted her. It was as simple as that, and back before he learned what he didnât want to know, back before he developed a conscience that was very inconvenient on Wall Street, he wouldâve gone after her. He would have
had
her every way he could.
But now, he refused to drag anyone into the morass of legal and financial battles that would be his life after the FBI, SEC, and God only knew who else raided MacCarren. After years, literally
years
, of dating with no purpose in mind other than finding a pretty woman who would entertain him for a few days, maybe a few weeks, it was very inconvenient to finally run across a woman whose red hair, blue eyes, and cinnamon-on-cream freckles sparked a chest-deep
It looked like a typical business meeting. It could be happening at any one of thousands of companies or multinational corporations around the five boroughs. It could even be happening at MacCarren, the firm Ryan had called home since he graduated from the Wharton School of Business a decade earlier. Not even the late hour, after eight in the evening, disqualified this meeting from the realm of normal.
What launched it into the realm of unbelievable was the fact that every individual in the room except for Ryan wore a badge that identified them as agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. But not Ryan. Ryan wore a temporary badge labeled VISITOR , which was being polite. His correct title was âwhistleblower.â Which was also being polite.
He was a rat, pure and simple. No matter how often he told himself he was doing the right thing, he knew he was a rat. There were laws governing the running of investment houses and banks: federal laws, state laws, local laws. MacCarren hired lawyers, well-paid, well-educated lawyers, to navigate those laws. Then there were the unwritten laws governing the conduct of employees within those corporations. Rule number one: make as much money as you can, as fast as you can. If the SEC catches you doing something wrong, take the fine and deal with moral and ethical questions not at all.
There was no rule number two.
If you did decide you couldnât stomach the world of hedge funds, derivatives, and investment banks, the right thing to do was to quit and take a job somewhere else. There was the right thing to do, and then there was the rat thing to do. Ryan had chosen the rat thing.
A few weeks ago, when heâd accidentally stumbled upon rarely used accounts and followed the money into offshore accounts and the sure knowledge that Don and Charles, the father and son team leading MacCarren, were running a massive Ponzi scheme behind the scenes, heâd taken an early lunch, hailed a cab, and gone to the federal building in downtown Manhattan where heâd asked to see an agent working on white-collar crime. Daniel Logan, the agent heâd sat down with that day, now sat directly to his right, with another agent Daniel worked with seated to Ryanâs left. Ryan had labeled him the Jock; based on the way the Jock looked at him, heâd classified Ryan as the kind of skinny math geek he used to torment in the hallways. Ryan was pretty sure they were both dead-on.
Technically speaking, Daniel was his handler, checking in with Ryan every twenty-four to thirty-six hours, arranging meetings, and generally making sure that Ryan didnât bolt for a country with no extradition treaty. Ryan had no intention of bolting, and anyway, he turned over his passport at the beginning of this process. Besides, when he started something, he finished it, even if finishing this would end him.
The agent at the front of the room was droning on about time lines, indictments, subpoenas. Ryan zoned out, thinking about something that heâd started at Irresistible. Not with Jade. That was over before it began, although she didnât know it. No, he was thinking about Simone.
He wanted her. It was as simple as that, and back before he learned what he didnât want to know, back before he developed a conscience that was very inconvenient on Wall Street, he wouldâve gone after her. He would have
had
her every way he could.
But now, he refused to drag anyone into the morass of legal and financial battles that would be his life after the FBI, SEC, and God only knew who else raided MacCarren. After years, literally
years
, of dating with no purpose in mind other than finding a pretty woman who would entertain him for a few days, maybe a few weeks, it was very inconvenient to finally run across a woman whose red hair, blue eyes, and cinnamon-on-cream freckles sparked a chest-deep
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