The Enemy Within

Jill Kastner, one of the hundreds of commodities traders milling around in confusion, wished they’d kill the power as well and make the effect complete. She had never seen the brightly lit trading floor so still. It made the whole vast room seem alien and utterly unfamiliar.

Ordinarily, the exchange handled millions of dollars of business a minute. Pork bellies, gold, stock market indices, foreign currencies, and hundreds of other commodities. They all moved from seller to buyer amid the shouting, yelling, and waving chaos of the separate pits. Ultimately, though, the traders and their customers relied on near-instantaneous communications and information retrieval. The exchange’s computer terminals were linked by phone lines to a sophisticated net that spanned the globe. Without those phone lines, the exchange was just another large, paper-littered room.

Jill Kastner frowned. They had been out of business for fifteen minutes so far. Fifteen minutes that had cost her and her partners tens of thousands of dollars of potential profit.

Some of the traders scattered around her were trying to catch up on their paperwork. Others read the paper or tried the telephones over and over, hoping to be the first back on the electronic web that made their business possible. A few had already left the building for a quick drink or a walk to blow off steam.

Jill was too competitive to walk away from a problem like that. She simply tapped a pencil on the counter in front of her, tried to clear her mind, and waited. Whenever the phone company fixed the problem, she’d get back to work. The problem was, with the phones out, she couldn’t even prepare for the god-awful mess she knew would appear when they came back on.

1:20 P.M, EST Detroit

The Napoli was a small Italian restaurant on Detroit’s West Side. It wasn’t a four-star or even a three-star restaurant, but it served a good lunch and had a regular dinner clientele.

Joe Millunzi, the owner, spotted trouble as soon as it came in off the street. Three black kids in their teens, dressed in dark, dirty, loose-fitting clothes. They all wore Detroit Pistons hats or shirts gang colors, probably. They glided in the front door in a carefully studied strut, hard looks on their faces. He knew his customers, and these people were not here to buy lunch.

One hung back by the door while the others headed for the cash register and his daughter, Carla. Millunzi shivered. Carla was busy with a customer. She hadn’t noticed the boys.

He had been standing a few yards away at the entrance to the dining room, going over the reservations book. Moving as quickly as he could without running outright, he managed to get to the register before the two gangbangers. Whispering “Get Mama and everyone out the back!” he shooed her toward the kitchen.

They saw Millunzi come up and watched the girl leave, but they didn’t seem to care. They just stopped in front of the register, coldly regarding him. He was a big man, over six feet and a little overweight. The two teenagers were both shorter, possibly not even fully grown.

Millunzi felt like a slab of meat being inspected.

His hands were hidden as he desperately pressed a small button on the underside of the register stand. The alarm system was linked via a dedicated phone line to an alarm service and from there to the police. In a few minutes the cops would know there was a robbery in progress. And Millunzi knew there were usually two police cars in this area at this time of day. He’d made it his business to know. With luck, the police could be outside in five minutes. Ten tops. just keep cool, Joe, he thought nervously.

The two teens looked around to make sure no one else was paying much attention. The shortest pulled his hand out of his jacket pocket, showing Millunzi a silver-grey automatic pistol. It looked-immense in the boy’s hand.

“Give us the money, man,” the teenager demanded in a small, even voice. Having shown his weapon, he then folded his other hand over it and stood quietly, waiting arrogantly for his chosen victim to comply.

Millunzi nodded hastily, swallowed hard, and rang up “No Sale” on the register. It beeped and spat the cash drawer out at him. He carefully scooped up the twenties, tens, and fives, and offered the wad of cash to the one with the gun.

“All of it, fool!” the taller, older teen said in a harsh voice. He savagely grabbed the bills out of Millunzi’s hand and stabbed a hand down at the register again.