Colleen noted, “At least this Friday is the week that options expire. That’ll make a lot of traders a whole lot more nervous, and they might dump stocks faster than they normally would.”
Tristan glanced at his watch, the Patek Philippe timepiece that, hopefully, Blaze was not going to inherit anytime soon. “It’s eight o’clock at night in New York. Colleen and I have a bit of code to write, and then Jian, you’re up next.”
48
Phase One
Tristan
Writing a small, malicious program took Tristan and Colleen maybe an hour of chuckling over a computer and debugging. Because the malware didn’t have to infiltrate any security software, they didn’t have to hide what it was, which was half the battle.
A lot of coders are hackers at heart, and letting their repressed inner hackers play was too damn much fun.
Inserting the malware into GameShack’s servers was even easier.
Colleen logged onto her help desk account, established her administrator access, and then uploaded their little program.
The countdown began, and at ten o’clock Eastern Daylight Time that night, GameShack’s servers went dark.
Anyone watching the streaming service and everyone playing games on the service got a 404 message that the page or the site was not available.
But for the creators who were using the site to produce and stream video to their followers, a message with that coming Friday’s date appeared on their screen:
The GameShack streaming service has ceased operation.
Due to mounting operational costs and recent financial losses, GameShack is discontinuing the streaming service as of today at this time.
No data downloads will be available.
Thank you for being a valuable contributor to the GameShack streaming service.
Even though they were on a private jet somewhere over the depths of the Atlantic Ocean, which meant they were over international waters, Tristan could practically hear the anguished screams of thousands of creators who’d lost years’ worth of work creating videos and their data, plus their access to the platforms they’d built and all the people who’d followed them.
Not to mention the furious roars of gamers who’d invested thousands of hours in their videogames and had just lost all their progress.
Colleen was repressing giggles. “So this is what real hackers feel like.”
Tristan was watching the chat channels on the Division social media site aimed at gamers, and the chats blew up with people freaking out about GameShack and screenshots of the message that the creators were seeing.
He chuckled with Colleen. “Drinking the tears of our victims, yes.”
“Should we stay online and make sure the program turns itself off?”
“Yeah, probably, but I’m going to get some turkey and crackers from that charcuterie board.”
After exactly ten minutes, their malware curled up and died as if it had never existed, and GameShack’s streaming platform sprang to life, unharmed.
The following day, after sleeping on the airplane seats that folded down into flat beds but provided no damn privacy, Tristan looked over the message Jian had posted in his private group for the personal assistants to the billionaires of the world.
It was just a quick note, practically something that could have been a direct message, but instead, Jian supposedly, accidentally posted on the off-topic chat area of the board.
Jian’s post read:
Hey Hisham!
I know you stream your videogame side hustle through GameShack. I heard there were some problems with their streaming?
Did they really go off-line with a notice that GS was ending the streaming service at the end of the week?
Do you think they got hacked, or do you think they’re really going to pull the plug on their streaming service and somebody goofed and released the notice prematurely?
Best,
Jian Laio
And then Hisham, who was totally in for anything that would cause chaos in the greater world, though not his household, and certainly would participate in a caper that would lead to an interesting stock opportunity, replied to Jian’s post in full view of the entire board:
GameShack’s servers went down like a new twink in the back room. The service collapsed with a death rattle, and this message came up on the screen. Note the frickin’ date, man. That’s this Friday, five days from now. I’m downloading all my content and data right now in case GameShack folds like an anxious bunny playing Texas Hold ‘em.
Hisham posted a screenshot of Tristan’s message to the creators on the chat board.
And hundreds of savvy personal assistants had a hot stock tip for their billionaires at breakfast: Sell GameShack. That stock will be worthless by Friday.
Tristan’s private jet touched down at eight o’clock local time on Tuesday at the airport in Nice, France, which was two in the morning back in New York.
As Tristan had arranged, a French customs official met the plane, collected and cursorily examined their passports, and glanced at the rear of the jet where Colleen had squeezed into a new extra-large roller bag they’d bought in Newark.
There was something a bit fun about sneaking his little around in luggage, like a real-live sex toy for the taking. Tristan reminded himself not to get used to it. If everything worked out, he would get Colleen a damn passport at the first opportunity.
The customs official left, and Colleen walked down the stairs to the tarmac with the rest of them.
A helicopter was waiting, which ferried them to the heliport in Monaco, and then Tristan had a town car shuttle them over to the yacht club and his boat.
Tristan put Jian in the front seat because he didn’t want him to get elbowed in the ribs as they were driving, and then Colleen sat in the middle of the back seat between Tristan and Anjali.
She kept climbing over Tristan and Anjali as she peered out the windows, craning her head to look at the bustling city that had been crammed into eight-tenths of a square mile. White skyscrapers soared, but most of the houses and older buildings were Italian red-and-pink earth tones, a relic of the noblemen and their armies from Genoa, Italy, who’d conquered Monaco a millennium before.
The streets curved and twisted, and the driver of the staid Mercedes sedan must have been under the mistaken impression that he was driving a Lamborghini. He skidded around turns, and Colleen tumbled over the two of them as she gawked out the car windows.
Watching her become wiggly with excitement was the best part of Tristan’s day, and the wonder shining in her dark eyes was entrancing.
She fell on his lap again as the chauffeur took a corner like a Formula One race car driver.
One time when he caught her, he managed to slide a pinch over her nipple, which earned him a secret smile from Colleen.
The next time, when he made sure that Anjali had her face pressed against the other window, he slid a finger up the leg of her shorts and skimmed his fingertip just once over her clit.
That startled her, and she whipped her head around and looked at Anjali, who had both hands plastered to the glass and was staring somewhere up above the car. Her glance back at him threaded a little fright in her smile.
He raised one eyebrow at her, though he kept a smile on his face. He turned her face back to the window, letting his lips and breath brush the pink shell of her ear as he whispered, “Mine.”