The heavy brass second hand on the trading floor clock ticked toward the top of the dial.
Eleven hours, fifty-nine minutes, and fifty seconds.
Across the cavernous hall of the New York Sovereign Exchange, the frantic shouting had died down into a tense, breathless silence. Thousands of floor brokers, order runners, and exchange clerks stood frozen, their eyes fixed on the giant digital clock above the main board. Television reporters from Bloomberg and CNBC whispered into their microphones with hushed, dramatic urgency.
Up on the mahogany balcony, Victor Sterling gripped the polished brass railing so hard that his manicured fingernails cracked against the metal. His breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps. Cold sweat poured down his temples, stinging his bloodshot eyes.
Beside him, the eleven other hedge fund titans stood frozen like stone statues. Their expensive smartphones lay scattered across the glass table, vibrating continuously with hundreds of frantic calls from European prime brokers, offshore banks, and enraged sovereign investors. None of them dared to answer. There was nothing left to say.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The massive bronze bell of the New York Sovereign Exchange struck twelve deep, resonant tones.
Noon had arrived.
