This room was much cooler than the trading floor, a luxury reserved
for the 9 or 10 people gathered here. They looked up from their computer
terminals and cups of coffee when Snake entered. A man in a gray suit
asked, "Who the hell are you?"
Snake closed the door behind him, reached into his gym bag, and withdrew an MP5 submachine gun.
The screams from the Executive's Gallery were drowned in the cacophony from the floor.
"Nobody move," he growled. "Everybody, hands behind your heads, face down on the floor. NOW!"
They did as he ordered. One young woman, who had until this point been enjoying every perquisite of her successful life, vomited and had no choice but to lay in it. A black man in a striped shirt whimpered and pissed himself. They all went down.
Snake glanced around until he found the man he was looking for. Even though he was laying down, the head of silvery hair was unmistakable. He stepped over his terrified hostages, grasped the man by the back of his collar, and heaved him to his feet. "And you must be the president of the New York Stock Exchange," Snake insisted, "A pleasure to meet you."
The man breathed fast and kept his eyes closed. Snake wrenched him over to a door across from the entrance. On either side were entry consoles. These did not require key cards; only access codes. Snake pushed the president against one of the consoles, put the gun's cool barrel against the back of the man's neck.
"Open it," he ordered.
"I can't," the man countered, "I only have one of the codes. The vice president has the other one."
Snake smirked, pulled a chain out of his pocket. Attached to the chain was a laminated card. The card had seven seven-digit codes printed on it. One of them was correct. "Not anymore," he said. He'd extracted the code-card from a whimpering vice president in his apartment earlier that morning. The president's eyes widened. Snake went to the other console.
"Enter your code," he commanded.
"No," the president protested. Snake fired some shots into the ceiling. Plaster fell like snow. The hostages squealed. Although the gun was silenced, it produced the desired affect. The president reached into his shirt, removed a chain and card identical to Snake's. Fumbled with it, finally grasped the card in trembling fingers.
"Now," Snake said.
The president obliged. He and Snake entered their codes simultaneously. The door slid open silently. Before entering, Snake took a brown box with a blinking light out of the gym bag and propped it against the wall.
"This is a bomb wired to a motion detector," he told the prostrate hostages, "If any of you moves more than two inches, all of you will die." The stillness became so complete that the room could have been full of corpses. In reality, the bomb was just two boxes of juice and a Christmas light, but they didn't need to know that. He glanced at the president, who was still standing, at smiled. He stepped through the door.
Snake closed the door behind him, reached into his gym bag, and withdrew an MP5 submachine gun.
The screams from the Executive's Gallery were drowned in the cacophony from the floor.
"Nobody move," he growled. "Everybody, hands behind your heads, face down on the floor. NOW!"
They did as he ordered. One young woman, who had until this point been enjoying every perquisite of her successful life, vomited and had no choice but to lay in it. A black man in a striped shirt whimpered and pissed himself. They all went down.
Snake glanced around until he found the man he was looking for. Even though he was laying down, the head of silvery hair was unmistakable. He stepped over his terrified hostages, grasped the man by the back of his collar, and heaved him to his feet. "And you must be the president of the New York Stock Exchange," Snake insisted, "A pleasure to meet you."
The man breathed fast and kept his eyes closed. Snake wrenched him over to a door across from the entrance. On either side were entry consoles. These did not require key cards; only access codes. Snake pushed the president against one of the consoles, put the gun's cool barrel against the back of the man's neck.
"Open it," he ordered.
"I can't," the man countered, "I only have one of the codes. The vice president has the other one."
Snake smirked, pulled a chain out of his pocket. Attached to the chain was a laminated card. The card had seven seven-digit codes printed on it. One of them was correct. "Not anymore," he said. He'd extracted the code-card from a whimpering vice president in his apartment earlier that morning. The president's eyes widened. Snake went to the other console.
"Enter your code," he commanded.
"No," the president protested. Snake fired some shots into the ceiling. Plaster fell like snow. The hostages squealed. Although the gun was silenced, it produced the desired affect. The president reached into his shirt, removed a chain and card identical to Snake's. Fumbled with it, finally grasped the card in trembling fingers.
"Now," Snake said.
The president obliged. He and Snake entered their codes simultaneously. The door slid open silently. Before entering, Snake took a brown box with a blinking light out of the gym bag and propped it against the wall.
"This is a bomb wired to a motion detector," he told the prostrate hostages, "If any of you moves more than two inches, all of you will die." The stillness became so complete that the room could have been full of corpses. In reality, the bomb was just two boxes of juice and a Christmas light, but they didn't need to know that. He glanced at the president, who was still standing, at smiled. He stepped through the door.