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“The key to everything is Cheney’s 21 per cent,” I say. “Without his quota, Fidelity Credit Union can’t go above 44 per cent worst case. The only way to ensure control is to buy back Cheney’s shares, and he’ll only sell to us if the share price doesn’t reach thirty-five. Any idea how to tank our stock?”
Our financial consultant, Olivia, takes the lead. “Do we know what Mercer is planning to do with his shares?”
“Nothing. He will neither sell nor buy.”
“Then Fidelity Credit Union doesn’t have much leverage left. Counting Mercer’s shares to our side, you’re still the majority shareholder, but their position remains sizeable.”
“What does that mean for us?”
“They can call for a vote of no confidence if they’re already up to 30 per cent and if Cheney votes with them, they could remove you as CEO. Do you know how Cheney would vote?”
“He wants to sell and bring home a pretty buck, but he shouldn’t be interested in deposing me. But we can’t count on it.”
“Assuming Cheney is a friend,” Olivia offers. “Our best bet is to devalue the shares.”
“And how do you propose we do that?”
“It’s a dangerous move, but Fidelity Credit Union has a tight risk profile, if they have a large amount of a stock and the value drops more than 10 per cent in a single hour, their algorithm would issue an automatic order to sell everything.”
“But won’t that plunge the stock value even more?”
“They prefer to cut their losses early.”
“How do you know all that?”
Olivia makes a waving gesture. “I know a buddy who knows a buddy…”
“Never mind. How can we lower the stock price?”
“We’d need a conspicuous sell-off from a source Fidelity Credit Union can’t intercept and buy from, thus keeping the price stable.”
“Is it possible?”
The consultant thinks for a second. “It’d have to be a coordinated dump happening all at once but spread out in many micro-transactions that Fidelity Credit Union wouldn’t be able to appropriate.”
“Micro-transactions.” The solution suddenly hits me. “Olivia, you’re a genius.”
I exit the room and call my best friend. “Marissa, I need your help.”
“What time is it?” comes her groggy reply.
I stare at my watch. “Past midnight, sorry, did I wake you?”
“Nah, don’t worry, I had to pee anyway, darn hormones.”
Even in the moment’s urgency, I ask her how she’s doing. I listen to her complain about daily hormone shots while she goes to the bathroom and once she’s flushed, she asks, “Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“Did you see my numbers today?”
“Yeah, I tried to call you to congratulate you, but your phone was off.”
“Because I’m under a hostile takeover.”
“No, by who?”
“Justin.”
“That weasel,” Marissa hisses.
