Y2$20K

It all started with an email chain. Fred Schubert was just taking his first sip of lukewarm coffee from the office kitchenette when he saw the email pop up in his work inbox. The forwarded message was from Jim, an old coworker, whom he hadn't heard from in a good few months. Frowning, Fred clicked on the greeting which read, "Welcome the year 2000 in with a bang!"

The message unfurled on the screen:

Today's your lucky day! Someone in your neighborhood thought you could use a pick-me-up. Stressed at work? Tired of living paycheck to paycheck? Well, we have got you covered. $20,000 has just been wired to a bank account in your name. All you have to do is come to the location listed below and pick up your new account information. Don't delay: this offer is only valid until 11:59 PM on December 31, 1999.

To receive your account details and have access to your funds, please go to the address listed below...

Fred's mouth had dropped open halfway through the short email. When he had finished reading, he had the urge just to click off the message and go back to his work for the day. What kind of idiot would fall for this kind of stunt? Obviously Jim was down on hard times himself if a stray scam like this had snagged him enough to send it along to Fred too.

But a tiny part of Fred was...curious...in spite of himself. Christmas had been a lean affair this year, what with his wife Loretta having the baby and his sister Jean needing to crash on his living room couch after a nasty break-up. The Schubert family definitely could have used a sum like $20K.

And the deadline...midnight on the 31st...could it be—?

He checked the clock above the elevator door. It wasn't even nine o'clock. He shook his head. He was nuts to even be considering this...

On his lunch break two hours later, Fred used a pay phone outside to dial up Jim. The man answered after only one ring, not even bothering to say hello as he said, "I knew you wouldn't be able resist a carrot like that, Fred."

"I'm not going alone," Fred insisted. "Are you free Sunday night?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Jim said. The two then planned their night out to the downtown address listed at the bottom of the email. At least they would have back-up for each other if things got dicey with what definitely smelled like a scam.

At nine o'clock that Sunday, Fred told Loretta he was meeting a few buddies over at the local bar for a nightcap before the new year. She just nodded, her eyes glued to the television as she watched the footage leading to the big ball drop at midnight in New York, and she probably didn't even hear the door close behind him.

Fred picked up Jim from his trailer on the outer edges of the suburb. Judging from the state of things—the rust eating up the foundation of the trailer and the beat-up Jeep parked beside it—he could tell Jim was still recovering from the divorce that had landed him in the trailer park in the first place. And Jim's inclination toward vodka and late mornings had gotten him fired from his job at the office. It was no wonder Jim had been intrigued by the email and its promise of quick cash, no questions asked.

The location downtown was an upscale bar, from the looks of it, with party-goers dressed in glam and glasses shaped into the numbers "2000." Definitely not the type of people Fred or Jim usually saw in the suburbs. They exchanged a glance before parking in the nearest garage and making the small trek back to the address from the email.

A bouncer at the door ferreted through the crowd as the line grew longer and longer the closer the clock got to midnight. After waiting in line for twenty minutes, Fred and Jim finally made it to the front. Fred brandished a print-out of the email at the bouncer, who barely glanced at it before saying, "Take a right when you get in and ask for Caesar."

Once both men were ushered in, they asked one of the bartenders on duty about where to find Caesar. All she did was point her finger up. "His party's on the roof. Old guy, gray hair and beard, blue suit, you can't miss him."

Fred and Jim took the elevator to the rooftop where only a scatter of people had arrived—but every person glanced nervously over their shoulders, their hands clutching small black notebooks to their chests. And the music and din of the downstairs bar had bled into an eerie quiet that made Fred feel like he was marching to the gallows.

Caesar was easy enough to find, as he seemed to sit on a throne toward the center of the roof, two men in black suits on either side of him. He was older than Fred would have thought—easily into his seventies, from the sag of his face—but the man's expression brightened as they approached.

"Lovely, lovely, more guests," he said, his voice booming despite his fragile frame. "I take it you received my invitation."

Both men nodded, only for Jim to pipe up and say, "Okay, old man, what's the catch? You can't be giving us all twenty thousand dollars with no strings attached."

Caesar's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Ah, but I am. You will each leave here with your money. The only catch is if you choose to accept one of my mission logs."

Mission logs? Fred narrowed his eyes. Something definitely didn't feel right, especially as a small hush of whispers filtered through the people gathered on the roof.

"I just want my money like I was promised," Fred said.

"Then by all means, talk to my secretary over there," Caesar said, gesturing to a blonde woman dressed in business attire. "She'll get you your information right away."

Fred didn't wait. He wanted to be out of here as soon as possible. As soon as he had the account number and financial institution information in his hands, he felt like a new man. This money would solve so many problems. Somehow, he had taken a chance—and he had won.

Jim didn't join him until a few minutes later, after a hushed conversation with Caesar—and a black notebook tucked under his arm.

"So what's the deal?" Fred asked as he and Jim took the elevator down to the bar. "What made you take one of those notebooks he was giving out?"

Jim failed to answer straightaway, but he seemed to have regained his composure after they began the walk back to the parking garage. "They're for bonuses," he said, his voice flat. "Every task in this notebook is worth twenty thousand more dollars. All I have to do is complete one at a time, and soon I'll be wealthy enough to live whatever kind of life I want."

Fred stopped in his tracks and just stared. "Are you serious?" He found himself laughing out of disbelief. "Maybe I should go back there right now and renegotiate—"

"No," Jim said, and Fred just stared as his old coworker lifted a gun from the inside of his coat.

"Jim, what the hell are you—"

"My first task was to kill you," Jim said, his voice never wavering. The only regret showed in the way his hand trembled as he aimed the gun straight at Fred's chest. "I'm sorry, Freddy."

The blast of a gun signaled the start of another new year.