by Ian Bull
I need to distract him. “Quintana, why do you keep paying for this place?”
“The surf. Imagine catching that wave right now.”
The wave moves across the cove. It starts to break, but the face stays glassy as it passes us, and keeps going. The shoulder finally closes out as the wave hits the sand.
“That’s the best left-breaking wave in Malibu. Ten seconds of serenity.” He sighs. He sure as hell ain’t serene right now. I offer him a pork bun, but he turns it down. “I need to talk to Julia.”
“She’s with Trishelle.”
“Is that why you’re babysitting me? To keep us apart?”
“Yep. You’re on lockdown.”
“Radio silence too?”
“For now. If you want to talk to Julia, tell me, and I’ll tell Trishelle.”
He sips his Corona. “I get it. Heyman can’t hurt us both this way.”
I finish my beer and toss the dead solider in his blue recycling bin. “He won’t hurt either of you as long as I’m involved.”
Steven gets up and stands by the wooden railing. There’s no one in the cove, but he hugs the shadows. “I bet Heyman is out past Palm Springs, running his Humvee through Patton’s old tank training ground. He’s a desert rat, that’s where he’d go.”
“Or he’s on the coast highway, looking for you. Let other people find him.”
Steven sits back in his chair and opens a water bottle. “I don’t get it. Heyman goes to all this trouble to try and pin three fake explosions on me? How bad can it get?”
I mirror him and sip water too. “If someone was really scared, it could be assault. There are county laws about setting fires and federal laws that cover explosive devices.”
Steven laughs. “Bring it on. I’ve been shot three times. I fought six killers on a plane. I could do six months for that bullshit standing on my head.”
“And they’d have to convict you first.” Heyman could be up to far worse, but I stay quiet. No need to rile him up.
“As long as Julia’s safe. I will do what’s required.”
We clink water bottles. “Anything, Anytime, Anywhere. Want to know how we figured out Boss Man’s name?”
“Tell me.”
“Major Glenn Ward gets the credit. Boss Man was in La Paz, Mexico, during the broadcast of Six Passengers, Five Parachutes. We traced every airline and hotel during that time and got nothing. Then, Glenn remembered that Boss Man used a yacht when he was in Hong Kong. Glenn got NSA satellite photos and traced every yacht in the La Paz Harbor that week. There was one that never registered with the harbormaster, a white yacht with a unique hull, with a sharp bow and stern. We spotted her in other photos in other harbors, where she did register. And we got her name: Clairvoyance. We then examined satellite photos of when Boss Man was in Hong Kong and found its exact twin in Asia: Second Sight.”
Steven’s eyes open as big as plates. “Robert Snow whispered Clairvoyance and Second Sight before he died. I thought he was talking to God. Those were yachts?”
“Yup. Clairvoyance. Owned by a shell company that’s owned by Douglas Bushnell. Another shell company owns its twin, Second Sight.”
“If we find his yachts, we find Bushnell.”
“We’ve been looking. The yachts are either in a warehouse or he scuttled them.”
“Is Bushnell rich enough that he can sink two mega yachts?”
“Yes. But, if he likes living on yachts, my guess is he’s hiding on one now.”
“And when they arrest Tina Swig, she’ll tell them where to search.” Steven stares at the waves. He’s still for the first time in hours. I may be getting through to him.
“Exactly. Mendoza should’ve already alerted the FBI about Tina Swig. They may be bursting into that motel room right now. Then we’ll find Bushnell, and Peter Heyman, in that order. There’s no reason to go racing through the desert. Stay low. Trust us.”
“Thank you, Carl.”
He shouldn’t thank me yet. Mendoza hasn’t checked in with me.
9
JULIA TRAVERS
Sunday, March 10, 10:30 p.m. (PST)
California
It’s odd being home without Steven, on the longest, loneliest Sunday of my life. It’d be nice to open the curtains and see the ocean, but Trishelle refuses. We move into the study instead. “I need something. Coffee. Ice cream,” I complain.
“I’ll grab two pints of chocolate from the garage freezer.”
“Brilliant. Make mine vanilla.”
“Boring, but okay.” Trishelle leaves me alone in the wood-paneled office with the computer that no one uses. The clock on the wall ticks.
My phone rings. It’s Steven’s number. I answer so fast I almost hang up on him. “Are you okay? They don’t want us talking!”
“They’re bringing federal charges against me. I’m going to prison, Julia.”
I’ve never heard him this upset. “We’ll fight it. We’ll hire the best lawyers.”
“They found my fingerprints on all the bomb material.”
“How?” My mind goes to a bad place for an instant, and then I pull it back.
“Heyman….” His voice drops out and comes back.
I rush into the hallway, desperate to find better reception. “Steven! Say that again.”
“Heyman called me. Says he has my prints and is going to set off more explosions.”
I pace in the long, white entranceway, wishing Trishelle would come back. “Steven, listen. You’re with Carl. I’m with Trishelle. They can’t blame us.”
“He’ll kill people unless we pay him off. He wants one hundred thousand dollars at the Wilshire and Western Metro station. I have fifty. Bring another fifty.”
“No! Where’s Carl? I have to talk to him.”
“I’ve never asked you for anything, Julia. I need help. Be on the last Purple Line train entering the station at midnight. I’m getting on my motorcycle now.” He hangs up.
Trishelle comes in the door from the garage. She has no ice cream but holds her phone. “Carl just called. He said Steven is gone, and then hung up.”
“Call him back. Steven’s heading to the Wilshire Wiltern Metro Station.”
“I did. I hit redial, and it just rings.” Trishelle looks terrified.
I see my reflection in the entranceway mirror, and it’s way worse. I only have ten thousand dollars stashed in this house. “How much money is in the safe in the production office?”
“Thirty thousand. But I need that to grease palms for the entire six-week shoot.”
I’m wearing diamond earrings. That adds up to over fifty. I grab the car keys off the entrance side table. “Let’s go.”
10
STEVEN QUINTANA
Sunday, March 10, 11:15 p.m. (PST)
California
Tiny waves lap on the beach. Big waves crash in my brain.
I hid in a tree in Bosnia in a snowstorm for three days, until my camera froze solid. Carl and I hid in the mountain jungles of Colombia for a week and only spoke six words. In the Bahamas, Julia and I hid all night in a cave in a freshwater sinkhole. I’m trained to wait, but I hate waiting.
“Get some sleep, Quintana. I’ll sleep out here in the hammock.”
Carl won’t sleep. He’ll stay on watch all night. We’re both in that zone of hyper-awareness, ready to move, but stuck in neutral.
His phone rings. He gives the screen a puzzled look and shows me. Trishelle Hobbes. He pushes aside the Chinese takeout cartons and sets the phone on the wooden table between us. “Trishelle, what’s up?”
“Where are you? I can’t see you.”
“At Steven’s place in Malibu, where I’m supposed to be.”
“You just called again and hung up. I’m standing by the escalator, waiting.”
“That wasn’t me, Trishelle. Where are you?”
“The metro station by the Wiltern Theater. Julia just took the money down.”
Carl jumps up and motions for me to stay put. With the phone to
his ear, he walks down the three wooden steps to the beach.
Carl was my commanding officer for seven years and was always right, but this time, his plan isn’t working. Julia’s in trouble, and I’m done waiting.
I walk inside and open the oven. On the racks are my cameras and my motorcycle keys. I grab the keys to the Bonneville and a helmet on my way out the door.
I dart up the wooden stairs to Tivoli Road and run under the covered parking and put the keys in the motorcycle. There won’t be traffic this late on a Sunday. If I drive a hundred, I’ll make it in forty minutes. Carl runs up the stairs as my bike takes off.
“Quintana, get your ass back here!”
Sorry, Master Sergeant, she needs me, and I’m the only one who’s dealt with Heyman before. I hit Pacific Coast Highway, accelerate past a Bentley, and the windblast hits my chest. I lean over the handlebars and crank it open all the way.
11
JULIA TRAVERS
Sunday, March 10, 11:55 p.m. (PST)
California
The emptiness echoes inside the metro station. Tile murals cover the walls, faces of the people of Los Angeles, six feet high. Where’s Steven? They stare back at me, not answering. It’s quiet; the Wiltern Theater is three floors above and dark tonight.
I zip up my blue tracksuit, pull the brim down on my Dodgers cap, and hope that no one recognizes me. Steven will toss Heyman his money, and this nightmare will be over. But how did he get Steven’s prints?
At the far end, two homeless women hide under their hoodies next to their roller bags, trying to sleep on a stone bench. I ache for them. They’re my mother’s age. One whispers and the other laughs, which warms me inside; they have each other, at least. At the other end of the platform, two teenagers kiss.
So here I am, Steven. Where are you?
The long escalators hum. A glass bottle falls down a cement staircase somewhere in this cavern but doesn’t break. A siren passes by on Wilshire Boulevard, far above. I so want to be back in Trishelle’s car with Steven next to me.
A dusty wind kicks up and a light appears in the tunnel. It’s midnight. Steven can do amazing things, but can he control the flow of metro trains now? A three-car train pulls into the station. The doors slide open, and I step on.
The car is empty. He had better show up, or these doors will close, and I’ll be riding the Purple Line alone, back downtown.
Footsteps echo off the marble. Someone is leaping down the steps, five at a time. Feet appear, then legs. It’s Steven. The train beeps and he leaps on just as the doors close.
I hold up the backpack like a proud kid. “I got the money!”
He leaps back at the closed doors and tries to pry them open. “That wasn’t me on the phone. They got your number and faked my voice.”
My stomach turns. I almost throw up. Fuck.
He gives up on the doors and crouches into a fighting stance in front of me. Every muscle in his back tenses up, ready.
My face flushes hot with shame. “I’m sorry.”
“There are cameras in here, mounted above the windows.”
I see the small, square cameras. How did he spot them?
The train pulls out of the station. The overhead lights flicker as it lurches to the right. Steven plasters his face against the glass, peering outside. “We’re leaving the main track and going into a service tunnel. Who knows you’re here?”
“Trishelle is waiting in a car on the street.”
He checks his phone. “Shit, no bars.”
My muscles tremble with a new rush of adrenalin, but there’s nowhere to run.
The lights flicker. The door at the other end of the train car opens. A tall, bald man with a scar of metal across his face—making him look like a circus freak—steps through. Peter Heyman. He tried to kill Steven before and he’s back to try again.
Steven runs down the aisle at him. Heyman grins, showing even more metal in his freaky face. He raises a gun and shoots Steven in the chest. He falls on his face in the aisle three feet before reaching Heyman.
I dive between the orange metro seats and force myself onto the hard rubber floor. Heyman appears above me and shoots me next, right in the thigh. I look down—he darted me, like a rhino in Africa. My mind slows. The train tilts.
No, I’m tilting. The train goes black.
12
TINA SWIG
Monday, March 11, 9:00 a.m. (CET)
Sicily
I ignore Rebecca as she clears the breakfast dishes. Chef baked brioche with orange zest and stuffed them with amaretto gelato. Instead of coffee, we had coffee granita. It’s an indulgent Sicilian breakfast that’s often served on a hot day, not our usual healthy meal of green smoothies and coconut milk, but today is a special occasion.
I walk down the side staircase and stand alone on the aft deck, enjoying the last few black ice shards of my granita. They look like tiny versions of the hair icicles I used on Marsh yesterday, and my brain flashes back to his surprised face. Yuck. Why does my mind do that?
Douglas exits the main salon and hugs me from behind. Douglas. He’s the one man who can give me memories worth remembering.
“Come in, darling. All our planning is paying off. The rabbits ran right into our trap.”
“I want to savor the last moment before the game really begins. Want a taste?”
I feed him the last spoonful, which he enjoys.
He touches my hair. “I miss your long hair.”
“I used it to kill someone.”
“You had to. They were putting our lives at risk, and Devon’s too. Tell yourself that, and those irritating images won’t plague you much longer.”
He’s right, as usual. “I’ll be right in,” I whisper.
He hugs me, then walks past the tinted glass doors back into the main cabin.
I glance up the stairs to the sun deck. Devon is locked in his room, solving his impossible math problems. He’s also bored. This yacht is not enough. The key is to keep challenging him and keep expanding his world.
I look at my watch. It’s 9:00 a.m. in Sicily, so it’s midnight in Los Angeles and they’ve boarded the train. My phone buzzes with an encrypted text from Walter.
They were not followed.
Perfect. No cops saw them.
Now show me your tits.
Snide little Walter. He’s my secret weapon in Los Angeles, from my time producing TV. He found their phone numbers for me, the clever little prick. Our two-week affair was miserable while it lasted, but it has paid off over the years.
I yank down my top and click a selfie of my exposed boobs, making sure to give him a side-shot with plenty of stretch marks from breastfeeding. Why make them look good for him? I send the photo and text him. Beat off to that, loser. He likes being abused.
Time to play the game. I walk back through the glass doors into the main salon. Our three tech geniuses—Min, Elliot, and Ismael—sit in front of their big 5K monitors.
“Talk to me, boys.”
“The darting went great. We have awesome footage from the train,” Min says, glancing over his shoulder. He’s a handsome Korean-American kid who dropped out of Stanford to program for us. His first-generation immigrant parents are furious, but they’ll change their minds once he buys them a new house.
“Elliot, how many nodes did you use before you placed the calls?”
Elliot, my white jock, sits in the middle. He’s got thin orange hair and wears a football jersey, which makes him look like an NFL hooligan.
“I circled the globe. We have bots on servers on three continents.”
“Is Peter Heyman happy?” Douglas asks as he joins the group.
Ismael, the last one in line, answers, “He’s frothing at the mouth, he’s so excited.” Ismael is my preppy African-American nerd who always wears button-down shirts; yellow, blue, or pink. He’s the only one of the three who knows how an iron works, and found one downstairs in the crew quarters.
“Let’s get them to the studio. And keep th
at footage coming.”
I love when a new project launches, before your life changes forever.
13
CARL WEBB
Monday, March 11, 10:00 a.m. (PST)
California
Trishelle tugs open the curtains. White light attacks my retinas. I pull myself up to a sitting position on the couch.
“Sleep well?” She goes into the kitchen and snaps on the coffee maker.
“I would have slept better if I could have slept with you.”
“It wouldn’t have helped.”
She’s right. We ran around the metro station with our heads cut off, and got back here exhausted at 3:00 a.m. I lay on the couch in the dark, listening to her tossing in the guest bedroom. I thought I heard music, then fell asleep just before dawn.
My eyes adjust to the light. It’s weird to be in a beach house while a crisis is happening. Julia and Steven’s place isn’t huge, and the neighbors’ houses are close. But, it’s overpriced California, so its price tag is still in the millions. The house starts on a hillside and juts out on stilts embedded into the rocky part of the beach. You walk in the front door, down a white hallway, past a master bedroom, dining room, and guest bedroom, and reach a living room with two, deep-gray couches with way too many pillows. What makes it feel big is a wall of sliding glass doors that lead to a narrow balcony and the vast Pacific Ocean on the other side. There’s a small galley kitchen next to the dining room with its own smaller windows that overlook the water.
And the Pacific Ocean is still out there, flat and blue, stretching forever. It doesn’t care that Steven and Julia are gone.
How did Heyman pull this off? There’s been radio silence from Mendoza since midnight Saturday. Mendoza must catch Swig, so she can lead us to Bushnell. That’s our sliver of hope. Finding Bushnell requires searching satellite photos of vacation spots around the world, looking for a yacht with a pointed bow and stern, if that’s even what he’s on. That requires people at the NOAA, at the National Reconnaissance Office, the National Geo-Spatial Intelligence Agency, and NASA.
