by Ian Bull
Heyman blows a whistle, the ninjas step back, and then fly to the ceiling, hauled up by the wires and harnesses. I fall to my knees and cradle Steven’s head. He blinks in rapid succession, forcing himself awake. He smiles, a moment of tenderness that gives me hope. He blinks again, fighting to stay conscious. “We…we are trapped…we’re somewhere in hell. South of hell. No…it’s of…no…below hell. Worse than hell. No border. No door. No way to escape. No way out.”
He’s not making sense. I stroke his face. “Steven? I’m here. Right here.”
“No one will rescue us. No one can find us.”
“Don’t give up. I love you.”
“I love you, too….” He blinks again, trying to stay conscious, but he drifts away.
“Very touching. We’ll add sappy music and make it a scene.”
Heyman blasts an air horn, which startles Steven awake. He rolls away from me and pushes up to feet. “Why am I the one who’s always torturing her? Strangling her? Punching her?” he shouts up to Heyman.
“Because that’s what people want to see.”
“Let her punch me. Strangle me. That’s drama. They want to see her fight back!”
“If you need her to punch you, so be it. But fewer people want to see her hurt you.”
Heyman is right. Men hurting women in literature, movies, and TV outnumber women hurting men by a thousand to one. I point up at Heyman’s silhouette on the metal catwalk. “‘Hate is a bottomless cup; I will pour and pour. Of all creatures that can feel and think, we women are the worst treated things alive.’”
“Typical. You give yourself the best lines, actress.”
“They’re not my lines. They belong to Euripides. And the truth about how men treat women hasn’t changed in twenty-five hundred years.”
“Quintana, shut her up. Strangle her now.”
“What’s wrong, Heyman? You don’t like it when a woman knows more than you? ’I know indeed what evil I intend to do, but stronger than all my afterthoughts is my fury, fury that brings upon mortals the greatest evils.’ And I swear I will have my revenge on you.”
“Strangle her, Quintana. Otherwise, you both get nothing.”
Steven looks scared. My eyes tell him to be strong. He must trust me, and not fight them. I stay on my knees, and he puts his hands on my throat.
“I won’t hurt you. I’ll just cut off your air,” he whispers.
“Do it.”
“I’ll get us out,” he mouths and tightens his hands on my neck. The blood stays in my head. There’s a rushing sound in my ears. His face goes out of focus. Black.
26
CARL WEBB
Wednesday, March 13, 9:00 a.m. (PST)
How many hours does it take to tweak three damn computers? Glenn’s been at it for hours. The smell of bacon, home fries, melting cheese, and butter come wafting in from the kitchen. I hear knives cutting fruits and vegetables, eggs cracking, and the sizzle of ingredients hitting hot pans. Trishelle is making as she says. First music, and now food. And when she’s making, she comes up with great ideas, so go for it, girlfriend.
My job is to make things happen, but I’m stuck on the starting line. I call Mendoza’s number one more time—no answer. The FBI and the LAPD stopped taking my calls. I need them to believe us, so I can tap their power to find Steven and Julia, but I can’t do that until I find Mendoza and Marsh, and I haven’t heard from them in over four days.
The Miami office is calling motels in Wisconsin. Three people in Washington are downloading satellite photos of vacation harbors around the world for us, so we can search for Bushnell’s yacht. What else can I do?
“We need to air out the cave, Glenn! Fresh oxygen is required!” Trishelle yanks open the curtains, slides open the glass doors, and flips off the two guys on the Boston Whaler sixty yards offshore. They blow an airhorn back at her and motor away. She gave them the photo they wanted. Maybe they’ll sell it to Larry Naythons at Celebrity Exposed. The air coming in is cold but invigorating. Glenn shivers but nods his thanks.
To keep Glenn working at top speed, I retrieved a half-finished bottle of Mountain Dew from his car, which he finished in one gulp. The caffeine and sugar combo launched him into hyperdrive.
My phone buzzes with a text from Colonel Johnson in Monterey: The Hilarios are ten minutes out. I flew them to Port Hueneme Army Base and requisitioned them a car.
I show Glenn the text.
“Just in time. These computers are almost ready for massive data.”
“So, you work with these corporals?”
“The Hilarios do a lot of big data analysis and language translation for me.”
“What will they be doing exactly?”
“First, they’ll upgrade Julia’s internet line. A portion of every fiber optic cable is set aside for national security traffic, which we can borrow. We need it to carry two gigabytes per second, encrypted.”
The outdoor gate dings. On the security monitor are two uniformed soldiers inside another black Caprice. As I buzz them in, Glenn darts out the front door so fast that I have to run to keep up.
A man and a woman exit the car. They look similar; they’re brother and sister. Both are slim and trim, about 5’ 7”, with trim black hair. They look Filipino and swagger like gunfighters. They wear green fatigues as if they’re still on base, with Corporal stripes on their sleeves. They salute Glenn (even though he’s wearing civvies), and he salutes them back.
“Major Ass Burger, we killed you in Nightstream last week,” the man says.
“He’s right, sir, we wiped your ass right off the planet,” the woman says.
Glenn is around thirty, and they seem to be in their early twenties, but casual enough with him to give him a bad time, which Glenn doesn’t like.
“It took both of you to do it, teaming up against me.”
Time for me to interrupt. “Yo, we have work to do. Glenn, talk to me.”
“These are Corporals Rafael and Darna Hilario. They are twin brother and sister cyber experts who each speak six languages—English, Spanish, Tagalog, Thai, Cantonese, and Mandarin. They also think they’re better than me at the online video game Nightstream, but, in fact, they are not.”
They each wear two patches on their arm sleeves: a pentagon-shaped one with three spears for Cyber Operations Specialist and a Defense Language Institute patch. Those mean that the Hilarios are brainiacs who never hold weapons but can program your phone to blow up in your face if you speed dial a terrorist.
“Should we start on the outside of this sick mansion?” Rafael asks.
“Yeah. This crib is lit,” Darna adds. “You got a bitchin’ side gig, sir.”
“Just begin,” Glenn says, and walks back in the house, slamming the door.
Rafael and Darna snicker as they take out their green duffel bags from the trunk. I guess they’re staying too. I’ll move to the master bedroom, so they can all sleep on the sofa like a pile of kittens. I go inside and leave the door open for them.
Trishelle lays out cheese, omelets, home fries, bacon, toast, marmalade, sautéed mushrooms, hot sauce, and a fruit salad, along with black coffee, milk, and brown sugar. “Come and get it! I timed it perfectly, Glenn, for you and your friends!”
“You sound like a mom, Trishelle.”
“You should sound more like a dad. Time to lead, Handsome. You’re on point.”
Glenn plops down, grabs a fork, pulls an omelet close, spoons on some home fries, and chows down. Trishelle and I trade looks. It’s like we have a teenager in the house.
Darna walks in. “We’re done. You now have the fastest internet in the county.”
Rafael is behind her. “Any food left? Us Nightstream champs get hungry.” They sit on either side of Glenn and the three millennials race to scarf down the remaining food.
Glenn pushes his plate away. “The Hilarios and I traded texts as they traveled south. We will now explain our strategy to save Steven and Julia.”
Trishelle pushes a glass of water acr
oss the table. “Finish chewing first.”
He downs the water and starts. “Here in this room, we’ll create The Rescue Game, complete with website and app.”
Trishelle rubs her hands together. “Give me the details.”
“Millions of people want to watch Steven and Julia being hurt and killed. Those people are already playing The Danger Game. However, many more people are opposed to games like this, like all of us. The goal is to recruit an army of like-minded people to our platform with two goals – keep Steven and Julia alive, and help them escape.”
“How do you know people will join our army?” I ask.
“Because we’ll design a game that’s good. That’s all gamers care about. Are Steven and Julia really in danger? Is it fiction? No one cares as long as the game is fun to play. And the more players, the greater the chance they’ll get out of this alive.”
“Can you build this game fast enough?” Trishelle asks.
Glenn scoffs. “I program games for DARPA that build neuro-plasticity to heighten mental acuity. My games train people to spot hidden missiles in satellite photos that computers miss. We can build this game. Trust me.”
I hold up my hand. “How is The Rescue Game going to find them?”
“We have a three-prong strategy,” Glenn says. “Darna, will you please start?”
Darna finishes her food and types while she talks, never making eye contact. “Strategy one: we tell our players to study The Danger Game. Examine the type of cattle prods the bad guys use. The color of the paint on the walls. A quirk in their rendering technique on the green screen. The light bulbs in the ceiling. Anything can be a clue.”
“Keep going. You’re convincing me.”
Rafael types and talks next. “Strategy two: we tell our players to study Steven and Julia’s behavior inside The Danger Game episodes. Micro facial expressions. The flush of their skin. Their pupil dilation. We could find proof that they are really in danger, which we can show authorities. Or a message. Probably from Steven.”
Glenn takes over as Rafael and Darna’s typing picks up speed. “During the Vietnam war, American prisoners of war who were forced to confess on camera, communicated the letters T-O-R-T-U-R-E in Morse code by blinking during their filmed confessions, telling the world what was really going on.”
“I like this. What’s the last prong?”
Glenn walks away from the computers, leaving Darna and Rafael at the keyboards, muttering words like JavaScript, Ruby, Python Code, Objective C. “The final prong is the most important. Bushnell and Swig make most of their money from story ideas that people submit. So we flood their game with story submissions that will still make them a lot of money, but also give Steven and Julia the best chance to escape and be rescued.”
Glenn grins with pride. The only sounds come from the Hilario twins typing and the squawk of seagulls outside.
“I’m lost. What kind of story submission is that, Glenn?” I ask.
We want to see Steven and Julia outside. Free from that green room! If Steven gets outside, he can move. If he can move, he can find a place to hide. If he can hide, he can escape. That’s his skill.”
I pat Glenn on the shoulder. “You are good, Major Ward.”
“Why would he ever let Steven and Julia outside?” Trishelle asks.
“Those green screen scenes take a lot of time to create, and they get old, fast. Viewers want reality after too much computer generation. If he wants to keep making money, Bushnell must bring the game up to the next level. We will define that level, with gamers demanding that Steven and Julia be let out to face real adversity.”
“They could be in a warehouse in Downtown LA, thirty miles from here,” I say. “If that’s the case, he’d never let them outside.”
“They are in a remote location. That’s Bushnell’s modus operandi. A remote cay in the Bahamas. A yacht in the South China Sea. An airstrip in Mexico. They’re always far from civilization, so Bushnell can control the environment.”
Trishelle shakes her head. “But the moment our game drops, Bushnell will know what we’re trying to accomplish, and just pull the plug. And then he’ll kill them.”
Glenn smiles. “He won’t quit. It would be admitting defeat. He’ll want to play us.”
“Trishelle crosses her arms. “What makes you so sure? We’re playing with their lives, Glenn.”
“I know this man. I found him. I studied him. I wrote the only dossier that exists on him. I know how he thinks. But he doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t even know that we know his name. He thinks he’s safe.”
Glenn’s right. Finding Tina Swig’s identity was easy because she worked with Robert Snow at Velodrome. But Bushnell believes we only know him as Boss Man. That might make him cocky.
Glenn points at me. “Bushnell owned a casino in Macao. He’s a gambler. He likes to bet big and win big. It’s his nature. And every time one of our Rescue Game players goes onto The Danger Game and pays to make a spoiler story submission, Bushnell makes more money. He’ll like the challenge and want to beat us at our own game, while we try to beat him at his. He’ll double down and keep playing.”
Darna stops typing. “And while he plays, we hunt for Steven and Julia.”
Trishelle sighs. “When The Rescue Game drops, they’ll be looking at Steven and Julia even closer. They may hurt them more, to spoil our spoiler game.”
“True. And they’ll be searching for us, too, every person in this room,” Glenn says. “But it’s our best chance. And when Bushnell and Swig try to find our servers, we’ll lead them on the same internet goose chase they put me through. They won’t find us.”
“It’s all part of the game,” Rafael says. “Both games.”
I remember the Boston Whaler out in the cove, taking pictures. I have to keep this beach house secure and private. If Bushnell finds out that we know his identity, he’ll turn out the overhead lights and kill Steven and Julia on the way out the door.
And they must have already known we were closing in on Tina Swig. That’s how she got away. The sick feeling in my gut about Mendoza and Marsh gets worse.
Darna pushes her chair back from the table. “Major Ass Burger, sir?”
Glenn doesn’t even turn to face them. “You cricket-eaters have an update?”
“I don’t appreciate your racist comment, Major Ass Burger, sir. I don’t accuse your Thai grandma of eating rats in Chang Mai.”
“Then stop calling me Ass Burger, Corporal. Please proceed.”
“We can have a version of the game up and running in fourteen hours. We can push it on Reddit in all the gamer subreddit communities. We’ll recruit the best players for leadership roles. Then, we can hit social media for our foot soldiers,” Darna says.
Glenn turns back to me. “Master Sergeant Webb, we just need your go-ahead.”
“Go for it.”
“We’re going to need to be paid. Three thousand dollars a day.”
“What? How do you all deserve three thousand a day?”
“That’s for each of us. When we’re on leave, we play video games and earn game credits, which we sell to other players online, through a blockchain cryptocurrency we created for video gaming. Each of us makes that much a day, easily. All we want is what we usually make gaming. And we’re not playing. We’re building the game.”
Trishelle smiles and shrugs. “They have us over a barrel, handsome.”
“Done.”
Rafael claps his hands. “Yes! Our game is a laser burning right through their hot garbage.”
The three Army geeks lean over their keyboards like they’re driving Ferraris. Their fingers accelerate as the energy rises in the room. I feel a rush that starts at my heels and goes right up through the top of my skull. This is the feeling I used to get prepping for a mission. Glenn looks at me with a diamond glint in his eye. He gets the feeling too when he’s doing his cyber ops. It’s a heightened awareness, an excitement with an intense focus.
Trishelle crooks her fi
nger, calling me into the kitchen.
I follow her over to the sink. “What’s up?”
“If The Rescue Game drops in fourteen hours, the producer in me thinks we need to promote this thing.” The edge of her mouth twists up in distaste.
“The last time I saw that sour look was when we talked about Larry Naythons.”
“He did tell you that we could come back to him when we had something that will grab eyeballs. If he wrote about their horrible game, he should write about ours.”
I pull out my phone. “I’ll set something up for tonight.”
27
TINA SWIG
Wednesday, March 13, 6:00 p.m. (CET)
Douglas helps me down the ancient stone stairs to the beach on Ustica. I love this island and its history. These rocky steps were carved by ancient Romans.
We reach the sand and walk around the rocky point to a secluded cove, where a formal dining table waits for us. Carlos, the bosun, stands in his uniform, looking half-sailor and half-waiter. Three silver serving wagons are lined up behind him.
Douglas kisses my neck. “Surprise. I wanted something special for our last night at this anchorage.” He holds out my chair.
“So, this is what you were doing when you went ashore this earlier today?”
“Of course. What else would I be doing except planning for your happiness?” he asks with a sly wink. My man covers his tracks well.
Carlos fills our glasses with prosecco, and we clink. Reckoning is two hundred yards offshore and lit up red and yellow from the setting sun. My beautiful son Devon is on board that yacht, hopefully back to cracking the code for the Hobbs conjecture. I didn’t speak to him this afternoon; Douglas and I have been playing tourist for the past few hours, which I regret. I should’ve checked on him.
“I’m glad we took a break,” Douglas whispers. “The game is going well.”
“It is. We’re close to two hundred and fifty million dollars in a little more than three days, and we’ve only had two episodes. I’m sure we’ll crack three hundred million by midnight,” I say. I don’t like episode three, which we just finished, but stay quiet.
