by Ian Bull
I let him go as the Pajama Boys surround me. One pokes me in the kidney, and I contract so hard my knees hit my forehead.
He jams one in my crotch next.
But I know where we are—Baja.
35
TINA SWIG
Friday, March 15, 7:00 a.m. (CET)
Min, Elliot, and Ismael work their monitors while Douglas paces behind them. We’ve been up all night. The boys are in their nerd zone, living on Red Bull and getting up only to pee. I’m bored, but Douglas is energized like he’s playing online poker or running a drone assault in Pakistan.
His smartphone vibrates, and he holds it up. “Peter Heyman is texting that episode four is ready for download. Min, please check your inbox and upload it to The Danger Game site. We can all watch together at the same time as our fans.”
Min taps on his keyboard, and the monitor, recessed into the mahogany cabinet above their monitors, emerges and turns on.
Episode four is decent, but not great. The mixture of new material and scenes from the classics feels fake. Julia and Steven do a decent job with Taming of the Shrew, but I wouldn’t pay for it. They’ve rendered them into a Renaissance garden, and Steven Quintana in Shakespearean costume looks stupid. Julia Travers, as usual, pulls it all off. Heyman stopped Quintana’s blinking, thank God, and Travers is behaving.
The computer animation drops away, and Julia and Steven are in the green room, pacing the floor between scenes. Julia Travers yells up at the cameras in the rafters.
Heyman yells down. “People like your mouth.”
“Maybe people want to watch me fight more than watch me suffer,” she responds.
“I don’t.”
“That’s because I beat you once before. And I will again.”
“No, you won’t.”
“You shoot everything we do. I dare you to put what I just said in the next episode. If you don’t, it will be proof that I do scare you.”
“I’m already scared.”
My gut drops. When this footage came in, I reminded Douglas of his promise not to use any ad-libbing in the episode. He not only used it, he’s making it a centerpiece, with rapid cutting and camera moves. But, I don’t dare complain. He already has suspicions about me, both from The Rescue Game, and from my using Walter as a resource.
The rest of the episode is good. Then the finale comes. It’s color-corrected with a fantastic soundtrack. Julia snips off Steven’s left pinky finger with garden shears, which is horrible but oh, so watchable, like watching a car crash happen next to you on the freeway. With drums pounding, five of Heyman’s tribe members descend to cauterize Quintana’s blood-spurting hand with an electric cattle prod. Julia somehow stabs one with the garden shears, then both Steven and Julia kick and punch their attackers until five more tribe members descend and shock them into submission.
The music crescendos over the scene fading to black, and we hear Steven’s voice: “The Danger Game. You write the script.”
Then Julia’s voice comes next: “We perform…or we die.”
Everyone stares at the black screen, frozen, as the music fades away.
Douglas turns the monitor off and the boys come back to life.
“That was crazier than a snuff film on the Dark Web,” Min says.
“It was sick. And I mean sick-sick, not good-sick,” Elliot says. His face is white.
“The close-up of the garden shears going in. That was so real,” Ismael says.
“That’s because it was,” Douglas says. “But only we know that.”
The boys laugh with high-pitched nervousness. At this point, they’d probably rather play The Rescue Game, but they’re stuck with us until it’s game over.
“Talk to me, Min,” Douglas says. “Tell me we’re making money.”
“Episode four dropped thirty minutes ago and we’re now making fifty thousand dollars every ten minutes. Best numbers yet!”
Ismael looks at his screen. “Same with submissions. They’re way up too. A few are pro-torture and death, but most are pro-survival.”
Elliot holds up his hand. “People on social media are saying that the last five minutes, when they fight back, is the best part. That may be driving the downloads.”
Douglas peers over Min’s shoulder and sees the downloads increasing. He nods, rubbing his hands together. “Perfect. We’ll listen to our fans. We’ll give Steven and Julia a fighting chance for the final episodes, stretch out their struggle, and then end it. We’ll win at our game while beating them at theirs.”
The boys fake more awkward laughter. Douglas shoots me his smug, closed-mouthed smile. I fake a smile back at him. He’s making a mistake. We should do just the episodes like I planned, kill them, and disappear. But he can’t resist a challenge.
“Is everything all right, my love?” Douglas asks.
“I do like making money, but I want them dead more.”
Douglas pretends he didn’t hear me. “We need to talk to Peter Heyman in the warehouse. See how we can make these survival requests compelling.”
“Short and compelling.”
Douglas closes his eyes and exhales his frustration. “I have been in these situations more than you have, my love.”
He may know gambling, but I know how to tell a story. And the more we show them fighting for survival, the more people will like them, which can’t be tolerated. We want people to hate them, so it will be a pleasure to watch them die.
“My love. One suggestion,” I whisper.
“What?”
“They are at the breaking point. When we talk to Heyman, let’s push harder on getting them to betray each other. That way, we both get what we want. One survives, one dies, and our numbers go up.”
“You’re so good.” He kisses my hand, which is the first display of affection he’s ever given me in front of staff. But he’s changing my game, and I hate that.
36
CARL WEBB
Friday, March 15, Midnight (CST)
Wisconsin
The gray-haired woman in the pink robe behind the counter shakes her head. “She doesn’t want to be disturbed until she checks out on Saturday, and I never bother my guests. It’s the key to our success.”
I glance around the “successful” motel office lobby. It’s got fake veneer walls and shag carpet throw rugs, glass and brass lamps, a rocking chair, and a hundred small ceramic cows crowded onto every flat surface. There are also four mounted photographs of different fly-fishermen holding up massive trout in mid-stream. “A lot of cows and fish around here?”
“We’re in Wisconsin.” She crosses her arms. Jimmy Kimmel is on the TV in her apartment, which is just beyond the office door behind her. She’s missing her show and she’s pissed—that must be it.
I push my LA sheriff’s deputy badge across the Formica top. “I flew from Los Angeles and drove from Milwaukee. Two men who work for me are missing.”
“I know. Major Glenn told me you were coming. But, unless you’ve got a warrant, I can’t open the door.” She’s got that unassailable Midwestern integrity that’s baked into the people around here. She follows the rules just like her parents and grandparents did. She’s also patient with me, not slamming doors and throwing me out, which is what would happen in California or New York or Florida. “I knocked for you, and there was no answer, Deputy Webb. That’s the best I can do.”
My phone dings with a text from Glenn: Try this. There’s a photo attached. I touch it and bring it full screen. It’s Tina Swig’s ID card from when she worked at Velodrome International producing TV. How did Glenn dig that up? He’s the best.
I set my phone in front of her. “This is her, right? See, Tina Swig.”
She sees the name and the face. Her nostrils flare and she exhales like an angry Wisconsin bull. “She said her name was Frida Kahlo. That’s what she wrote on the register.” She flops open her book. “I remember because she’s our only guest.”
“Frida Kahlo is a famous Mexican painter and artist. Also, a de
ad one.” I enter Kahlo into the search engine on my phone and show her Frida’s photo.
“So, she’s a liar.”
“And worse, she may be a criminal. May I ask your name, ma’am?”
“Vanessa Hughes. I’m the owner and manager.”
“Ms. Hughes, will you help me out and open the door to the room?”
She tugs on snow boots and pulls a parka over her pink, terrycloth robe and bangs out the front door. I follow, and almost slip on the icy walk in my Italian loafers.
She bangs hard on Room Number Three. “I’m coming in!” She jams her pass key into the lock, swings open the door and clicks on the light.
“Sinners!” Vanessa runs out of the room.
I step through the door into the weak light. The room is freezing. One bloated body lies on the bed, with his pants down. Another lies on the floor surrounded by a hardened pool of blood. My heart pounds. My mind flashes back to the ten times I had to look at my dead brothers: Colombia. Afghanistan. Iraq. Mexico. Bosnia. All images remain vivid, and now I must add two more.
Taylor is on the bed. He looks surprised. Mendoza is on the floor. He looks asleep. Taylor has a service weapon in hand. Mendoza’s shirt front is brown with dried blood. I remember Taylor’s parents and Mendoza’s wife and young daughter.
My phone buzzes with a text from Trishelle: Episode 4 just dropped. Julia cut off Steven’s finger. We need you.
Taylor and Mendoza. How can I leave them?
I walk gingerly on the ice back to the motel lobby and try the doorknob, but Vanessa has locked the door. “Mrs. Hughes? Can you open the door, please?”
She wails an answer that’s impossible to understand.
“Please, we have to call the police.”
“Go away!” She goes back to sobbing.
There’s no time for this. I can’t stay to answer questions and explain this double homicide to the Wisconsin sheriff. I must get back to Los Angeles where I can make a difference; otherwise, Mendoza and Taylor died for nothing.
I go back to the motel room and say a prayer for my men. I find McCusker’s and Gum’s cards in my wallet and set them on the desk. They’ll find me soon enough.
I skate across the icy parking lot in my loafers, pop into the rental car, and out onto the road, passing the sheriff’s car with lights flashing coming the other way. No sirens are wailing, though, so they have no sense of urgency.
I’ll be back in Milwaukee in two hours. I’ll catch a 6:00 a.m. flight back to Los Angeles. A curtain has been lifted in my brain and my thoughts turn from red to cool blue. My breathing slows. I will command my body to sleep on the plane. My dead comrades again flash through my brain. There are now two more, frozen back in that room. I am in warrior mode now, and I’m fucking pissed. I will find Bushnell and Swig on my own, without the law, and kill them both. I hit the gas.
37
TINA SWIG
Friday, March 15, 1:00 p.m. (CET)
Devon spins, tilts, and pogoes in his red chair, timing his movements to the beat of electronic music blasting from the speakers. He programmed his computer screens to pulse with colored lights, which makes his suite feel like an Ibiza disco.
“Are you celebrating?”
He stops, stares at me, then slowly puts his mouthpiece in. “I’m dancing, Mom,” he says in his evil alien voice as the music drops in volume. He really can do a lot with that mouthpiece, which makes me grateful again for Douglas, even though he is frustrating me right now.
“I know, I heard the music. We used to dance together all the time, remember? You would choreograph dances for us to perform together.”
“I was five.”
“You’re never too old to dance with your mother. Come on.”
I take his left hand in my right, which is how we always did it, so he can use his right hand on the toggle and lead us. He puts his mouth over his mouth piece and stares at his computer screen, which fills and magically scrolls with a music list. He picks a soft Austrian waltz, then rises up in his chair so we are face to face.
I hold up his hand and curtsy. “Lovely choice, my Lord.”
He leads, moving his chair is a perfect three-four time, adding just the right amount of sway. I whisper. “You really are good, you know.”
“Stop.”
We rotate as we dance, and he leads us past his bed and sofa without brushing either. “I mean it. You could choreograph for a company that features dancers with disabilities. Music is math, and dance is geometry.”
He stops. His eyes get big. “Nice, Mom. I like that idea.”
I kiss him on the cheek. Rebecca’s scent is barely there. We lock eyes. “I’m glad you’re growing up. But don’t grow up too fast.”
“I won’t.” He raises the volume and we dance again.
“But you are celebrating something.”
He smiles and spins me faster. “Yes. It’s almost done.”
I squeeze his hand. “The Hodge conjecture? Show me.”
“When we get off this boat. That could be tonight if you want.”
“One more day. I promise. We’re almost done.”
“And then you can explain the secret project you two have been working on?”
“Maybe someday. But, for now, just know we’re making enough money that we can live on a yacht, on a mountain, in a skyscraper, or floating in space if you want.”
“I like that idea.”
The intercom crackles. “And so do I,” Douglas says. Our heads turn to the speaker/intercom mounted over the suite door. Each suite has one. It’s for safety in an emergency and we never use it, so we forget that it’s there, which means that we also forget that he can listen in on us at any moment. He probably sees us, too.
“Do you need me, my love?” I ask the air. I feel like I’m beholden to a capricious god.
“Can you come to the master suite? I have Peter Heyman on screen.”
“Coming, my love.”
Devon’s eyes are wide with fear. Smart as he is, he does not understand power yet, but he will learn it all from me. “Us against the world,” I whisper, and his face relaxes. He still trusts me. Needs me.
Peter Heyman’s shiny bullet head fills the huge screen on the wall of the master suite. “Hello, Peter. How are things on your end? You’re our boots on the ground.”
Peter grins, and the skin on his face widens, revealing even more of the surgical steel he inserted under his cheek. It glints, making him look like a wounded robot. “I’m grateful that you and Snow found me and the tribe. I’m even more grateful that you couldn’t sell a TV show about us. This job suits us much better.”
“You have three injured men,” Douglas says. “How are they?”
“They are getting medical treatment. No one will die. They all receive hazard pay, and your bonuses for their injuries are appreciated.”
“How many are your tribe members, and how many are locals?” I ask.
“Two are locals. Julia stabbed Panther, a tribe member, so he’s actually proud of his battle injuries. The tribe will sing songs about him.”
Douglas sits on the edge of the bed. I stand next to his right shoulder. “We are almost done. Your tribe will receive all the pay you deserve, and you can start fresh.”
“Thank you, Boss Man.” Peter closes his eyes and bows his head. Douglas raises an eyebrow at me, gesturing to proceed. He wants me to run this meeting? That’s bold but I get it. By making me tell Peter what Douglas wants, it becomes my idea as well.
“Peter, our audience is demanding that Steven and Julia get a fighting chance.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Do you think you could find a creative way to do that? While also guaranteeing that you remain in complete control?”
“Yes, ma’am. Like a cat playing with two captured mice.”
“If they were allowed outside, you’d be going live. Can you handle that? You’d need a lot of cameras.”
“I have drones, helmet cams, and mounted cams ready to go.”
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I remember the elaborate car crash videos that his tribe created, which is what first drew Robert Snow to his underground video work years ago. “What about switching?”
Peter smiles and moves the camera, so we can see the room he’s in instead of his face. It looks like a cross between a TV control room and an air traffic control tower. “You let me build what I wanted, so I did. I can switch between thirty cameras. We can broadcast a moon landing from here.”
“If this happens, you may incur more injuries. Quintana fights.”
“Honu, the turtle, is a worthy adversary. I expect nothing less from him.” I remember that Heyman tattooed Quintana to look like a turtle during our last adventure together.
Douglas gets off the bed. “How long will you need to kill them—if we let them out?”
“On demand. In three minutes, three hours, or a day. Your choice.”
“It will be more than three hours but less than a day. But only when I say.”
“Yes, Boss Man.”
“Proceed.”
38
JULIA TRAVERS
Kidnapped 131 hours ago
Steven and I will die today.
That’s my only thought, over and over, as we lie on this cement floor in the pitch black, waiting for them to blind us with the bright lights again. My mind goes to a dark place. Could Steven have planted those bombs? Did they trick him?
It’s my fault. I forced my wolf into a cage, trying to make our lives perfect instead of admitting that we were broken. I refused to listen to him, and now we’re going to die.
My spleen is bleeding, or my intestines, or even my uterus. The bruise on my belly spread down my hips, past where Steven punched me. My skin is tender and swollen everywhere. I need a doctor. I need rest. I need more water. I need to eat.
Steven lies next to me. We’re both on our right sides, lying under the one thin, wool blanket they threw down from the metal rafters. He balances his wounded bandaged hand on my hip. He hasn’t budged in hours, which makes me afraid to move. I think he’s in a coma until he exhales on my back. His warm breath gives me a glint of hope.
