The Danger Game

by Ian Bull

  “That’s different than a regular sundial.”

  “It’s called a gnomon. It’s like a sextant.”

  “Show-off. What now?”

  “Noon is a minute away. Tell me when you see the shadows of the glass shards.”

  I tilt the T-stick toward the sun until its shadow gets shorter and shorter, until we see mostly the two, tiny shadows of the glass shards sticking out on each end.

  “I see their shadows now. They’re thin, but I can see them.”

  I tilt the T-stick on its hinge and aim it right at the sun. “Tell me when the tiny glass shadows line up and make one shadow.”

  “Now.”

  I release the stick. “See that angle of the stick now? That’s our angle of latitude.”

  “How can you measure it?”

  “I can’t. Not accurately. I’m hoping other people can, when they see it.”

  She glares at me, confused. “How’s that going to happen?”

  She glances toward the ocean. She hears the noise before I do—the motorcycles are coming. But I need them here now—not after noon has passed.

  “You might want to turn away for this one.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask. Just turn away.”

  She does. I squat, reach into my underwear, and push. Out pops the last tracker beacon that they hid in my shoe. I toss it in the center of the circle.

  “You can turn around now.”

  She recognizes the shiny metal. “You were hiding that? Where?”

  “I wrapped it in the tinfoil from the sandwiches they gave us and then shoved it where the sun don’t shine.”

  “That’s disgusting, Steven.”

  “Disgusting will save us. Hide against the rocks. I have to stay standing here.”

  “Why?”

  “So people watching can measure my height. It’s all written in your pee mud on the message board. I can’t explain more, just do it, Julia.”

  “The night goggles are still on your forehead. Toss them here.”

  She’s right. We can’t let them know what we have. I toss them to her. “I can’t believe my girlfriend is giving me shit right now.”

  “I’m not your girlfriend, I’m your fiancée,” she snaps back, and, instead of hiding in the shadows like I asked her, she lies down on the ground on the outside of the circle and splays her hands and legs out like she’s hurt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Creating a dramatic moment. Aim the gun like you want to shoot me.”

  I pick up the weapon. A whirring noise arrives. One of the drones that chased us yesterday is back, hovering ten feet above us. The tracking disc is sending its signal and doing its job.

  Julia grabs her bloody hip. “Don’t shoot me, Steven! I want to live!”

  She weeps. The drone rises. I get it now. They’re shooting the scene she’s creating. I stand still. Julia pounds the ground. “Steven! Steven! Look at me! What’s happened to you?!” I hope the shot lasts long enough that people can see all the clues.

  The motorcycles are closer. Men yell. I don’t want the other drones to find us. Noon has passed. Our window is closing.

  I aim the gun at Julia. The drone drops closer to capture the moment. It’s now close enough to get the gnomon in its frame and, hopefully, everything written in the mud.

  The motorcycles stop. The men are climbing up. I aim at the drone and shoot. BAM! It lands on the now dry tablet, raising a cloud of dust. I have one bullet left.

  “They heard that.”

  “Had to. I just hope we got the message out.” I pick up the drone and smash it against the ground, then put broken pieces in my pockets. Julia copies me.

  “What now?”

  “We climb.”

  She beats me to the rocks. The men’s voices are loud below us.

  52

  TINA SWIG

  Saturday, March 16, 9:00 p.m. (CET)

  Sicily

  Douglas downs another espresso and stares out over the water. Conceding any kind of defeat is not in his nature, but he has no choice.

  Min shouts from the sliding door. “We found them! Drone on the way!”

  Douglas’s face lights up like a gambling addict at a horse race. “We’ll finish them quick. No lingering, I promise.” He pops one more cookie into his mouth and heads inside.

  All my muscles are shaking. My anger toward Steven Quintana and Julia Travers is gone. I just want out. I step out of the cool night back into the bright lights of our global, floating, crap game.

  The boys are hooting it up. “Viewership is jumping! Word is out! We’re at eight hundred purchases a minute!”

  On the big screen, a drone flies through a narrow canyon in the Baja hills. “This drone is linked to one of the beacons hidden in their clothes. Heyman is texting that it just became active again,” Min says.

  “They’re only a mile away from the warehouse. They haven’t traveled very far. I thought for sure Mr. Army Ranger would have made it farther,” Elliot says.

  “She’s shot two of our men and he’s stabbed a third. That’s better than you clowns could do,” Douglas says. The boys flinch, but don’t turn from their monitors. Their charming boss is turning on them.

  “How did that tracker show up? I thought they kicked off their shoes,” I say. No one answers me: the invisible woman in the room. Familiar.

  Two small figures come into focus on a tabletop plateau halfway up the dry mountain. Heyman in his control room switches to the shot of motorcycles, which turn around. They’ve gotten the message that they’ve spotted Quintana and Travers. Chase music kicks in, adding to the thrill. The riders rev their throttles and tear back the same trail. Heyman switches back to the drone’s POV, as it descends close to the mountain. The chase music lowers as the shot stabilizes.

  Quintana stands as still as a statue, a pistol in his hand. Twenty feet away, Julia Travers lies on the ground, her legs twisted under her.

  “Is she hurt?” Min asks. The fucker sounds like he cares.

  “That dude shot her, remember? After she stabbed him in the throat,” Elliot says.

  “That dude was an idiot,” Ismael says.

  Douglas claps his hands. “Focus!”

  The drone settles into a solid two shot with Quintana and Travers on either side of the frame. Her legs are limp under her. Maybe she’s bleeding to death, which gives me a tiny rush.

  The drone descends closer. “Don’t shoot me, Steven! Please!”

  “Whoa, he shot her?” Min asks.

  His tone bugs me. Douglas picks up on it, too. “Min, do you have a fucking crush on her? What are the downloads?”

  “Downloads are climbing. People are back online.”

  “I want to see if we can make a million dollars a minute,” Douglas says.

  “We will if he shoots her again,” Elliot says.

  “This thing will be over in five minutes,” Douglas says.

  Quintana stands at the top of a circle he’s drawn in the sand. It’s got sticks stuck in it. The drone drifts back, revealing a square that’s been swept clear of brush and grass, and it’s darker with markings on it.

  My heart races. “He’s sending a message, pull the plug!”

  No one hears me.

  “Is he going to shoot her or not? He’s like a statue,” Elliot says.

  The drone descends. “That’s a sundial! He’s sending a message! Pull the plug!”

  Quintana aims his pistol at the drone and pulls the trigger. The image goes dark.

  “Shit, that sucks,” Elliot says.

  “Were you recording that? Back it up!”

  “What?” they all ask in unison, like I’m the one who turned their TV show off.

  I slap Elliot hard across the face. He raises his hand to hit me and I plow my heel into his groin. He falls out of his chair. I point at Ismael, the only one I now trust. “Back it up! Quintana sent out a message!”

  Douglas’s eyes widen and he starts breathing fast. I’ve never
seen him scared before, but he is now. “Do it,” Douglas whispers.

  Ismael backs up the recording.

  “Freeze! Right there!”

  We stare at the image: a circle with sticks, one of them perched on top of the other alongside a square with markings. “That’s a sundial,” I say.

  “We have to figure out what he’s saying,” Douglas says.

  “No, we don’t. The FBI, CIA, and Interpol are already doing that. We pull the plug. We tell Heyman to torch the warehouse, and we all disappear. It’s time to go.”

  Douglas blinks like he doesn’t understand. For the first time I feel like I’m smarter than he is…and I don’t like it. The boys all stare at him, waiting for an answer.

  “How much have we made, Min?” he finally asks.

  “1.32 billion.”

  “Good enough. Pull the plug.”

  We should have pulled the plug ten hours ago, but, no. He put everything at risk for an extra two hundred million dollars. Getting angry won’t help us right now. I clap my hands and they all look at me. “Close the sites, shut down the servers, erase your tracks. Then pack your bags. No electronics, not even an MP3 player. No talking to each other. Stay in your rooms. Cameras are watching you. We’ll drop each of you off in a different Italian city within the next twenty-four hours. You will each get your promised payouts in bitcoin within forty-eight hours as contracted.”

  Douglas hits a button on his smart watch and Rebecca and Carlos appear from the galley on the floor above. “Rebecca, these men will be leaving the ship soon. Carlos, notify the captain and first mate that we’re pulling anchor immediately. Only maritime short-wave communication is allowed, and only to respond to the harbormaster. Get the tender in the water now and we’ll tow it. I want their drop-offs to go smooth.”

  They nod and leave. The frat boys all stare at him. Elliot finally asks the question. “What about Steven and Julia?”

  “Oh, they’re still going to die, you just won’t be a part of it. Pull the plug.”

  They sigh and turn back to their monitors. Min shuts his down first.

  It’s about fucking time.

  53

  CARL WEBB

  Saturday, March 16, Noon (PST)

  California

  I’m standing in the kitchen when Lucas Rey texts me: Need details. Can’t wait forever.

  Shit. He’s got his team together, and they’re waiting in Ensenada. If we’re doing this by land, he’ll need Humvees. If we’re doing this by sea, we need boats, maybe a barge. We need a helicopter either way. I’m paying through the nose for a half-organized rescue squad that’s waiting around for information.

  I text him back: Soon.

  Marsh and Mendoza flash through my brain. We found them thirty-six hours ago. Even if they took them to Milwaukee yesterday morning, why so long? The coroner must have identified them yesterday afternoon.

  Anthony Quintana, Steven’s brother, arrived thirty minutes ago. He looks just like Steven but with a touch of gray at his temples, ten extra pounds, and a happier face. Probably because he is happier. Being a chemistry teacher sure beats this.

  He comes in the kitchen and pours more coffee. “You all caught up, older brother?”

  “Yup. This shit seems familiar.”

  Darna shouts. “A high drone sees Steven and Julia!”

  Trishelle, Anthony, and I rush in and crowd around our three cyber warriors and their six monitors on the dining room table.

  A drone flies through a slot canyon in the rocky hills of Baja, rises up to a plateau, and slows when it spots Steven and Julia. Steven stands ramrod straight, a pistol in his hand, while Julia lies twisted on the ground ten yards in front of him.

  “Don’t shoot me again, Steven! Please!”

  Trishelle scoffs. “This is fake. Steven would never shoot Julia.”

  Steven points his pistol at her. The drone drops down, almost level with them. Steven turns and shoots the drone. The screen goes black.

  “Rewind it!” Anthony says. “Show me that last shot!”

  Glenn brings the last shot back on screen. Julia lies on the ground. Steven stands ten yards from her.

  “In that square at the bottom of the frame. Those scratches are shorthand. Our mother taught it to us,” Anthony says.

  My eyes return to Steven and Julia. In between them are sticks—some on the ground, some sticking in the dirt, and two are stuck together, making an angle.

  It hits me. “He’s trying to show his latitude. That’s a sundial.”

  Rafael points at me. “Yes! Like a sextant!”

  Anthony nods. “Yes. We can figure out their angle of latitude to the sun.”

  “And their location from the angle of that stick,” Rafael says. “It’s just after twelve. He aimed it at the sun close enough to noon, to get a decent measurement.”

  Trishelle looks at the frozen image of Steven and Julia on the screen, and the arrangement of sticks between them. She shakes her head. “This drone is aimed down. We’re too high up to see the angle. How do we figure it out?”

  Glenn types like crazy. “We don’t even try. We put it on The Rescue Game. We have almost a million online players. Someone will solve this puzzle.” He hits return. His screen fills with a moving bar: MP4 uploading.

  “Maybe Too Cool for School will come through for us again,” Darna says.

  Rafael types. “I can hail him in The Rescue Game chat rooms on Reddit.”

  “FYI, The Danger Game is gone,” Darna says.

  Trishelle hovers behind her. “What do you mean, it’s gone?”

  She points at her screen, which has a sad emoji face and some script. “See? ‘This URL is not available.’ They planned for this. They’re erasing their tracks.”

  “Zoom into that square, the one with the shorthand,” Anthony says.

  Glenn zooms in. The image stays clear, but it’s also at an angle that’s hard to read. “Can you tilt it?” Anthony asks.

  “Done and done,” Glenn says. He pushes in on the square, and then tilts it, so it’s flat. The lines at the bottom of the image are stretched, but it all fits.

  “It looks like faded chicken scratches,” I say.

  Darna leans in from the other side. “You can enhance it, Major. Turn the image black and white.”

  Trishelle leans in from behind and touches his shoulder. “She’s right. Push the contrast. It will make those lines stand out,” she says, pointing at the screen.

  Glenn shrugs off her touch and stands up fast. “We’re not a six-person bobsled team! Back away!”

  “Dang, Glenn. We’re all stressing here,” Trishelle says.

  “I demand four feet of space between me and all of you!”

  “The man’s on sensory overload. Give him his space,” I say.

  The Hilario twins snicker but we grant him his half-circle of privacy.

  He types at his computer. We wait. He clicks his mouse and smiles.

  “Screw it, Glenn, we’re bobsledding you,” I say, and we crowd him again. On screen, the dirty brown square is now white, and every scratch is a dark, black line.

  I shake my head. “It still looks like Assyrian hieroglyphics.”

  “Shh.” Anthony holds up his hand. He moves his mouth, translating the scratches into words. “It says, ‘Calculate latitude from the angle of the stick. Adjust image to match measurements. My height is six feet. Circle diameter is twelve feet. Cactus is eighteen feet. Sighting done at noon.’”

  Darna peers at her screen. “That transmission was at 12:05. Is that close enough to noon to determine precise latitude?”

  Glenn has been typing the whole time. He hits the return key. “Rescue Game players are working on it. I just updated the chat rooms and subreddits with Anthony’s shorthand translation.”

  Trishelle taps Anthony on the shoulder. “Did he write anything else?”

  “‘In Baja, fifteen miles from ocean. Colombia repeat, 8:00 p.m., before moonrise. We have one set of night vision goggles.’”
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  “Anything else?” I ask.

  Anthony turns from the monitors. “Nope. That’s it.”

  Adrenaline surges through me. Colombia Repeat. He wants a Ranger exfiltration. Almost a decade ago, Steven and I were trapped at the top of a Colombian mountain, surrounded by FARC rebels. The Colombian Army sent in a helicopter and airlifted us out. Steven was shot and unconscious. I had to lift him in a fireman’s carry to a high clearing, and then clip us into long ropes and we were lifted high into the sky while the FARC assholes shot at us. My butt cheek got hit by a random bullet. He wants the same thing again, in less than eight hours. Since he has one set of night vision goggles, we can fly with no lights and he’ll be able to see us coming. So will Heyman and his men, but it helps.

  But, how am I going to see you, Steven? How do I even find you?

  Darna’s computer dings and she smiles. Everyone crowds around her computer next. “Damn, he’s fast. Too Cool for School has come through for us. Check this out.”

  She brings up four frozen images of Steven and Julia on the plateau. Too Cool for School has drawn lines and angles with calculations in the corners.

  “He really is too cool for school,” Glenn says.

  “Someone explain, please?”

  “See the degree of this acute angle right here?” Darna points at an arc that Too Cool for School has drawn on the sundial, between the stick stuck in the ground and the titled stick pointed at the sun. “The degree of that angle is their degree of latitude. Just like the angle on a school protractor.”

  “But you can’t see it clearly. We’re too high up,” Trishelle says.

  Glenn brings up the next image on screen. Too Cool for School has tilted and stretched the image. It now looks like we are on the same level as Steven. Everything is stretched, and the image is grainy, but you can see the sundial.

  Darna reads off her screen. “He’s adjusted the image so that it roughly matches the heights and lengths Steven gave us in the shorthand, as if we were ground level with him. Too Cool for School estimates the angle to be approximately twenty-seven degrees. That means they are twenty-seven degrees north of the equator.”