The Danger Game

by Ian Bull

  Figuring out that Rebecca is gone.

  And figuring out that Devon is Too Cool for School.

  Our perfect future is at risk.

  Devon looks scared. It’s the same scared look he’d give me before he went off to yet another new school, when I was still trying to mainstream him. Whether public or private, both had assholes who went out of their way to torture him. Some were feral losers, others were elitist pigs, but it happened enough the only option was to homeschool him with the best tutors that money could buy. I went out and got that money, and that look of fear went away. Now it’s back, worse than ever.

  “You’ll be fine. I can handle this.”

  And the look disappears, because he believes me.

  The ships intercom dings with a loud bell, right through the towel hanging on it. Douglas’s voice comes booming through every speaker on the ship.

  “Darling, will you please come to the master suite? I miss you.”

  Devon stares at me, looking for a “tell.” I narrow my eyes and smile, refusing to show him any fear.

  57

  CARL WEBB

  Sunday, March 17, 7:00 a.m. (PST)

  California

  I pace the fifth-floor visitors lounge of the Naval Medical VA Hospital. There’s still no word on Julia or Steven, and we arrived here at 3:00 a.m. Our helicopter landed on the helipad on their roof, the doctors and nurses swept in, and wheeled them away.

  The view out the west window is beautiful. The sun is rising, lighting up San Diego with bright gold light and making the edge of every building stand out. And here inside this building, hard-working government employees help veterans with PTSD, drug problems, health crises, and ceaseless pain. They deserve something pretty to look at.

  My body and brain are exhausted. In the past twenty hours, I drove to the border, flew into Mexico on a fake surf trip, stopped in San Felipe to gas up and go through customs, crossed the peninsula, landed on a beach, zoomed on a speedboat out to a barge, and climbed into a search and rescue helicopter that the Mexican Navy uses to rescue vaquita porpoises from fishing nets in the Sea of Cortez. At least it had a working winch with a moving arm mounted inside. They gave me a motorcycle helmet to wear, for shit’s sake. After begging on the phone, the Reys gave me two semi-automatic rifles before I climbed on board. And the Rey brothers are not cheap. Their bill will cost me—

  “Hey, handsome.”

  Trishelle stands in the entryway, wearing a pink, polka-dotted summer dress, and movie star sunglasses on her forehead. Even after a long nighttime drive from Malibu, she looks great.

  “Hello, beautiful. Did you dress that way for me?”

  “I know nice clothes make you happy.” She kisses me on the lips, then closes her eyes, and lays her head on my chest. We hold each other for a while, feeling our breath fill and empty in our lungs.

  She pulls away. “When was the last time you slept?”

  “I can nap if I’m moving. I slept in the chopper on the way back.”

  She pats my cheek, then leaves her hand there. “You done good, Carl Webb. You got them back.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  “They’re alive. I’m thankful.”

  “So am I.”

  “Your name has no pull in the lobby, but, when I mentioned Julia, they were all smiles.”

  “I called from the chopper, and they didn’t agree to admit them until I mentioned her. If you get shot, stabbed, tortured and burned, it pays to be a celebrity.”

  Trishelle stiffens. “Burned? You didn’t say she was burned.”

  My teeth clench. Steven is much worse off than Julia; the knife wound may kill him. He lost buckets of blood.

  “How bad is it? Just tell me.”

  “She has second-degree burns on her scalp, face, and arms.”

  Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flair. She’s about to go off—

  “Good morning, Mr. Webb.” A woman doctor, barely five feet tall, walks toward us. “I’m Dr. Rao, I’m in charge of Julia and Steven.” Her voice has an island lilt. She’s probably from Trinidad, and she just saved me from a tongue-lashing.

  “Dr. Rao, this is Trishelle Hobbes, Julia’s best friend.”

  Dr. Rao’s face brightens. “I read about you!”

  “How are they?” Trishelle asks.

  “Julia is stable. She was shot in her hip, but the bullet went clean through her fatty tissue. She has deep bruises on her belly and back, but there is no internal bleeding. She has bad lacerations on her hands and feet, which needed careful cleaning and then stitches. She also has second-degree burns on her arms, her right cheek, her forehead, and a lot of her hair burned away.”

  “Second-degree burns? That’s bad, right?” Trishelle asks.

  Dr. Rao smiles that calm smile doctors give when they deliver difficult news. “She will heal. She’s lucky. This is the best trauma center in California. Veterans with worse burns get treated here all the time.”

  “And Steven?” I ask.

  “He’s still in surgery. He lost a lot of blood. The knife nicked but did not sever the major artery in his leg. The medic on the helicopter applied a tourniquet and taped the knife in place. That probably will save his life.”

  “Probably?”

  “His pinky finger was cut off and the wound is infected. Bacteria entered his bloodstream, which led to blood poisoning, and his body has gone into septicemia.”

  Sepsis is bad. Soldiers got it in Afghanistan when we couldn’t close their chest wounds fast enough. Half of them died.

  “He and his brother call themselves the cockroaches. He’ll make it.”

  “Once he comes out of surgery, the fight will be up to him.”

  Trishelle slides herself under my arm and hugs me. “Let’s get breakfast.”

  We’re at the door of Old Town Mexican Café as it opens at 8:00 a.m. The waiter looks at me funny. Trishelle looks great in her polka dot dress but I’m still dressed in dirty black camos.

  “This place is famous for its shrimp tacos.” Trishelle is trying to lighten the mood, but we only order coffee and toast. I spread the orange marmalade, covering every inch of the sourdough slice before eating.

  “You’re doing a good job with that toast.”

  It gives me something to do. What happened after I left?”

  “When you radioed at ten o’clock that you had them, we got supercharged. Darna, Rafael, and Glenn kept looking for Too Cool for School until they collapsed at midnight.”

  “Any luck?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I was too busy dodging McCusker and Gum. They even came by the house, but I wouldn’t buzz them in. And then I got your text at three in the morning and drove down here.”

  “They’ll find us. They didn’t return my calls for almost a week. At least now we can help Mendoza and Marsh’s families.”

  Trishelle’s phone rings. She shows me: Niall McCusker, LAPD. We’re the only ones in the restaurant this early on Sunday. Trishelle sets the phone down on the table, puts it on speaker, and answers. “This is Trishelle.”

  “This is McCusker. Is Webb with you?”

  “Yes, he is. We’re both in San Diego.”

  Carl leans in. “And I could have used your help last night.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m pissed. My friends are in surgery. Steven may not make it.”

  “I already know everything. Both of you go to the FBI Field Office in San Diego and turn yourselves in.”

  “Turn ourselves in?” Trishelle asks.

  My hands wave at her to stay calm. “Do you have information on Swig and Bushnell? “They’re the ones behind this.”

  “We’ll discuss this in the Field Office. I’ll be there soon. They’re expecting both of you. If you don’t show up, there will be warrants for your arrest.” He hangs up, and Trishelle gives her phone the middle finger.

  Wisconsin comes flooding back. My toast tastes sour as a cloud of sadness darkens th
e room. Julia and Steven are alive, but Mendoza and Marsh are dead, and will always be dead. My job was to protect them, and now I will wake up thinking about them for years to come.

  My phone rings next: Major Glenn Ward. I put it on speakerphone. “Whaddya got, Major?”

  “I found Bushnell and Swig.”

  Trishelle and I lean in so fast we bump heads. “We’re both here. Talk to us.”

  “We traced the last submission from Too Cool for School, when he solved their latitude. It came from an unsecure cell phone, which we traced to a town on the southern coast of Sicily.”

  Adrenalin recharges my muscles in a second. “Are you tracking that cell phone?”

  “Yes. It moved along the south of the coast, as smooth as a yacht on the high seas, then rounded the southeastern tip of Sicily and headed up through the Strait of Messina. Then we lost it.”

  “Too Cool for School is on a yacht?” Trishelle asks.

  “Hey, I’m just tracking him,” Glenn says. “We called your guys at the National Reconnaissance Office, and they agreed to look at photos of Agrigento from yesterday. Guess what? There was only one mega yacht outside the harbor. I called the harbormaster—”

  Trishelle bangs on the table. “The name, Glenn.”

  “Reckoning. She’s cigarette-shaped, black and white, totally Bushnell’s style. We’re trying to locate her with current satellite photos now.”

  “Glenn, you are the best.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Webb.”

  “Don’t let anyone through the gate until someone shows up with a warrant. By then, I’ll be on my way to Europe.”

  “Hurry. Knowing Bushnell, he’ll sink the yacht soon.” Glenn hangs up.

  We toss a twenty-dollar bill on the table and head for the exit. Trishelle opens the door for me. “I guess we’re not going to the FBI Field Office in an hour.”

  “Nope. Glenn is right about Bushnell, and we don’t have time to explain it to them.”

  “Wait. Too Cool for School is with Bushnell? That doesn’t make sense,” Trishelle says.

  “It will once I get there,” I say.

  She chirps open her Audi and slides behind the wheel. “So, handsome, know any Brazilians with a helicopter near the coast of Italy?”

  I slide in the passenger seat. “I have some ideas, but we need a private jet to get us there. Got any pull with studio heads, Ms. Producer?”

  Trishelle zooms out of the parking lot and turns east back toward Balboa Park and the Navy Hospital. “Not anymore. This experience has been career suicide for Julia. But, I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  She accelerates. “Larry Naythons and Celebrity Exposed.”

  58

  JULIA TRAVERS

  Sunday, March 17, 9:00 a.m. (PST)

  California

  I wake up in a hospital. My body can’t sit up. My head feels heavy. A nurse, an African-American woman with big curves in tight blue scrubs, leans over me. She smells like orange blossom soap. She touches my shoulder and shushes me to lie back down.

  “You’ll be fine. Just rest.”

  That voice. A whisper that I heard in my sleep. My dreams. Good dreams. She even sang to me. She’ll know. “How’s Steven? Is he okay?”

  “He’s coming out of surgery. I know your boyfriend. He’s a sexy man.”

  “You know Steven?”

  “At the VA Hospital in Los Angeles, after he got shot almost two years ago. He liked my sponge baths.”

  “I should treat him to that. He might listen to me more often.”

  “That’s right, sister. He’ll stay closer to home. I met you once, too, when you picked him up after he was released. My name’s Crystal.”

  I touch my head, just to make sure it’s there. My fingers find a helmet of gauze padding on the right side, covering my right eye. “I don’t feel anything.”

  Crystal pulls my hand down. “Don’t touch. You’re on pain killers. You’ll feel everything soon enough. You have visitors.”

  She dodged the question. A man and a woman float in, backlit against the sunny window. The woman smiles. It’s Trishelle, which makes me happy. And Carl. He was on the helicopter. My heart beats fast.

  I try to sit up again, but Trishelle’s cool fingers touch my shoulder. “Stay down. Listen. We need your permission for something.”

  Carl moves close. “We found Bushnell’s yacht off Italy. Larry Naython’s corporate jet will land at the San Diego airport in one hour to fly me there. But he wants something.”

  “Let me guess. He wants an exclusive interview with me.”

  Trishelle nods. “And video. And photos. Today.”

  We have to get Carl on that plane but talking to Larry Naythons would crush me right now. “I need to see Steven.”

  Crystal shakes her head. “That’s not possible.”

  “You just said he’s out of surgery. All I want to do is squeeze his hand.”

  “You’re on an IV.”

  “Give me a wheelie one. This will happen, Crystal.”

  Crystal opens her mouth to argue, then sighs. “Let me check.”

  Minutes later, I’m in a wheelchair with an IV suspended overhead. Crystal pushes me to post-op with Carl and Trishelle close behind.

  “You’re tough, Julia Travers.”

  “So are you, Crystal.” My teeth are clenched. It’s the best way to not scream out in pain from my burned arms and face, my bruised belly, and the bullet hole in my hip.

  A nurse pushes away a curtain, and Crystal wheels me up to Steven’s post-op gurney. His face is pink, but he’s wearing an oxygen mask. His eyes are closed. I find his right hand and squeeze: 1, 2, 3.

  Nothing.

  I love you.

  Still nothing.

  Crystal frowns, feeling my frustration. “He’s out, dearie.”

  “He’s in there somewhere.” I keep squeezing.

  You got us out, like you promised. I am injured, but OK. The doctor said you must fight.

  Still nothing. Screw it. I’m going to keep talking.

  Carl found Swig on a yacht near Italy. He’s flying on Larry Naython’s plane.

  Steven’s eye’s flutter. His hand squeezes mine: Go.

  He squeezed my hand! Crystal and I exchange looks; she saw it, too.

  Carl is going, he’ll catch her.

  Steven squeezes, but the pressure is weak: You … go … too.

  Steven’s hand drops away from mine just as Carl appears at my shoulder.

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You’ve been shot. Your hands and feet have stitches. You have burns.”

  “It’s a private jet. Put a bed and a doctor on too. Larry can interview me there. It’ll be a better story. He’ll agree. I want to see Tina’s face when we catch her.”

  “What about Steven? Don’t you want to be here for him?”

  “He wants me to go. He just told me.”

  Carl scoffs and rolls his eyes, then paces and waves his arms and swears, just like he always does. But Trishelle grins at me. That’s my girl. She’ll make it happen.

  59

  STEVEN QUINTANA

  Sunday, March 17, 9:00 a.m. (PST)

  California

  It’s lighter. The singing voice is back. It smells like oranges and flowers. The voice holds my hand and squeezes.

  “Julia said you squeezed back. So, I know you’re in there.”

  My hand has no strength to squeeze back.

  It’s up to you now. You have to fight.”

  The Ferrari explodes. Heyman traps us on the subway. He shoots me with a dart. It’s cold and dark. They’re beating me. They make me punch Julia. I hate myself. I have to fight them—

  A hand touches me. The voice is back. “I was wrong. Don’t fight. Rest. Be patient.”

  Sleep.

  60

  TINA SWIG

  Sunday, March 17, 7:00 p.m. (CET)

  Italy

  He slams into me. “You’re hurting me.”

  He l
ifts one hand off the mattress and chokes me. If I fight back, he’ll know. If I do nothing, he may increase the pain, trying to break me.

  So, I fake it. My hips match his thrusts, pretending that the pain he’s inflicting is pleasure. My fingers caress his hand around my neck, as if his choking hold is launching me into bliss.

  I pretend to orgasm—and it drives him over the edge. He climaxes.

  “Slap me.” He lets go of my neck and punches the left side of my face again and again. Every punch makes me think of Devon. Let your anger out on me not him.

  He collapses, and rolls off me. We stare at the ceiling, catching our breath. I can’t look at him. “How much do you know?”

  My face throbs. “I know how much I love you.”

  He stays quiet. The ship’s intercom whistles. I want to look out the window, but don’t dare. We’re off the Amalfi Coast. Carlos will be taking Min ashore soon.

  “Don’t move.” Douglas pops off the bed, puts on his underwear, pulls on his silk drawstring pants, and yanks a pullover over his head.

  He leaves the master suite and locks the door from the outside. I’m his prisoner, just like Quintana and Travers. Are they dead? Alive?

  My body is frozen. My eyes stay on the ceiling. Does he have cameras looking at me? Five minutes pass. The tender motor starts up. I have to see.

  My body rolls off the bed and limps to the port window. The houses of Amalfi climb the steep cliff like a set of tiny dollhouses. Devon and I need to get off this yacht and disappear into those tiny streets.

  By leaning close to the curved glass, I can see the ship’s stern. Min and Elliot are getting into the tender. Both of them are getting off? Then, the captain and first mate get in as well. Then the chef and the housekeeper hop in, whom I’ve only seen a few times. Douglas stands on the back deck, his hands on his hips, watching Carlos drive the small boat away with six people. Douglas changed the plan. Shit.

  He glances back at this window. I step back, even though the glass is tinted black, so he can’t see me anyway. Still, he may sense that he’s being watched.