The Killing Games

by J. S. Carol

  ‘Secondly, don’t even think about playing hero. Push me hard enough and I will flick the switch. So, here’s how this works. You are going to do exactly what I say, and the reason you’re going to do that is because you’ve all got a lot more to lose than I do.’

  The bomber shook off his backpack and placed it on the floor. He motioned Tony forward with a wiggle of his index finger.

  ‘You. Come here.’

  Tony walked over. There was no hesitation, no debate. He kept eye contact with the bomber the whole way, staring him down like he was a rattlesnake.

  ‘You’re the owner, right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m the owner.’

  The camp Italian accent was gone, replaced with a harsh New Jersey grate. This was disorientating, but didn’t come as a complete surprise to JJ. Back when they were first getting to know each other they’d had a long evening together that had stretched through until morning. They had polished off a couple of $2,000 bottles of vintage red wine and the best part of a bottle of Courvoisier XO Imperial, and had ended up playing Truth Or Dare.

  Allegedly, Tony was the son of a New Jersey factory worker, and in his younger days he’d been a boxer. Fifteen fights and fifteen wins, eleven by knock-out. The first two confessions JJ had believed, the third she wasn’t sure about. Like a lot of Hollywood’s wildlife, Tony existed in that grey area where fact and fiction collided.

  ‘Put your cell phone on the table,’ the bomber said.

  Tony pulled out his phone and dropped it on the nearest table. It landed with a clatter and rattled to a standstill. JJ couldn’t get over how loud this sounded. She figured it was all a matter of perspective. Everyone had fallen as silent as they could. There were a few stifled sobs, the occasional creaking of a chair, and that was it. The smallest of noises had taken on extra weight and significance. Her own breathing was deafening, and the gentle hum of the air-conditioning sounded like a jet engine.

  ‘I want the grilles down and the doors locked.’

  Tony didn’t move. The bomber raised his gun and pushed it into the restaurant owner’s chest. JJ’s heart froze. What the hell was he doing? Someone points a gun at you, you do what they say. You don’t argue, you don’t hesitate, you just do it.

  ‘At least let the women go.’

  The bomber paused like he was giving this some serious consideration, then he flipped his gun over and rammed the butt hard into Tony’s face. The flat crack of metal connecting with flesh and bone filled the room. Tony collapsed to his knees, blood gushing from his nose and staining his mouth, chin and clothes. JJ shrank back in her seat and took a sharp intake of breath. She slapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late to stop the noise getting out. There were tears in her eyes. Tears of fear, and tears for Tony. Please God, don’t let him die.

  The bomber aimed the gun, and JJ repeated the short prayer in her head, over and over, pleading and bargaining and wishing for a miracle. Don’t let him die, don’t let him die, please God don’t let him die. Just when she reached the point where she was convinced that God wasn’t listening, the bomber lowered the gun. JJ let out a long breath and sagged back in her chair. That had been way too close for comfort. Tony grabbed hold of the nearest table and hauled himself up. Without another word, he turned and headed for the front door. A couple of moments later, the grilles came down with an electric rumble. The silent stillness that followed was like the end of the world.

  5

  Alex King inched the door open so he could hear what was going on, just enough so that he could close it quickly if he needed to. Everything had gone quiet. Too damn quiet. He shut the door, pressed his forehead against the cool wood, and tried to work out what the hell he was going to do now.

  This was unreal, totally whacked out. Stuff like this happened in Syria or Afghanistan, not LA. It was like something from a movie, with one big difference. This was actually happening. Fear washed through him. He didn’t want to die. It wasn’t right. He was only twenty-six for Christ’s sake. His whole life was supposed to be ahead of him. He had to get out of here, had to get out now. But how?

  His heart was pounding like it was about to explode. Cold sweat stuck to his skin. This was so screwed up. There was a suicide bomber out there, and any second now he was going to hit the switch and that would be game over. King cracked the door open again. It was still all quiet, which somehow made everything a million times worse.

  Think.

  But it was impossible to think. His head was filled with white noise and every time he caught hold of half a thought he imagined the bomb going off and whatever was in his brain would disappear. The only thought he seemed able to keep hold of was the fact that he was going to die.

  He shut his eyes and for a brief moment he was back in Cincinnati. He could hear his mom crying in the next room, and he could hear the sound of heavy footsteps in the narrow passageway that led to his bedroom door. His ears were still ringing with the meaty slap of flesh hitting flesh and the sound of her screams. He hated his mom, but he’d still wanted to rush in there. Partly because it was the right thing to do, but mostly because he wanted to make the noise stop. The problem was that if he had, her boyfriend would have started in on him.

  King’s eyes sprang open and he was back in Alfie’s, a crazy guy with a bomb in the next room. He wasn’t sure which was worse, being in here or being in that Cincinnati trailer park. When you got right down to it, there wasn’t much difference. He’d been powerless to do anything then, and he was just as powerless now.

  6

  Alex King wasn’t here.

  The thought caught JJ off guard, sending a jolt of electricity sparking through her. She glanced around the room and saw she was right. He hadn’t come back from the restroom. She wasn’t sure if this was a pro or a con. If he decided to play hero then it was a serious con. Nobody had been killed so far but she didn’t doubt for a second that the bomber could and would pull the trigger.

  She put all thoughts of King aside and tried to get things into some sort of perspective. The problem was that this was just too big and too crazy to comprehend. Even for LA where crazy was a way of life, this was in a league of its own. In order to even begin to make sense of this situation she needed to detach herself from it. She was terrified, more scared than she’d ever been in her entire life, and it was good to recognise that fact. However, getting emotional never solved anything.

  She closed her eyes, took a long, deep steadying breath, then counted to ten. The shit had well and truly hit the fan, so ten seconds wouldn’t make any difference. When she opened her eyes she felt calmer. Her heart was still racing, but she could think more clearly.

  So, what did she know?

  Firstly, and this was important, this was no terrorist attack. If it had been, they would be dead by now. Suicide bombers didn’t operate like this. They climbed quietly on board a bus or a train, sat down without making a fuss, mouthed a few prayers to whichever God they believed in, then detonated their bombs. They didn’t go around waving guns and making well-rehearsed speeches.

  Secondly, she could see the bomber’s hands and the skin around his eyes, and it was as white as hers. Judging by the crow’s feet and bags, she’d say he was at least fifty. And that was a Deep South Baptist preacher voice. Tennessee or Georgia or Louisiana. According to CNN, terrorists were either Arab or black, and none of them spoke like they’d been born a stone’s throw from the Mississippi. And most were young, in their twenties or thirties. Some were even younger, just teenagers, and the reason they were so young was because younger minds were easier to brainwash. Head down to Guantanamo Bay and that was the demographic you’d find.

  That said, domestic terrorism was a definite possibility. Maybe this guy was the next Timothy McVeigh, or the next Unabomber. McVeigh had killed well over a hundred people when he’d set off a bomb in Oklahoma City back in the nineties. The attack had made him infamous the world over. And that was another possibility. Maybe he was just out to get his fifteen minutes of fa
me. After all, almost forty years had passed since John Lennon was shot and people were still talking about Mark Chapman.

  JJ had noticed something else that chilled her to the bone. The spark of obsession in the bomber’s eyes was combined with an aura of complete, unquestioning self-belief. It was something she’d seen plenty of in this town. The big difference was that there usually weren’t any bombs or guns in the equation.

  ‘Everybody on your feet.’ The bomber nodded to the restaurant’s upper level. ‘I want everyone up there now.’

  JJ stood up and watched everyone from the lower level hustle up the stairs. Counting herself, there were twenty-five people in total. This broke down into sixteen customers, eight members of staff and Tony. The ratio of male to female was still more or less fifty-fifty.

  ‘Blow out the candles, move the tables and chairs to one side, then get down on the floor.’

  JJ helped Stone lift their table out of the way, while Tony dragged the chairs to one side. The restaurant owner’s face was a bloody mess and he was in a lot of pain. She caught his eye and mouthed, ‘You okay?’ He gave a small shrug and did his best to dig up a smile. She finished moving the table and sat down with everyone else on the cold wooden floor.

  ‘You. Come over here.’

  The bomber was pointing to a middle-aged black woman who was wearing a bright orange headscarf that matched her skirt. JJ recognised her straightaway. Natasha Lovett was an Oscar-winning film director whose critically acclaimed movies dealt with the heavier social issues. They were big on art, but not particularly commercial. It was the sort of thing the Academy loved. Lovett stood up and walked over to the bomber. She was trembling from head to toe and looked absolutely terrified.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘So long as you do exactly what I tell you to do, you’ll be fine. Take out your cell phone.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

  The bomber raised his gun and pointed it at her chest. ‘And that is the wrong answer.’

  ‘No, please don’t shoot.’ Natasha was talking fast, her words tripping over each other. Her cheeks were wet with tears. ‘I don’t have my phone because it’s in my bag. Back at my table.’

  ‘Well what are you waiting for? Go get it.’

  Natasha walked unsteadily down the steps to the restaurant’s lower level. She was moving quickly, almost jogging. Stolen glances at the bomber, stolen glances at the gun. She reached the bottom of the steps and looked back. The bomber lifted the gun and made a show of aiming at her head. She turned away quickly and got moving again. JJ could hear her mumbling something under her breath. She caught a couple of hurried words. Hallowed be. Kingdom Come. Power. Glory. Amen.

  The bomber still had his gun trained on her, following every move. Natasha reached the table. She lifted her bag from the back of the chair, unzipped it. The bag was the same shade of orange as her dress and headscarf.

  ‘Stop.’

  Natasha froze with her hand half-in and half-out of the canvas bag. The bomber aimed the gun and JJ felt her heart stutter. She was convinced he was going to pull the trigger. She’d never been so sure of anything in her life. Her blood was pumping and the adrenalin was making her tingle. Her senses were operating in a heightened state. Sight, smell, hearing. The smell of food still filled the room, but where it once tempted, it now made her feel sick.

  ‘I think it’s best if you bring that bag up here, don’t you?’ The bomber reaffirmed his grip on the gun. His eyes had narrowed to suspicious slits behind the balaclava. ‘How do I know you don’t have a gun in there? Now, that would be far too much like temptation, don’t you think? A quick squeeze of the trigger and I’m a dead man. And you become a hero for your troubles. The mayor would probably give you a medal. Is that what you’re angling for? A nice shiny medal to show how clever you are?’

  ‘I don’t have a gun.’

  ‘Just bring me the bag.’

  Natasha climbed the steps to the upper level, slowly and unsteadily, like it was a real effort to put one foot in front of the other. She held out the bag and the bomber snatched it from her. He tipped it up and her whole life clattered onto the floor. Make-up, a script, packets of tissues, all sorts of junk. The cell phone was one of the first things to fall out.

  ‘Well, well, it looks like you were telling the truth. Wonders never cease. Maybe there are still a few honest people left in this town after all. Okay, pick up your cell.’

  Natasha knelt down and picked up the phone. She was holding it between her thumb and forefinger like it was radioactive.

  ‘Okay, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to get down on the floor and point that cell phone at me. Then you’re going to do a quick sweep across all these fine folk sitting nice and quiet like the good little mice they are. I reckon fifteen seconds of footage should do the trick. The thing is, it needs to look like I don’t know I’m being filmed. Can you do that?’

  Natasha nodded, and the bomber nodded back. Even though most of his mouth was hidden behind the balaclava, JJ saw enough to know he was grinning. The sick bastard was actually enjoying this. She could hear it in his voice.

  ‘And make sure you get the gun and the vest in. That’s important. Okay, on the floor.’

  Natasha got down on her knees. Her eyes were wide with fear and she was trembling worse than ever. She pointed her cell phone at the bomber. He’d positioned himself with the gun visible and his masked face turned away from her. The explosive vest was wrapped all the way around his body, so there was no problem getting that in the shot.

  The director swept the phone in a narrow arc that took in everyone huddled on the floor. Some people were looking directly at her, some were looking pointedly away. Everyone looked scared to death. Natasha finished filming and lowered the cell phone.

  ‘Show me,’ the bomber said.

  Natasha held the cell phone up. JJ couldn’t see the screen, but she could tell from the way the bomber was nodding that he liked what he saw. Had Natasha been chosen at random? It could be a coincidence, but she wasn’t convinced. In her experience, you created your own coincidences. When it came to making films, Natasha was by far the best qualified person in the room. And earlier, the bomber had known that Tony was the owner. On that basis, he’d clearly done some sort of reconnaissance. The question was how much, and why. It was certainly something to think about.

  ‘You did good,’ the bomber said. ‘Go sit with the others.’

  Natasha hurried over and dropped to the floor.

  ‘Okay, hands up who watches CNN?’

  No one moved.

  ‘Come on people, it’s a simple enough question. Who watches CNN?’

  A couple of uncertain hands went up.

  ‘What about Fox? Any fans of Fox News here?’

  The hands quickly went down and a couple of new ones took their place.

  ‘Me, I prefer TRN. They might be smaller, but that means they try harder.’

  The bomber took a scrap of paper from his pocket and typed something into Natasha’s cell. If JJ had to guess, she’d say that TRN was about to be given the scoop.

  7

  Alex King’s cell phone vibrated in the pocket of his jeans and a surge of hope flooded through him. Not only did he have his cell with him, it was switched to silent, thank God. He pulled the phone from his pocket, saw his agent’s name lit up on the screen, and let the call ring through to voicemail. His agent was the last person he wanted to talk to.

  The fact his phone had been on silent was a lucky break, just one in a long line that had started a few years back when he’d got the audition for Killing Time. If he had to pinpoint a moment when things had started to turn in his favour, that was it. Since then his life had been a rollercoaster ride. There had been the occasional moment where he’d been able to catch his breath, but most of the time he’d just been holding on tight while he flew through one turn after another. And, man, it had been a blast.

  It had actually reached the point whe
re he’d started to believe that good things should happen to him, that he deserved them to happen. This was the big payoff, and, after everything he’d been through, he’d earned it. Then today had happened. In some ways this shouldn’t be a surprise. This was how it worked. You thought you’d finally got everything sussed, then something like this came along to prove that life really did suck. King stopped himself there. The last thing he needed was to plunge into a downer. Yes, this situation was screwed up, but it wasn’t all bad.

  For a start, the guy with the bomb wasn’t a suicide bomber. That much was obvious. If he had been, they’d all be dead by now. And that was a massive positive. While you were still breathing and your heart was still beating there was always hope, right? If there was one thing he’d learnt from his shitty childhood, it was that. Another positive was the fact that he had his cell with him. He punched in 911 and pressed the phone to his ear. The operator who answered was female with a nasally high-pitched East Coast whine.

  ‘911. What’s your emergency?’

  ‘I’m in Alfie’s,’ King whispered. ‘The restaurant. Some crazy guy has come in with a bomb. A terrorist. We need help.’

  ‘Can you speak louder, sir?’

  ‘No. I don’t want him to hear me.’

  ‘Are you safe?’

  ‘I think so. I hope so.’

  ‘Okay, stay where you are and I’ll get a squad car despatched straightaway.’

  ‘One squad car?’ King hissed. ‘Didn’t you hear me? There’s a terrorist with a bomb out there.’

  ‘I know this is difficult, sir, but please try and calm down. I’m going to need some details. What’s your name?’

  ‘Alex King.’

  ‘Like the actor.’

  ‘I am the actor.’

  A pause. ‘Sir, I have to warn you that it’s an offence to make hoax calls to 911.’