The Killing Games

by J. S. Carol

  King sighed and shook his head. The white noise in his head was back, and it was more deafening than ever. ‘Listen, ma’am, this is for real.’

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘Jesus Christ, this isn’t a hoax. I repeat, this is not a hoax. My name really is Alex King, and I am really in Alfie’s, and there really is some lunatic out there with a bomb.’

  ‘Okay, sir, please stay calm. Whereabouts are you in the restaurant?’

  ‘I’m hiding out in the restroom.’

  ‘And the rest of the hostages?’

  ‘They’re in the main part of the restaurant.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘I don’t know. Twenty. Thirty, maybe.’

  ‘Is the bomber on his own?’

  ‘How should I know? Weren’t you listening? I’m trapped in the restroom.’

  ‘Okay, I’d like you to stay on the line. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll stay on the line.’

  Something creaked on the other side of the door. It sounded like a footstep. King killed the call and stuffed the phone into his pocket. He’d seen enough hostage movies to know how this one played out. The bomber would discover him hiding here, and then he’d kill him. The hostages who stood out got into the most trouble, and being caught in a restroom making calls to 911 definitely qualified as standing out. That said, if he was going down, he was going down fighting. He was no longer that little kid from Ohio who’d curled into a ball and wished himself dead while his mom’s boyfriend had beaten him. That kid got left behind the day he’d climbed on board a Greyhound in Cincinnati and got the hell out of there.

  In Killing Time, he’d played Max Murphy, a Gulf War veteran who turned vigilante after his girlfriend was murdered. The film was a cross between Rambo and Death Wish. Max Murphy hadn’t been any old grunt, he’d been the youngest ever member of Delta Force. He was an expert at hand-to-hand combat, a crack shot. Basically, he was a one-man killing machine. King had done his homework. He’d learned to shoot and he’d learned all about hand-to-hand combat, and he’d worked out every day with his personal trainer. Right now, he was in the best shape of his life.

  And he had the element of surprise on his side. He pressed himself up against the wall next to the door and waited. His plan was simple. When the door opened he would hit the bomber with everything he’d got. The last thing he’d be expecting was for someone to fight back.

  Long seconds passed and nothing happened. King pressed his ear against the door and listened hard. Since that first squeak he hadn’t heard a thing. No more squeaks, no footsteps, no voice telling him to come out with his hands up. But that didn’t mean the bomber wasn’t out there right now, gun in hand, edging along the corridor.

  Any second now the restroom door was going to burst open and the shooting would start. King had been shot once before. Not for real, but it was real enough. Near the end of Killing Time Max Murphy got winged by one of the bad guys. What King remembered most was how much it had stung when the special FX blood bag on his bicep exploded. Man, that had hurt like hell.

  He pressed his ear against the door. Still all quiet. He gave it another thirty seconds, then inched the door open and peered through the crack. The corridor was empty. He shut the door and smiled to himself. So far, so good. He’d been called lucky so many times lately that he was thinking of adopting it as his middle name.

  Alex ‘Lucky’ King.

  His smile turned into a wide grin. Lucky didn’t even come close to covering it. What he had went way beyond luck. He wasn’t just lucky, he was the original nine-life cat.

  8

  The bomber held Natasha Lovett’s orange canvas bag high in the air so everyone could see it.

  ‘Okay, people, put all your valuables in here. Watches, rings, necklaces, bracelets, everything. Oh, and I want your cell phones, too. All of them. The last thing I want is for one of you fine folk to call in the cavalry. My mama always told me that the best way to deal with temptation was to keep it out of sight. What the eye don’t see, the heart won’t yearn for.’

  He grinned another of those invisible grins then walked over to Ed Richards. JJ couldn’t get over how composed the actor looked. Either he was braver than she’d given him credit for, or he was acting. A third possibility was that he’d become so detached from reality he’d lost the ability to tell the difference between fact and fantasy. Thinking about it, that last explanation seemed most likely. Richards was Hollywood royalty. These days he only had a passing acquaintance with the real world.

  Richards dropped his watch, phone and wallet into the bag. He hesitated a moment, then pulled off his wedding ring and put that in as well. The next three people all had their valuables ready. They dropped them into the bag without meeting the bomber’s eyes. JJ was next. The bomber hunkered down and shook the bag in her face. The contents made a dull jangle, metal clattering against plastic. Up close, she could smell his cheap deodorant, and the cheap detergent he used on his clothes. She could sense his cockiness.

  She could feel him watching her.

  She was suddenly all too aware of how fragile her life was. If he chose to, this complete stranger could end it in a heartbeat. She glanced up and caught a glimpse of his grey eyes. They were framed by the holes in the balaclava. Cold, uncompromising, judgemental. The whites were shot through with snaking red veins. She quickly removed her Rolex and dropped it in. Her cell followed. JJ wasn’t big on jewellery. She’d never had her ears pierced, and she hated the constrictive feel of rings on her fingers. She did wear a plain gold wedding band, though. It was on a chain around her neck.

  Her parents had split up when she was thirteen. There had been a big fight and her father had stormed out. Her mother had downed half a bottle of vodka then thrown the ring into the trash. After she’d passed out on the sofa, JJ had retrieved the ring. She’d been going through a Lord of the Rings phase at the time and managed to convince herself that the ring had the power to bring her father back.

  The magic didn’t work. Her father had gone on to marry a woman ten years his junior, her mother married a realtor, and JJ learned to adapt to being the product of a broken home. She’d kept the ring all these years because it reminded her that there were no happy-ever-afters. Fairy tales were for kindergarteners and the seriously deluded.

  JJ unclipped the necklace, redid the clasp, then balled the necklace up and dropped it into the bag. The bomber moved on to the next person, and the next. Jewellery and cell phones clattered into the bag. He stopped in front of Elizabeth Hayward and shook the bag at her. The jewellery she dropped into the bag had to be worth at least half a million dollars. Loud, garish pieces with gemstones the size of rocks. Earrings, bracelets, rings.

  ‘I want the watch, too.’

  Hayward glanced at the diamond-encrusted Cartier. When she looked back there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Please let me keep it. This was the last thing my late husband ever bought for me.’

  The bomber considered this for a moment. ‘How long ago did he die?’

  ‘Six months ago.’

  ‘You must really miss him?’

  ‘I do. More than you can ever imagine.’

  ‘Okay, I’m going to do you a favour. You can keep the watch.’

  Hayward’s eyes lit up with gratitude. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much. You don’t know what that means to me.’

  ‘That’s not the favour.’

  Gratitude turned to puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Say hi to your husband for me.’

  The bomber raised his gun and squeezed the trigger.

  13:30-14:00

  1

  Rob Taylor roared into the Palm Tree’s parking lot on his vintage Harley and skidded to a halt beside a rusting Pontiac. He bent over to fix his hair in the rear-view mirror. It didn’t take long. He’d gone for the just-got-up-look for two reasons. One, it was practical, and two, his fans loved it.

  Rob wasn’t traditionally
handsome, but he had one of those faces that looked great on TV. He’d started in print, working for the LA Times. TRN had seen his potential and had brought him on board as their roving reporter. It was the best move he’d ever made. His salary had quadrupled, and every night was party night. The Harley had been thrown in as a sweetener.

  Tara Clarke wasn’t far behind on her Suzuki. She pulled up alongside him and killed the engine. Tara was twenty-eight, a couple of years younger. She was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Texan who was as tough as they came. Rob had thought about it. There was no way he’d go there for real, though. She’d eat him alive.

  They got off their bikes and made their way across the parking lot. The sun was burning down, the temperature hovering in the nineties. It was too hot for biker leathers. Rob was wearing a shirt and jeans, while Tara had gone for jeans and a white T-shirt.

  The Palm Tree was shabbier than Rob had first thought. Maybe it had been grand when it was built back in the sixties, but not anymore. It was an eight-storey high concrete block with crumbling plasterwork. The hotel had once been white, but now it was a filthy grey colour. The windows were covered in layers of grime, and the bulbs in the sign had blown long ago and never been replaced.

  A crowd had gathered around the pool, almost a hundred people in total. All of them were staring up at the woman on the wrong side of the rusty top-floor balcony rail. Rob peered into the pool and wondered if it was still a swimming pool when there was no water. Surely a pool without water was just a glorified hole in the ground.

  ‘Fifty bucks we get roadkill,’ Tara said in her deep Texan drawl. She took a camera from her backpack and fiddled with it as she walked.

  ‘And why would I bet on something like that? You know roadkill is better for the ratings than a talk-down.’

  ‘Yeah, and I also know that most of these situations end in a talk-down.’

  ‘So, why give your money away?’

  ‘I’ve just got a feeling this one’s going to end messy. Come on, Rob, it’s only fifty bucks. It’ll make things more interesting.’

  Rob considered this for a second. August was always a slow news month, but this was the worst August he’d ever known. When the highlight of your day was a jumper, you knew things were bad.

  ‘Okay, you’re on.’

  He shielded his eyes and looked up. The fact that the jumper was on the eighth floor indicated they were semi-serious about killing themselves. Anything above the fourth floor and the intention was there. Anything below was just a cry for help. He plotted the downward trajectory and saw half a dozen firefighters working furiously to get the airbag inflated. Someone shouted, ‘Jump’ and this was quickly picked up by the rest of the crowd and turned into a chant. Jump, jump, jump. Tara trained the camera on the top floor and adjusted the zoom.

  ‘What have we got?’ Rob asked.

  ‘A white female, black hair, brown eyes. Late twenties. Kind of pretty, if you go for the size zero emaciated look, which I know you do. The police shrink is keeping his distance in case she pulls him over the balcony when she goes. He seems to be doing a lot of talking, but the girl doesn’t seem to be doing a whole lot of listening.’

  ‘If she goes,’ Rob corrected.

  ‘When she goes.’

  ‘Okay, stay here in case she decides to jump, and I’ll go see if I can find out anything about our mystery girl.’

  Rob walked into the crowd and got recognised straightaway. The woman doing the recognising had to weigh in at three hundred pounds. She had four chins and the sickly sweet-and-sour smell of a sugar junky. Her pink smock was large enough to house a family of refugees.

  ‘Hey, you’re that guy from the TV. Rob Taylor.’

  Rob flashed his trademark smile. ‘Got me there.’

  It wasn’t just the fat lady who was staring. A dozen or so people standing nearby had turned away from the jumper to see what she was shouting about.

  ‘Okay, listen up,’ he called out. ‘I’ve got a hundred bucks here for anyone who knows who the jumper is.’

  ‘Make that two hundred and you’ve got yourself a deal.’

  The voice came from somewhere off to the left. Rob turned and saw a Puerto Rican woman pushing through the crowd. He immediately pegged her as a crackhead and a whore. It was the eyes. They were like two dying stars. He gave it a second, hoping someone else would come forward. No one did. Great. He’d been hoping for someone he could put on camera.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘You can call me Candy.’

  Rob nodded up to the balcony. ‘And who’s she?’

  ‘Money first.’

  Rob fished out a roll of bills, peeled off four fifties and handed them over. The money disappeared into Candy’s bra.

  ‘Her name’s Sally Jenkins. We shared a place together. At least we used to.’

  ‘She’s not dead yet.’

  ‘Well, if she don’t get it right this time, she will next time.’

  ‘She’s tried to kill herself before?’

  ‘Man, ain’t you listening? She pulls this shit at least once a month. Usually it’s pills. This is the first time she’s gone this far.’

  ‘What do you know about Sally?’

  ‘Nothing you ain’t heard before. She was born and raised in Oklahoma. When she was seventeen she ran away to Hollywood cos she thought she was gonna be a big movie star. That didn’t work out, so she started to drink to help her get by. When the drink didn’t work, she started with the drugs, except that gets expensive real quick. She got into debt with a dealer and next thing she’s selling her sweet ass on the street.’

  ‘Sad story. You sure you’re not making this up?’

  ‘Hell, no! And why would I do that?’

  ‘Well, there’s the two hundred bucks I just paid you for a start.’ Rob eyed her warily. Chances were she was lying, but that didn’t matter. Never let the facts get in the way of a good story. That’s what his first editor had told him. As advice went, it was pure gold. ‘Anything else you can tell me?’

  Candy shrugged. ‘Only that if you give me another fifty I’ll blow you. Make it two hundred and I’ll take you to heaven and back.’

  A massive cheer suddenly went up and Rob spun around in time to see Sally tumble past the fifth floor. She hit the partially inflated airbag hard, sinking all the way down to concrete. A couple of paramedics rushed in, took a quick look and shook their heads. Rob pushed his way out through the crowd and headed over to Tara.

  She grinned and held out her hand. ‘Money please.’

  Rob found a fifty and handed it to Tara. She stuffed the money into the back pocket of her jeans, then gave him a microphone and hoisted the camera onto her shoulder.

  ‘You ready to roll?’

  ‘Give me a second.’ Rob mopped the sweat from his face, shook his shirt a couple of times to make sure it wasn’t sticking, then rubbed a hand through his hair to ruffle it up. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Gorgeous, honeybun.’

  ‘Seriously, Tara.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  The theme tune from The Omen drifted up from Rob’s pocket. The sound was muted by denim, shrill in a way that only a ringtone could be. That didn’t make the music any less ominous, though. This ringtone was reserved for Jonah, his boss. Jonah headed up the newsroom and had a serious God complex. His real name was Seth Allen, but Jonah was a much better fit. Jonah, after J. Jonah Jameson, Peter Parker’s cigar-chomping, permanently stressed editor-in-chief at the Daily Bugle. Rob fished out his cell phone and connected the call. He listened, said ‘uh-huh’ a couple of times, then hung up.

  ‘Change of plan,’ he said. ‘We’re to forget the jumper. It looks like ISIS has finally made it to sunny LA.’

  2

  ‘Stand up.’

  Everybody looked around uncertainly, waiting for someone else to make the first move. Since the shooting a state of shock had settled over the room. Some people were sobbing quietly, while the rest stared ashen-faced into the middle distance lik
e survivors in a disaster zone. Fear was keeping JJ frozen to the spot. This was alien territory. She was used to calling the shots. She instigated events, she didn’t react to them. It was as though all control had been stripped away. She hated herself for being so weak.

  Looking around, it was clear that she wasn’t the only person trying to make this adjustment. There were some of the most important people in the movie business here today. These were people who lived a life of pampered luxury. Herself included. She was never going to be Learjet rich, but she always flew first class. Her lifestyle now was light years away from her childhood. She’d done well for herself, no doubt about it. Unfortunately, all the money in the world couldn’t save her now. It couldn’t save any of them. It didn’t matter how rich and successful you were, death really was the great leveller.

  The room stank of death, a bitter mix of cordite and bodily fluids. Even though JJ had been close enough to Elizabeth Hayward to get a splash of blood on her cheek, she was still struggling to get her head around this. It was just too big and brutal to comprehend. She’d try to convince herself that none of it was happening, but then she’d look over at Hayward lying there with half her head blown away, the diamond-encrusted Cartier glittering on her birdlike wrist, and the denial would stop working.

  The bomber clapped his hands. The sound was louder than the gunshot. Everyone shrank into the floor and tried to make themselves smaller.

  ‘I said, stand up. Come on, people, let’s hustle.’

  Ed Richards got to his feet and everyone followed his lead, thumping and bustling and trying to stay quiet. JJ’s legs were made from rubber. It was like gravity had got stronger and was pulling her down towards the floor, down where it was safe. She felt more exposed when she was standing, more vulnerable.

  ‘Take off your shoes.’

  Nobody moved. There were puzzled glances all around.

  ‘Come on, folks, this isn’t rocket science. Take. Off. Your. Shoes.’