The Killing Games

by J. S. Carol

  ‘You sure about that?’ Walters asked.

  ‘Not my call. Seth wants us to record some MOTS. He likes to get his money’s worth.’

  Before the PR guy could respond, Rob grabbed Tara’s arm and led her away from the lot.

  ‘Jonah has more than enough MOTS,’ she whispered. ‘What’s going on, Rob? And this better be good. It’s not just you that he’s going to crucify. You know how he likes to spread that love around.’

  Rob didn’t reply until they were well out of Walters’ earshot. ‘We need to find that cop I was talking to earlier. Jim Baker.’

  Tara dragged him to a halt. ‘You’ve got two seconds to start making sense or I’m hauling your ass back to the parking lot. Maybe it’s not too late to save our jobs.’

  ‘The cops know who the bomber is, and we’re going to persuade Baker to get that name for us.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Have you got any better ideas?’

  Tara shook her head.

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  They found Baker where they’d left him, manning the barrier and looking bored to death. The younger cop was there as well, looking just as bored.

  ‘You distract the kid while I talk to Baker. Can you do that?’

  Tara tugged her T-shirt tight, then pulled herself to her full height. ‘Easy,’ she said.

  ‘Baker,’ Rob called out. ‘You got a minute?’

  Baker laughed. ‘How many minutes do you want? It’s not like I’m rushed off my feet here.’

  From the corner of his eye, Rob saw Tara make a beeline for the younger cop. The kid’s gaze drifted to her breasts, then shot back to her eyes. Tara was going to eat him alive. Rob herded Baker to a quiet spot where they wouldn’t be overheard. He held up the pack of Lucky Strikes. This time he didn’t need to ask twice.

  ‘Your contact, how good is she?’

  ‘I get you Alex King’s name, and you’ve really got to ask?’

  ‘I need her to get another name. This one’s going to be tougher.’

  ‘If it’s in the system, she can get it.’

  ‘I want the name of the bomber.’

  Baker paused with the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He took a drag, blew out a cloud of smoke, then shook his head and sighed like a mechanic. ‘That’s a tough one.’

  ‘Tough but doable, right?’

  ‘Tough but doable,’ Baker agreed. ‘But I’ve got to ask. How much is that information worth to you?’

  ‘Name your price,’ Rob said.

  13

  ‘Anyone want some pizza?’

  The bomber held the box up like it was a trophy. The smell alone was enough to turn JJ’s stomach. Pizza was a once-a-week Tuesday-night indulgence. A Meat Feast, full-fat Pepsi, Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie, and a double workout at the gym the next day. If she got out of this alive, she doubted she would ever eat pizza again.

  ‘No takers? I’ve got to tell you that you’re missing out on a real treat here. It’s mighty fine pizza.’

  He lifted the balaclava and took a bite. It was up long enough for JJ to catch a quick glimpse of his chin and mouth, long enough to notice the cheap dental work. With teeth like that she doubted he was a native of California. If he was then he was on the lowest rung of the income ladder. Which didn’t make sense. If he was that broke, why on earth give away six million dollars?

  The bomber finished eating and wiped his hands on his trousers. For a while he paced up and down in front of the hostages. JJ was watching him from the corner of her eye. He was walking casually, shoulders rolling. She’d seen that walk before, but couldn’t place where. And then she got it, and the answer wasn’t good. She’d seen soldiers walking like that on news reports from Afghanistan and Baghdad, faraway places seared to sand by the sun.

  JJ knew she’d called this one right. The reason she’d been so successful was that she had a knack for reading people, and the story this guy was telling her was that he’d been a soldier, and that he had seen action. She reckoned he was too old for the second Gulf War and too young for Vietnam, so chances were he’d served in Desert Storm.

  That would explain why he was so comfortable with guns and explosives. And it would also explain how he could be all action one second and completely disassociated the next. A soldier was deployed for months at a time. They couldn’t stay in a constant state of battle readiness because it would drive them insane. In order to survive mentally they needed to be able to switch off during the down times. To disassociate, just like this guy had.

  Two things clinched it. First was the way he was carrying his gun. His left hand was supporting the barrel and his right index finger was curled around the outside of the trigger guard. It was held high, ready to use at a second’s notice. This was the way a soldier carried a gun. It was completely different from the way a hunter carried one. Hunters carried their guns low, like they had all the time in the world. When they used them, they took careful aim, waited for the perfect moment, then squeezed the trigger. If you were in a war zone you didn’t have that luxury, because more often than not the people you were shooting at were shooting back.

  The second reason was the way he’d killed without hesitation. The army claimed to train recruits. It didn’t. Conditioning was a much better word for what they did. The bottom line was that a soldier who froze on the battlefield was useless. They needed to pull that trigger without hesitation, just like this guy had. The ability to do that came from firing thousands upon thousands of rounds at cardboard man-shaped targets, firing so many rounds that pulling the trigger came as naturally as breathing.

  Even though JJ knew she was right, she wished she wasn’t. The idea that she was trapped in here with a trained killer was somehow worse than the idea that she was trapped in here with a lunatic. It all came back to the question of motivation. Why would an ex-soldier risk life and liberty to do something like this? And why would he want to sell himself to the media as a modern-day Robin Hood?

  Whichever way she looked at the situation there were just too many questions and nowhere near enough answers. She could analyse a situation better than anyone, but not this time, and the reason was because she was too close to what was happening here.

  The bomber stopped pacing and grabbed another slice of pizza. He glanced around the room, the pizza slice held up for everyone to see.

  ‘Still no takers?’

  14

  King looked around the trashed kitchen and wondered where you even began to tidy up a mess like this. He started by putting everything back in the drawers, working quietly and carefully and trying to make as little noise as possible. Getting things back into their proper place wasn’t important. All that mattered was getting everything out of sight and creating the illusion that the place hadn’t been searched by someone who was so desperate that all common sense had flown out the window.

  His phone vibrated and he pulled it out. No doubt it was Brad Carter again. The FBI guy was probably pissed at being hung up on. Well, screw him. He wasn’t stuck in here. It wasn’t his ass on the line.

  But it wasn’t Carter. “Unknown number” flashed on the screen. For a moment King was convinced it was his ex. Clearly, they’d changed their number. That’s why his phone hadn’t recognised it. It was possible. He’d had plenty of numbers since they broke up, so why not? A spark of hope flared in his chest, only to be extinguished a second later when he worked out the flaw in his thinking. If his ex had changed numbers, they wouldn’t have received his text.

  The phone was still vibrating, the screen still flashing. Answer or don’t answer? King connected the call.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he whispered.

  ‘Rob Taylor. How you holding up in there?’

  King recognised the journalist’s voice from earlier. He wanted to hang up, he knew he should hang up, but the loneliness wouldn’t let him.

  ‘Not so good, and I need to keep the line free, so whatever this is about, you best make it quick.’

 
; ‘I’m just calling to see if you’re okay. I thought you might appreciate hearing a friendly voice. You know, Alex, I’ve no idea how you’re holding it together. If I was in your shoes, I think I’d be shitting myself right about now.’

  ‘And who says I’m not? So, how are things looking out there?’

  The silence on the other end of the line said more than a thousand words.

  ‘That bad, huh?’ he added.

  ‘The bomber is releasing hostages.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s releasing the hostages that he’s holding in the main part of the restaurant. What do you think he’ll do if he finds me?’

  The question was followed by another silence that spoke volumes.

  ‘Probably best you don’t answer that one,’ King said.

  ‘People are getting out.’

  ‘And people are getting killed. The body count’s up to four. If he hits the switch, he can add a whole load more to that figure.’

  ‘Four,’ said Taylor, puzzled. ‘Last I heard it was three.’

  ‘He killed someone else just before the last hostage handover.’

  ‘Any idea who?’

  ‘Sorry, man, I was in the restroom when it happened.’

  ‘And who says the life of a big-time Hollywood actor isn’t glamorous?’

  King stifled a chuckle. He was actually starting to like this guy. Probably because he was the first person he’d spoken to in forever who wasn’t Brad Carter. But he was a journalist. The thought was a sobering one. Taylor was doing a good impression of being his best buddy, but it was all an act. There was no reason to believe that Taylor was any different from every other journalist he’d met. All they ever cared about was the story.

  ‘You’re going to get out,’ Taylor said. ‘The cops and the FBI, they’re on the case. You want to see it out here. It’s like a circus.’

  ‘Bullshit. The FBI could have got me out by now but they haven’t. All they had to do was open the kitchen door while the hostage handover was going on.’

  ‘They couldn’t do it, Alex. The handover was televised, and the bomber was very specific about having both of Alfie’s doors in the shot.’

  ‘Because he thinks someone might try and escape,’ King whispered. ‘Jesus, he knows I’m here, doesn’t he?’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that,’ Taylor said quickly. ‘He just wants to make sure the FBI don’t try anything while the grilles are up. It’s okay, Alex. Just chill.’

  ‘Easy for you to say, man.’

  There was no response. King looked at his phone screen. It had gone black. He tapped it and pressed the on button, but nothing happened. He tried again and got the same result. Realisation dawned and he swore to himself. The battery had finally died.

  15

  Dr Sally Jenkins was on the main screen of Mission Control. She was an attractive forty-something brunette who came loaded with a list of credentials and diplomas longer than her cellulite-free legs. Finding a shrink in LA hadn’t posed much of a problem. Throw a stone in any direction and you’d hit either a lawyer, a psychiatrist, or someone claiming to be an actor. Finding a shrink who wanted to appear on TV posed even less of a challenge. The fee was obviously an incentive, but that paled into insignificance when measured against the amount of free publicity a TV appearance would generate.

  Caroline Bradley was sitting side-on to her desk, facing the psychiatrist. ‘Dr Jenkins, we’re now well into the third hour of the siege, how are the hostages going to be holding up?’

  ‘That depends very much on the individual,’ Jenkins replied smoothly. ‘We all deal with stress in different ways. Some people internalise, some externalise. At the moment, the ones who hold it in will be faring better than the ones who need to vent because they can rely on well-established coping strategies. The ones who vent will be having a much tougher time.’

  ‘Can you expand on that?’

  ‘Certainly. Because of the circumstances, nobody will be doing anything that makes them stand out. This means that everyone is being forced to internalise their feelings, which, psychologically speaking, is never a good thing. Of course, the big problem is that a large percentage of the people who patronise Alfie’s are leaders rather than followers.’

  ‘People who are used to calling the shots?’ Caroline suggested.

  ‘Exactly. These people don’t hold back, and they don’t do deferred gratification. If they have an opinion, you can be sure that you’re going to hear it. If they want to get something out there, they get it out. If they need something, they can get it with a click of their fingers. And now they’re in a situation where they need to suppress their desires, because if they don’t, they could die. That’s tough for anyone, but it’s going to be even tougher when you’re used to everyone jumping when you say jump.’

  Seth liked what he was seeing and hearing. Not only did Jenkins look great on TV, she had a straightforward delivery that avoided psychobabble. She was doing an excellent job of keeping it simple without being patronising. A large section of the TRN demographic would have trouble spelling “IQ”, so having tough ideas and concepts broken down into easily digestible chunks was crucial.

  ‘What about their emotional state?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘The hostages will be feeling a whole host of different emotions,’ Jenkins replied. ‘Obviously, they’re going to be scared. That goes without saying. This will be the most terrifying situation that any of them have ever experienced. But they will be experiencing other emotions, too. Anger and guilt being the main two.’

  ‘Guilt?’

  ‘Absolutely. People have died. Now, we don’t know exactly what happened there, but it’s highly likely that the surviving hostages witnessed those deaths. This will lead to survivor guilt. That’s a condition where a person thinks that they’re to blame because they survived where others have died. The situation at Alfie’s is a hothouse for survivor guilt.’

  Caroline nodded like this was the most profound thing she’d ever heard. ‘Some of the hostages have already been released, and we’re obviously praying that the police manage to negotiate the safe release of the rest of them, but what happens afterwards?’

  ‘They’re going to need counselling for PTSD, that goes without saying.’

  ‘Post-traumatic stress disorder?’ Caroline said.

  Dr Jenkins nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  Of course they will, thought Seth, and who’s going to be first in line to offer that counselling at a gazillion bucks an hour?

  ‘Can you tell our viewers a little more about post-traumatic stress?’

  ‘PTSD is an anxiety disorder that’s caused by exposure to a major trauma. Sufferers often relive the event through flashbacks and nightmares, and they frequently make a conscious effort to avoid situations that remind them of the incident. In extreme cases this can be severely limiting, leading to agoraphobia and panic attacks. Sleep disorders and anger management issues are also common.’

  ‘Rob’s on the line,’ the white lesbian called out.

  ‘Well, patch him through.’ Seth positioned his microphone closer to his mouth, and tried to ignore what was happening on the big screen. ‘Rob, what have you got for me?’

  ‘Good news and bad.’

  ‘Let’s start with the bad news.’

  ‘The LAPD know who the bomber is, but my contact hasn’t been able to get the name. He’s going to keep trying, but they’re keeping a tight lid on this one, Seth.’

  ‘Have you tried leaning on Aaron Walters?’

  ‘It won’t do any good, not this time. I don’t care what you’ve got on him, Seth, it’s not going to be enough. If this information gets leaked, and that leak gets traced back to Walters, then he’ll lose his job. Whatever you’ve got on him, if that gets out, I’m guessing that could also get him fired. We’re talking rocks and hard places. Incidentally, what have you got on him? Tara’s money’s on kiddie porn.’

  Seth chuckled. ‘Ask no questions. So what’s the good news?’

 
; ‘I think I know how we can get the bomber’s name, but it’s going to cost us.’

  ‘Whatever it takes.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought you’d say that. And that’s not the only good news.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘We might also have come up with a way to get Alex King out.’

  16

  The cell phone was dead. It didn’t matter how much King poked and prodded, it wasn’t about to come back to life any time soon. What had he been thinking, talking to that journalist? He thought he’d been alone before, but that was nothing compared to what he was experiencing now. At least when the phone had been working, he’d had a link to the outside world. It didn’t matter that most of his conversations had been with Brad Carter, it was better to have someone to talk to than no one.

  There would be no more calls from Carter. And no more texts. That second one cut deeper than the first. Every time King had picked up his phone, he’d hoped to see that little text envelope. He knew there was little to no chance of getting a reply to his “love u” text, but just thinking that he might had reminded him what it meant to hope.

  For a split second he considered asking the FBI to push a new battery through the hole in the restroom wall, but that was a dumbass idea. To start with, a battery was far too big. And secondly, how the hell would he get in touch to ask them? Thinking about the hole got him thinking about the spy camera. If the FBI could come up with a miniature camera, they must have a two-way radio that was just as small. Again, the problem he kept coming back to was that he had no way to contact the FBI.

  Except there was a way, he suddenly realised. It would be risky, but it wasn’t like he had any other option. King scrambled to his feet and pushed the kitchen door open. Everything seemed quiet enough out there. He could hear mumbled voices but there was something artificial about them, like the sound was coming through low quality speakers. He listened more closely and realised he was hearing a news report playing on the laptop. The volume was too low to make out what was being said, but the tone of the voices contained that sense of urgency you heard on news channels.