The Killing Games

by J. S. Carol

  ‘I think she’s a cold-hearted, money-grabbing bitch who’d sell her own mother if she could make a buck.’

  The bomber shook his head and took a dramatic intake of breath. ‘And that’s harsh. Very harsh indeed. So what have you got to say about that, Jody?’

  ‘He’s right,’ she replied quietly.

  ‘What? You’re just going to sit there and let him trash your good name?’

  ‘Don’t you get it? I don’t care anymore. I don’t care what Dan thinks or says about me. And I care even less what you think. I’m done playing your games.’

  The bomber swooped in close and the smell of his aftershave filled her nose again. There was pizza and Coke on his breath. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, but that’s not your decision to make.’

  He fired the gun and the back of Stone’s head exploded in an angry shower of red and grey. Bone fragments and gore pattered onto the floor, glittering and shining in the light. The force of the gunshot sent the agent tumbling backwards. He hit the floor with a solid thump. The small black hole in the middle of his forehead looked like a third eye. The blood splatter on the tablecloth reminded JJ of the Pollock-inspired paintings that hung around the room.

  Simone screamed. The sound stopped so suddenly JJ was convinced that she’d been shot as well. She looked over and saw the model sitting with her hands clasped tightly over her mouth to hold back the scream. JJ turned back to the bomber. The flashing heart on his watch was fast approaching a hundred beats a minute. He saw where she was staring and held up his hand.

  ‘It’s really not a good idea to get me too excited, Jody.’

  ‘Or what? You’re going to kill me anyway, so it’s not like it makes any difference. Not really.’

  The bomber swooped in close, and she cringed against the chair-back.

  ‘Just so we’re absolutely clear here,’ he said. ‘You killed Dan as surely as you killed your husband. Remember, passive resistance just doesn’t cut it with me.

  JJ said nothing.

  ‘Okay, go sit with the others. I’m done with you for now.’ He looked over at the hostages. ‘Tony and Ed, get over here and clean up this mess.’

  13

  ‘And in another world exclusive, TRN has discovered the identity of the bomber who is holding a group of the entertainment industry’s most powerful people hostage at Alfie’s.’

  Caroline Bradley delivered this in a tone of voice that combined excitement with just the right amount of sincerity. She was on her third outfit change. The latest offering was a simple black pant suit over a white blouse.

  ‘Sergeant Ted Marley is a forty-nine-year-old former bomb disposal expert,’ she went on. ‘A veteran of both Gulf Wars. He received a Bronze Star during Desert Storm, and a Purple Heart during the 2003 conflict. He retired from the armed forces in 2005. Three months ago, Denise Marley, his wife of twenty-six years, was killed in a hit-and-run accident.’

  On Seth’s cue, the camera pulled back to reveal Dr Sally Jenkins. Caroline turned her chair so she was facing the psychiatrist, then glanced at her clipboard as though she was seriously considering which question to start with. The random words written on there were pure gibberish. The only questions Caroline asked were the ones Seth whispered down from Mission Control, or those on the autocue.

  ‘Dr Jenkins, thank you for joining us again.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘The question our viewers are asking themselves right now is how can a decorated war hero turn into a murderer? Can you shed any light on that?’

  The psychiatrist nodded like this was the most penetrating question she’d ever heard.

  ‘I believe the trigger was the death of Marley’s wife. The death of a spouse is one of the most traumatic life events that any of us will ever experience. When it comes out of the blue, as seems to have been the case here, then the effects are amplified. It’s bad enough to lose your husband or wife after a long illness, I’m not disputing that, but in those situations there is a sense of inevitability, which can provide some comfort. Can you imagine how devastating it must be to get a telephone call or a visit from the police to inform you that your wife is dead?’

  ‘But it doesn’t necessarily follow that the husband is going to go on a murder spree. So why did Marley suddenly snap like this?’

  ‘Every situation is unique,’ Jenkins replied. ‘The death of Marley’s wife was the trigger, but to understand how he ended up on this highly destructive path of behaviour, we need to know more about his life. Now, there are a number of assumptions we can make. The fact he’s a decorated war hero means he has seen military action. Also, the fact that he’s a bomb disposal expert means he was subjected to the possibility of death on a regular basis. Every time he defused a bomb he would have been hyper-aware of his own mortality. He would also have had first-hand experience of the devastation caused by explosives. Combine these two factors, and it becomes inevitable that he will be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.’

  ‘Again, the situation you’ve described is not unique,’ Caroline said.

  ‘Marley’s time in the army is only part of the story. What happened after he left the army? How well did he make the transition from military life to civilian life? Was he unemployed? Does he have a drink problem? A drug problem? Any of those issues would have impacted on his life. It’s possible that some or all of them may have led him to the place he finds himself in today. There are probably other factors, too, but those are the main ones. Now, rewind to last June, and the question I’m asking myself is what happened to the hit and run driver?’

  ‘And that’s a damn good question,’ Seth shouted out. ‘Anyone got an answer?’

  The three assistants shook their heads in unison.

  ‘Well, go find one. And quick.’

  On the big screen, Dr Jenkins said, ‘My guess is that one of three things happened. Either the driver was never caught, or they were caught but the authorities failed to secure a conviction. The third possibility is that they did get a conviction, but it was so lenient that Marley couldn’t accept that justice had been done. The fact he gave six million dollars to charity is significant. More than once today I’ve heard him being referred to as a modern-day Robin Hood, and I truly believe this is how he views himself. Any of the scenarios I’ve just outlined would be consistent with him wanting to be viewed as an avenging angel.’

  And that was a perfect line to end on. Seth gave Caroline the cue to wind things up.

  ‘Dr Jenkins, thank you very much for joining us again.’ Caroline turned her chair to face the camera and laid her clipboard on her lap. ‘We’re now going back to Rob Taylor, our man on the ground at Alfie’s.’

  ‘On my mark,’ Seth said. ‘Three, two, one.’

  Caroline disappeared from the big screen and was replaced by a close-up of Rob. He flashed his trademark smile, but only for a second. The expression disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with something more serious. He stared intently at the camera.

  ‘Thanks, Caroline. The siege is now well into its third hour. So far, four lives have been claimed, including that of Oscar-winning director Natasha Lovett. The atmosphere around Alfie’s right now is beyond tense. Everyone here is just hoping that the situation can be resolved without any further bloodshed.’

  Yeah right, thought Seth. He was picturing the crowds gathered behind the police barriers. No way were they looking for a peaceful resolution. They’d turned out because they smelled blood. Basically, they wanted to be able to tell everyone that they’d been there when the bomb went off. The same could be said of the viewers watching at home. They hadn’t tuned in because they were expecting a warm, fuzzy Oprah moment, they’d tuned in because they wanted to watch the body count rise. It was the same basic drive that had brought the crowds flocking to the Colosseum in Rome to watch the lions tearing the Christians apart.

  Seth glanced at the small monitor that was tuned to CNN. Another glance for the monitor tuned to Fox. Neither of the big boys had the
bomber’s name yet, which must hurt. Right now they would have every spare man and woman frantically searching for information on Ted Marley. If he’d been in their shoes, that’s what he would have done.

  He’d purposefully held back the name of Marley’s hometown because he didn’t want to make life too easy for them. He’d also held back on one vital piece of information that would have given Sally Jenkins a light-bulb moment. That particular bombshell was going to have the big boys eating his dust. He was waiting until the top of the hour when viewing figures were at their peak before dropping that one.

  There was a risk that one of the big boys might get hold of the information before then, but it was a gamble worth taking. And anyway, there was no way they were going to scoop him. It just wasn’t going to happen, not now that he was back on top of the wave again.

  14

  Alex King had just reached the kitchen door when the gun went off. The single silenced shot was followed by the dead, dull thud of a body hitting the wooden floor. He put his hands over his face and bit into his palms to stop any sound escaping. He’d never liked JJ, but that didn’t mean he wanted her dead.

  ‘Hey, Alex, you okay, buddy?’

  King didn’t dare answer. He was too exposed out here. The idea that his luck was about to run out hit suddenly, and it hit hard. If the invincible Jody Johnson could die, then any of them could. Even a nine-life cat would eventually run out of lives. He eased the kitchen door open and squeezed through the gap. Then he eased it closed again and sank to his knees.

  ‘Come on, Alex, talk to me, buddy. I just want to know you’re okay.’

  Okay? Was that some sort of joke? This situation was so far from okay you’d need a freaking map to find your way back again.

  ‘If you can’t talk, just tap the throat mike twice.’

  King took a deep breath and somehow managed to find his voice. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. And Alex? Thanks for putting the camera back. You have no idea how grateful we are.’

  ‘Brad, I don’t want your gratitude. What I want, the only thing I want, is for you to get me the hell out of here.’

  15

  ‘Two million dollars,’ Kevin Donahue said. ‘I’ll give you two million dollars if you let me go.’

  JJ barely heard him because she was trapped back in the moment when Dan Stone had died. It kept playing over and over in her head and wouldn’t stop. She could still hear the echo of the gunshot, and she could see him falling, and she wanted to save him but there wasn’t a damn thing she could do. It was just like the night Tom had died. Back then, she’d been hypnotised by the beige swirls on the translucent rippling blue water of the pool. Now it was the bright red spatters on the dazzling white tablecloths that held her captivated.

  ‘Two million dollars,’ Donahue repeated. ‘I can wire it wherever you want. Anywhere in the world. The Caymans, Switzerland, wherever. Just tell me where you want it to go.’

  JJ shook herself free from the past and forced herself to focus on the present. There would be time for recriminations later. Assuming there was a later. From where she was sitting she could just about see Donahue. The old guy looked like a corpse. The last few hours had taken its toll on all of them, but the producer had been hit hardest. If he suddenly dropped dead, it wouldn’t be a great shock.

  ‘Two million bucks,’ the bomber mused. ‘You say that like it’s nothing, like it’s pocket change. It’s not. My daddy worked in a Tennessee steel mill his whole life and I doubt he earned half a million dollars in all that time, never mind two million. The harsh truth is that most people will never see money like that in their whole lifetime, yet, with a click of your fingers you can make me a millionaire. Doesn’t that seem wrong to you?’

  ‘What do you want me to say? That life’s unfair? That I’m sorry I’m rich? Well here’s a newsflash, buddy. Life isn’t fair. I’ve got plenty of money in the bank, and do you know something? I’d give away every last cent if I could buy another year. But the harsh truth is that all the money in the world won’t buy me another year. However, a couple of million so I can live long enough to see the sun come up tomorrow? Well, from where I’m sitting, I’ve got to tell you, that sounds like money well-spent.’

  The bomber cocked his head to one side like he was giving this some serious consideration, then he stepped back. JJ saw the gun come up. She saw his finger curl around the trigger. She wanted to shout a warning, but the words were trapped in her throat. There was no gunshot, though. Not this time.

  ‘Okay, Kev, on your feet.’

  The producer stood slowly. It was pitiful to watch. He winced with every movement and barely had the strength to hold himself up. JJ closed her eyes. She didn’t want to witness any more deaths. Unfortunately, what she wanted didn’t come into the equation. Donahue was about to die and there was nothing she could do change that. She wouldn’t see it happening, but she’d still be able to hear. And at some point she would have to open her eyes again, and Donahue would be lying there with all the other corpses.

  ‘Two million bucks could really change a person’s life.’ There was a tremor in Donahue’s voice. ‘Just think. No mortgage, no debts. Budget carefully and you’d never have to work again.’

  ‘You’re assuming I’m doing this for money. Remember, I just gave six million dollars to charity.’

  Donahue shook his head. ‘It’s always about the money.’

  ‘So why did I give away six million bucks?’

  ‘To get the public on your side. This town’s one big popularity contest, and, like everything else in this world, you get popularity by buying it.’

  JJ had been involved in enough negotiations to recognise one when she saw one. Somehow during the last ten seconds this had turned into a negotiation. That’s the way it worked. One second you were shooting the breeze, the next you were bargaining. Donahue was back on familiar ground. That’s why he was suddenly sounding more sure of himself. A negotiation was a negotiation. It could be a film deal, or it could be that you were bargaining for your life, but in the end it was all the same thing. One person had something the other person wanted, and the trick was finding a price that made both parties come away from the table feeling like winners.

  Donahue glanced over at the other hostages, eyes moving from Ed Richards to DeAndre Alexander then back to the bomber. ‘There’s still plenty of money in this room. We both know that. I’m willing to pay two million. Do you think I’m alone here? Play your cards right and you could walk away with ten million, easy. You know, I’ve got to hand it to you, what you’re doing here is total genius. I’ve been involved in some pretty major deals, but even on my best day I never came close to earning ten million bucks.’

  ‘Four million.’

  ‘I could get that for you, but it would take a couple of hours on the Internet. I’d need to liquidate some assets. Three million would be easier. I could have that in your account straight away.’

  For a time the only noise in the room was the gentle shushing of the air-conditioning, and the tiny sounds made by a group of people desperately trying to keep quiet.

  ‘Three million,’ the bomber mused. ‘That would be a real life-changer. Okay, Kev, you’ve got yourself a deal.’

  He stepped aside and waved Donahue over to the laptop. The old guy walked over quickly. The adrenalin was masking any discomfort and making him move like a younger, much healthier man. He sat down at the laptop and started pecking at the keyboard.

  JJ’s mind had already gone into overdrive. Even Stone’s death had momentarily slid into the background. After the bomber had given six million to charity she’d assumed this wasn’t about money, but after what had just happened, she was reassessing that one. At a push, she could get her hands on a million and a half. In Hollywood terms, that was nothing. She was virtually a pauper. When you got down to it, so was Donahue, and he was able to get hold of three million.

  So how much could DeAndre Alexander get hold of? Or Ed Richards? Donahu
e reckoned the bomber could net himself a cool ten million, but that figure was a massive underestimate. Richards alone could probably pay ten million without it creating so much as a ripple in his bank balance. She didn’t even want to think what his net worth was. He was definitely Learjet rich.

  Donahue was right. This scam was genius. The only part JJ couldn’t figure out was the escape plan. Everything else had been carefully thought through, so he must have one. Otherwise, what was this all for?

  ‘I’m going to need your account details,’ Donahue said.

  The bomber pulled the laptop closer and began typing. JJ’s eyes were drawn back to the blood-stained tablecloth and the wide smear of Dan Stone’s blood on the floor. Maybe the killing was over. Maybe this was how things were going to play out from here on in. The bomber would call them up one at a time, negotiate a price, then let them go. For the first time since this all began, she was starting to believe that she might get out of here alive.

  ‘Okay, I’m done.’ Donahue struggled to his feet and gave the bomber another one of those death’s-head grins. ‘Congratulations, you’re now three million dollars richer.’

  ‘You know, Kev, there was one thing in that bullshit speech you gave earlier that really resonated with me. You’re right. Life isn’t fair.’

  The bomber raised the gun and pumped two bullets into Donahue’s chest.

  16:00-16:30

  1

  The TRN graphic faded out, the studio faded in, and Seth took a long drag on his Marlboro and prayed his gamble would pay off. Up until now he’d been convinced it would. But this was the moment of truth and that changed everything. The farm had been bet, the dice rolled, and he would either walk away from the table with everything or nothing. There were butterflies in his chest and stomach, and no amount of nicotine seemed to be soothing them. Caroline Bradley was on the big screen. Her black jacket had been straightened, her make-up retouched. She smiled a serious smile and said, ‘Good afternoon.’