by Ian Bull
Glenn’s eyes widen. “You want me to leave you here?”
“I’ve parachuted into worse places than this. I think I’ll survive.”
He chews on his lip as he glances at his car. “But I was supposed to bring you back.”
Julia crosses the road and is halfway back to the park. “What’s going on?” she asks.
“You already know what’s going on,” I say. I tighten my pack straps and start walking to the road. “Guess in real life, I’m less predictable than you all figured.”
“Steven! Stop!” Julia yells.
“I’ll stop when I’m finished! You’ll thank me then!”
I only get twenty yards before Glenn runs in front of me with my laptop under his arm.
“Wait, let’s talk,” he says. He glances around, hugging my laptop to his chest like it’s a teddy bear. “If you’re going to do this, let me teach you how to stay dead—I mean alive.”
“Then teach me.”
Glenn nods as if he were counting off a mental checklist. “Get rid of your phone. Buy a prepaid phone with cash. Or use pay phones and other people’s phones. When you call one of us, hang up after the first ring, then call again. We’ll know it’s you.”
“Makes sense. The old-school stuff always works.”
“Or disguise a text. We’re at Ragged Point, right? If you text ‘Ragged Point,’ to me, I’ll know it’s you. Don’t call Julia; they’re monitoring her phones. Call my phone, it can’t be hacked.” He flashes his business card. “Memorize my number.”
“I already did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“806-443-1231. I have a photographic memory.”
Glenn nods. “Stay off email. Leave cyber graffiti instead.”
“What’s cyber graffiti?”
“Hide information in photos. Post-coded messages to social media sites, like Instagram or Twitter, or text me a clue. That way, we can exchange information without talking.”
“I know shorthand. Would that work?” I ask.
Glenn looks at me funny. “What’s shorthand?”
“Secretaries used it to take dictation. My mom taught me.”
Glenn looks confused, but keeps talking. “And change your appearance. Old photos of you are all over the Internet. People will recognize you. And if you’re going to San Francisco, don’t go anywhere near your funeral. That’s just asking to be spotted.”
Another blast of wet air hits us both, cold enough to make Glenn shiver. “Last chance,” he says, nodding at the BMW and Julia shivering next to it. “The car is warm.”
“I hope I never see you again,” I say.
“Just stay alive. That’s all they want,” Glenn says. He runs back across Highway 1, tosses my infected computer on his backseat, gets in, and starts the car up. Julia stands there, waving and waiting, but I don’t move. I don’t know how involved she is in all this, and I don’t care. I’ll figure that out later. She finally gets in, and Glenn bangs a U-turn and heads south.
I cross to the edge of the bluff and look down. The woman is now crying and the man is on his knees, digging in the sand. They look desperate. If I can find their keys, I know I have a ride. I just hope they’re heading north.
Chapter 12
* * *
Julia Travers
Day 5: Wednesday Afternoon
Central California
Glenn downshifts into every hairpin turn, while I keep checking my phone for reception.
“Glenn, you jerk! What did you do?”
“I did what Carl told me to do.”
“And what was that?” I ask.
“He told me to get Steven’s computer and to keep him in town.”
“You should have told me. I’m the one who’s paying you, not Carl.”
“I did get his computer,” he says, sounding more like a teenager than a US Army officer.
“But he could go anywhere now! From now on, you answer to me.”
We’re back on the flats now, zooming through a sea of yellow grass toward San Luis Obispo. I’m nauseous again, but at least my cell is getting four bars.
“Pull over before I get sick on you.”
He pulls off at the Piedras Blancas Light Station and into a blanket of fog. I stare out at the cool gray air, feeling red-hot inside. I want to scream my head off, rip out Major Glenn Ward’s heart, then fly around the world and descend like a screaming banshee from the sky and grab Carl Webb with my talons and shake him until he begs for mercy.
“Julia, I think we should—”
I put up my hand and stop him from talking. “Enough. I have to think.”
Screaming won’t bring Steven back or keep him alive, or stop these men from making stupid choices. I must save my screaming for a time when it will help. What this situation needs is Trishelle. I text her in Toronto: Can you fly down and be with me?
Five minutes later, she texts back: I arrive tomorrow at LAX at 11 a.m. Air Canada 421.
I can’t believe it. Trishelle has PTSD of her own and hasn’t left her parents’ house in months, but she’s coming to help me.
“You should check with me before texting anything,” Glenn says. “It’s dangerous.”
I don’t answer him. I’ll wait until Trishelle gets here. Together, we’ll find a way to take control of this crisis from these dumb boys.
Chapter 13
* * *
Robert Snow
Day 6: Thursday
Over the Pacific Ocean
The stewardess brings us freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. That’s the best part of First Class, better than the movies and the socks with the little rubber grips on the bottom. I bite into my warm cookie and find the TMZ website on the in-flight Internet. Julia Travers is under investigation for attacking the paparazzo who took photos of Steven Quintana and Rikki Lassen dead in her car. It’s too bad that Rikki Lassen had to die, but the reports say that a dozen people had a motive to kill her, so she had it coming.
It’s also proof that my vision is manifesting itself into reality. I don’t just want this to happen, I know it will happen, and the Law of Attraction is taking care of Steven Quintana, Rikki Lassen, and Julia Travers. I don’t question these simple truths of the universe; I just accept them.
Tina stares out the window at the clouds below. She turns to me and smiles, relaxed and happy. It almost feels like we’re a couple on vacation. “I’ve never been to Hawaii,” she says.
“That surprises me. You’ve been to Honduras, Bulgaria, and Russia, but not to Hawaii?”
“Those were work trips. I don’t get to travel for pleasure.” She’s talking about her son in some roundabout way, but I know not to press her.
“Shall we go over casting? We can tweak your presentation before we see Boss Man,” I say. “I bought three rows so we’d have some privacy.”
She glances at the empty seats around us, impressed. “This project really has a budget.”
She fires up her laptop. In forty-eight hours, Tina did all the paperwork for casting in Hong Kong, plus she edited all the intros of our approved cast members. That’s another reason I love her.
“Pitch them to me like I’m Boss Man,” I tell her. “We’ll do a couple of run-throughs.”
Tina gulps. This is the hard part for her, my poor sexy thing. She was the quiet star student with the glasses, nervous before every book report, but tough enough inside to push the mean popular kids down the stairs when she got the chance.
A handsome but scarred Arab face comes on screen. He looks like Omar Sharif after someone smashed a shot glass into his nose, with piercing black eyes and thick neck muscles.
“This is Kahlil Omidi, from Roumieh prison. He was convicted of murder after he killed a police officer in the ruins of South Beirut. He worships as a Shia and is part of Hezbollah.”
“Get to his street cred faster. He’s Muslim. What kind doesn’t matter.”
The screen changes. Omidi sports a tight blue tracksuit, cut open so his muscles can pop o
ut. He is 200 pounds, over six feet, with a chest like a tree trunk and arms like thick branches.
“Omidi is an expert at the ancient Persian martial art of Pahlavani.”
The video cuts. Omidi grapples with an opponent, snaps his head back with a punch to his chin, then easily flips him onto his back. Omidi looks fast, graceful, and strong.
“Say that he blends the discipline of Asian martial arts, mixed with the brutal street fighting of the Near East. Evoke the exotic. We want more than just the Arab world betting on him.”
Tina finishes typing my notes and looks up. “It’s missing narration and graphics, but is it the right length for the actual broadcast?”
“Boss Man will have the final word, but I think it’s great,” I say.
Tina smiles and hits the spacebar. A new face pops on the screen—a bald white guy with cauliflower ears and three rolls of skin on the back of his neck. The camera pulls out and he stands bare-chested, wearing just cargo pants. He looks like a block of marble.
“This is Miko Asenov, our Bulgarian, cast from Sofia Central Prison. He’s our European, as well as our Slav, so he’ll draw bettors from the EU, Russia, and Ukraine.”
The stewardess walks past. I lower my voice and ask, “Experience?”
“In the Bulgarian army, he learned SAMBO, a martial art developed by the Soviets. He killed six Turkish soldiers in a bar fight. In his trial, he insisted they were human traffickers who kidnapped his sister, but he’s also anti-Muslim.”
“Mention that. Build a conflict between Khalil and Miko. It’ll amp up the betting.”
The video continues. Miko rips a phonebook in half, then punches a heavy bag so hard it flies back to a 90˚ angle. The video cuts to a boxing match in an outdoor prison yard. Miko punches his opponent in the face until his mouth and eyes are bloody.
“I see a problem,” I say. “Miko is so big he can defeat anyone.”
“But Miko is not fast,” Tina says. “Plus, two can team up against one.”
“Good answer. You’re thinking like a fight commentator. Next?”
A lean, tall, handsome Brazilian with long hair comes on the screen.
“This is Lucas Souza, who’s in Bangu prison in Rio. He’s our Tom Brady, an expert at Brazilian jujitsu and capoeira. He grew up in the Vila Cruzeiro, the worst favela in Rio. He worked as a hitman for the favela boss, killing rivals at $10,000 a pop, until he got caught.”
The video hard cuts to a cage match. Lucas kicks his opponent up against the cage wall. He flips the man over and piledrives his head down into the mat and breaks his back, then chokeholds him until his face turns purple. When he lets him go, the man looks dead.
“This is from a prison competition. I like that he’s a showoff. He’s strong. Prison hasn’t crushed him,” Tina says.
“And it’s amazing no one has hurt that pretty face of his.”
“Men will bet against him, and the women will bet for him. He’s perfect casting.”
“Mention that,” I say. “And we still have footage of Lucas taking down that monster Argentine, right? Add that. It will prove Lucas can beat Miko. It closes the deal on both guys.”
Tina taps a key and an African face fills the screen. His skin is dark black, with ritual scars on his cheeks. His bloodshot eyes challenge you, as if he’s ready for your attack.
“This is Andre Uwase, from Rwanda. We found him in Kassapa prison outside Lubumbashi. His parents died in a machete attack when he was ten, and he grew up on the streets. He has had no training, but he’s such a natural fighter he’ll gain fans from all of Africa, stretching eastward through India and into Indonesia.”
“Damn, that’s a nice touch. You’re getting better at this,” I say.
Tina narrows her eyes at me again. “Don’t act so surprised.”
“You’re now better at this than me.” I lean close and smell her perfume. “Is that better?”
She smiles and kisses my cheek. My heart skips a beat and I feel the welts on my ass from Koreatown on Monday night. Hawaii is going to be fun.
The intro continues. A 40-foot square holding cell is packed with dozens of men fighting, like a zombie swarm. Andre appears in the middle, holding a bloody shank of metal and keeping a circle of twenty men at bay. The video freezes and Tina points at Andre’s haunted face. “During casting, he fought with two broken fingers and a dislocated shoulder. He either doesn’t feel pain, or constant pain is normal for him.”
“Give him a name, like the African Jaguar. That plays right into our group.”
Tina hits play and our Rico Perez comes up, from the National Penitentiary in Honduras. It feels strange that we were there just four days ago. Shirtless and covered with gang tattoos, he thrusts his chin out while flashing gang symbols. “How do we categorize Rico?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
Tina clicks through their photo images. “Kahlil and Miko each have a moral code. They think they’re the ‘good guys’ and people will either love or hate them. Lucas is our handsome bad boy who fights for the highest bidder. Andre is the outsider who survives any way he can.” Tina hits pause so Rico’s face fills the screen, then drops her chin and looks at me.
“Just say it,” I say, biting into my cookie again.
“Boss Man still wants a cast member who is American. Someone all the viewers will bet on, either for or against…mostly against. Rico comes close. He almost looks white, but he doesn’t cut it. Not as an American.”
She’s right. The truth is I won’t risk casting an actual American citizen. I’ll take big chances to please Boss Man, but not that big. All this could explode on us.
“That’s why we’re rehearsing this,” I say. “The point of this presentation is to get Boss Man so excited he signs off on everything, including Rico. We’ll show the American flag tattoo on Rico’s chest, call him Richard instead of Rico, and put in him in a Dodgers baseball hat. That’ll help close him.”
“Can we get a photo of him in a Dodgers cap by tonight?” Tina asks.
I run the clock in my head—call the warden from the plane, bribe him, pull strings to get the hat into the prison, get a guard to snap a photo and text it back, all in three hours.
“I’ll get you the photo,” I say.
She bites her lip, still worried, so I give her arm a squeeze. Our faces are inches apart.
“I’ve been casting this for two years, and I still don’t know the whole show concept.”
“That’s the other reason you’re meeting Boss Man. You’ll be vetted.”
“But I could help now…like with this.”
“Boss Man has to meet you first. And don’t worry about Rico. Once preproduction starts, we’ll have three weeks until broadcast. Worst case scenario, we keep searching and present another cast member. We’ve done it on other shows with less time,” I say. “Anything is possible.”
Tina smiles and sighs deeply. “I need another cookie,” she says, shutting her computer.
I kiss her on the lips and motion to the stewardess, who walks up and leans over.
“Can we get two more chocolate chip cookies and two piña coladas?” I ask.
Chapter 14
* * *
Julia Travers
Day 6: Thursday
Los Angeles International Airport
Passengers stride through the sliding doors into baggage claim, but there’s no sign of Trishelle. My driver, a kind, gray-haired Armenian named Vaik, stands next to me, holding up a card with her name. I ordered three Lincoln Town Cars to the beach house to confuse Le Clerq. Guess which departing limo with the tinted windows has the celebrity? Le Clerq followed the first one that exited, and I left the beach house in Vaik’s car and got to LAX with no one following us.
“That’s her,” I hear someone say.
“It can’t be,” I hear someone else say.
“I swear it’s her.”
Wearing a hoodie, a baseball cap, and no makeup usually renders me anonymous, but my face has been in the
news a lot this week. A middle-aged woman with short blonde hair and a beaded purple sweatshirt approaches, with her carbon copy teenage daughter close behind.
“We love your movies, especially the early funny ones,” the mom says.
“Thank you.”
Her daughter, emboldened, steps forward. “Aren’t you going to Steven’s funeral?”
My face gets hot and the sweat spigots turn on in my armpits. Either I have terror B.O. or I’m blushing too deep a red, because both women step back and blink. My text goes off.
“Sorry, I have to look at this,” I say, as the daughter rolls her eyes. It’s from my agent Paul: Call me ASAP. Simon Le Clerq has filed assault charges against you. It’s in the tabloids and the LA Times. The LAPD is calling the agency. We need to put a spin on this.
It’s like a Tae Kwon Do kick to my gut. That’s where Le Clerq went yesterday morning; he was busy lawyering up. When I look up, Trishelle walks through the sliding doors and peers around with nervous eyes.
My whole body loosens. I haven’t seen my best friend in six months. Her black hair is still long and beautiful, but her skin is pale. She’s too thin, too; she used to have muscles and ski slope curves on that powerful French Canadian body of hers. Our misadventures in the Bahamas took a toll on both of us. I buried myself in my work, and she buried herself in her parents’ house in Toronto. She spots me and rushes into my arms. We hug, laughing.
“Can I get a few selfies with you?” the daughter asks me, interrupting.
Trishelle shoots her down with an icy stare, then hands Vaik her carry-on bag. “It’s not safe here. Get us to the car,” she says. We link arms and Vaik leads us out of the terminal.
Five minutes later, we are in the back seat of the limo, flying down the freeway. Trishelle wears baggy pants, boots, and a thick sweater, but she still shivers like she’s in cold weather. She glances around, her eyes so wide they look like wet marbles.
