by Ian Bull
“I knew you’d come. Are you going to let me go now?” I ask.
She shakes her head, pushes her sexy glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose, then turns to the fighters and makes the final speech--the one I was supposed to make. Her beautiful ass is in tight black jeans, and it’s just inches from my face, but I won’t touch it ever again.
“Fighters, welcome. I am the executive producer of the show. When I leave, the plane will take off. At 3,000 feet, the pilot will put the plane on autopilot, lock the reinforced steel cockpit door, and parachute out the open back. But before she jumps, she will hit a button, and your restraints will release. This plane will have no pilot and will crash in less than an hour. Hidden on this plane are five parachutes, one survival pack with water and food, and one pack with two million dollars in diamonds. Pursue these rewards wisely. If you make it out of this plane alive, you are free, but you’re on your own.”
The monitor runs the fighters’ intro packages a second time, so Tina’s not on camera as she’s talking.
“But also hidden on this plane are rattlesnakes, weapons for hand to hand combat, plus a few surprises. Good luck,” she says, then turns and bends down over me.
“I love you,” I say to her.
She touches my cheek. Her palm feels cool against my hot sweaty face. “And you’re the best producer I’ve ever worked for,” she says, then walks out, followed by Michel and Jim.
“Tina!” I scream, but she’s gone.
The plane moves. Pauline must have been in the cockpit this whole time. The monitors switch to live broadcast again—good, I need some quality TV right now. They show my plane’s exterior as the taxi begins. Michel and Jim are outside, shooting the takeoff.
It’s quiet as the plane rises off the ground. We all stare at the monitor overhead, just like on a United flight. Right after takeoff, the plane’s transmitter takes over and CCTV cameras come online, just like I planned. The monitor overhead cuts to the different angles throughout the plane, and even the GoPros on the fighters’ chests. The dome cameras catch extreme close-ups of them, mean and angry, but rock-solid, with perfect focus. Damn, that’s good TV. It’s a perfect production so far. I hope Boss Man in La Paz appreciates it.
“You know what? I’m a genius!” I scream. “I’m a goddamned genius! This production is perfect. Flawless. Just like I planned. Just like I produced. Me. I did this!”
No one says a word. The plane levels. The colored lights turn on overhead, like we’re in a silent disco. They’re adding music in La Paz, along with fake crowd applause. I wish I could hear it. Clouds pour out of vents hidden behind the fencing. It’s from dry ice—Hachiro’s idea, which I had to tweak to get approved. The screen cuts back and forth between all twenty cameras, fast and furious. We’re ramping up to the fight!
Loud whirring fills the interior. Our seven chairs are in the middle of the plane, right over the wheels. On the monitor, I can see the sound’s source: the floor panels over the two baggage areas slide open, revealing padded fighting areas that are four feet deep, where the fighters must go to find their chutes and treasures. Hachiro trimmed the floor and the zones with flashing LED lights, which makes it pop. The dry ice clouds, the moving colored spotlights, the LED trim, the star filters, and the bright red and purple walls all add up to an amazing set. Throw in our colored uniforms, and the whole event is gorgeous.
“Hey, boys!” Pauline yells. She’s wearing her flying squirrel jumpsuit, helmet with goggles, and a parachute on her back. Her Taurus handgun is holstered to her chest. She stops when she sees Lucas and comes close. “Damn, you’re good-looking! I bet you’re dynamite in bed, you sexy Brazilian, you!”
“Obrigado,” he says, grinning. He loves female attention, even before a death match. Everyone else just rolls their eyes. He’s still my favorite, even if he is a stupid playboy.
“I gotta fly! Good luck, guys!” Pauline yells, then salutes us and disappears.
I know I’m going to die, which cuts through the drug cloud in my brain. Pauline whoops as she jumps, and I hear her voice fade—and BOOM! Confetti explodes from canisters in the ceiling. Our restraints fly open. We are free.
The two lines of men rush toward each other and collide, just like in an NFL football game. Ming and Rico attack Quintana, who ducks Ming’s kick and then trips Rico before dashing behind me. I try to run, but Kahlil punches me in the face and breaks my nose, spraying blood everywhere. I barely feel it. My senses are hyper-acute. It’s a strange feeling, like being more awake and alive than I’ve ever felt before in my life. I like it.
Miko punches Kahlil and sends him flying back over the chair. He opens a metal bin on the floor and it explodes, knocking him back. Ming opens a different bin and finds nunchucks. He slams them hard against Miko’s chest, but Miko barely moves.
Lucas grabs Rico in a jujitsu hold, turns him, and lifts him off the ground, choking him. Rico manages to open an overhead bin. A snake pops out, almost biting Lucas on the arm. He lets Rico go.
I try to run, but someone grabs my collar and yanks me to the floor. They knee me in the chest. The fight is on.
Chapter 50
* * *
Steven Quintana
Game Day
Somewhere over Northern Mexico
Ming and the guy in the Dodgers cap rush me, but I dodge Ming’s kick and trip the Dodgers fan, then do an end run around the group. When I look up, the huge white guy is punching the Arab, and the Brazilian pretty boy is choking the Dodgers fan. He opens an overhead bin and a rattlesnake flies out and slithers between my feet. Ming then clubs the huge white guy in the chest, but his fist bounces off it like rubber. This mix-up isn’t for me. Time to get the hell away.
I duck a punch from the Arab, then jump up and grab the TV monitor above me and yank it down on top of his head. It shatters, but he only staggers back a foot. I grab Snow and drag him toward the cockpit. The floor opens in front of us and I yank him down into the pit.
“I have a bloody nose,” Snow says, as his knees crumple under him. He’s high. I pull him into a fireman’s carry and yank him through the fighting pit. I toss him up onto the higher level, then scramble out myself as the floor closes again under me.
The huge white guy grabs my ankle, but I kick clear and scramble away, with him in close pursuit. I dart on my hands and knees past a metal box bolted to the wall, stop, turn my head away, and open it. A concussive smoke bomb goes off, and the huge white guy covers his face and falls back. Deeper inside the box is a parachute, so I fling it between the Arab and the white guy. They stop chasing me and leap on it.
I get on top of the moving floor and back to Snow, who’s lying down by the cockpit door. Blood pours from his nose. “You gave them a parachute? Dude, you’re supposed to fight for it.”
“We need to get in the cockpit.”
Snow laughs. “It’s bolted shut. The locks are from a bank vault. No way.”
The cockpit door is made of thick steel, like a submarine door, and it’s bolted in three spots with padlocks. Glancing out the windows, I can see we’re above yellow desert, about 3,000 feet, and not moving very fast. It’s set up for an easy parachute jump.
Snow starts crying again. “My mother doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“Where is the plane headed?” I ask.
“I was going to take her to see my mother one day.”
“Where is the plane headed?” I scream over the dull roar of the slow-moving plane.
“West of Baja. It’ll crash and sink to the bottom of the ocean.”
I look for the emergency exits, but they bolted them shut. A flash of light from my left makes me duck—until I see it’s one of the stupid CCTV cameras I helped install. The lens zooms in on me. Snow and I are on TV, and I hate it.
Snow cries so hard that blood and snot come out of his broken nose all at once, making the red pool he’s lying in even bigger. Another camera whirs as the lens turns. That’s on TV, too, which I hate even more.
I
pull my jersey over my head and soak up Snow’s blood with it until it’s a sopping mess, and then I smear it on the first camera dome. The camera whirrs inside, trying to get focus through the bloody streak. I smear Snow’s blood on the next four of the twenty cameras, ruining their shots—
—And the playboy guy does a cartwheel and kicks me in the face. I fall backward into the open pit, and he jumps down and lands a knee against my gut, knocking the wind out of me. He goes for a jujitsu neck-hold, which I can’t let happen. He’ll choke me out cold. I grab his fingers and try to break them, twisting my head away and kicking at his ankles.
He releases me, but he jumps on my back as I scramble away. The floor above us closes, locking us in darkness for an instant before it opens again. He gets his forearm around my throat as a beam of disco light illuminates another treasure chest right in front of my nose. I open it and keep my head down. Another snake strikes at him. He recoils, and the snake slides away.
Further inside the metal chest is a glinting flash—diamonds. I grab the bag and hit the playboy in the face. The sharp stones rip open the velvet bag, and dozens of diamonds scatter everywhere on the padded canvas floor. The playboy scoops the diamonds up and stuffs them in his pants. The Dodgers fan jumps in and gathers them, too, and the two men kick at each other as they jam diamonds in their pockets.
I grab my blood-soaked jersey and smear down another four cameras as I make it back to the airline seats. I want to ruin this game, dodge these killers, and get one parachute.
I make it back to the chairs. Four metal treasure bins are open around me. Down in the rear open fight pit, the big white guy is already wearing a parachute and fighting his way to the back of the plane. Both the Arab and Ming block his way and pound at him with a wooden club and nunchucks, two against one.
The huge white guy finally gets tired of getting hit in face and chest and falls to one knee, right next to another treasure chest. He opens it, and a parachute flies out. Ming and the Arab both grab it—and they pull the release tab. The small deployment chute pops out, catches the wind going out the back of the plane, and the main chute bursts open in the cabin.
The big white guy gets tangled in the lines, knocked off his feet, and sucked out of the rear opening.
One fighter and two chutes are gone. Three chutes are left, and there are six people on the plane.
Ming is bleeding from his left ear. Someone ripped his wound back open, and blood streams down his left side. He’s also found the survival kit, which he clicks into place around his waist like a gigantic fanny pack.
The Dodgers fan and the playboy climb out of the front fighting pit, their jockstraps full of diamonds, as the Arab and Ming climb out of the rear fighting pit. They face off, two against two, while I’m stuck between the seats with no way past them.
“We kill him first,” the Arab says, pointing at me. I look out the window—I see water. We must be reaching the Sea of Cortez.
“We’re over water! This plane is crashing in less than half an hour! We need to find those chutes!”
They leap at me as I dive over the seats. I tumble in the rear fighting area and land on a wooden mace, wrecking my knee; I know it, even though I don’t feel it. The Arab grabs my shoulders from behind and smashes my face against the floor.
The pain jogs my brain, and an idea comes—Mr. Bill times three.
Three chutes, six passengers, three Mr. Bills. We can all get out of here.
The plane suddenly drops in altitude. We all rise off the floor and smash into the ceiling.
Chapter 51
* * *
Julia Travers
Game Day
Outside Cananae, Mexico
This runway is empty, but Steven was here. I can feel him. The wind sends waves through the tall yellow grass. A raincloud dumped water on us ten minutes ago, obliterating the footprints and tire tracks that were in the dirt, and ruining any evidence.
“There were trailers here! Three of them!” Agent Gorney shouts from the side of the runway. “They could be close by. We should check the highways.”
Two more Mexican Federal agents come rushing over. Our entourage has nine people now, and we’re all running around the old asphalt like chickens with our heads cut off.
“Hey!” Taylor waves from the top of the old metal tower at the south end of the runway. “There was something bolted up here! The tower is rusted, but the screws are new!”
Agent Tom Taylor walks up. His gray hair and gray suit flutter in the wind, but his red tie is still pinned flush to his white shirt with an FBI button.
“You were right about everything,” Agent Taylor says.
“Except that we got here too late,” I say.
“We got here as fast as we could with the information we had.”
The wind blows cold, and I tug my ski jacket tight around me. I’m glad I had the sense to bring this. Carl walks up in his crisp black suit and holds out a long piece of metal with threads on one end. “I think this is a bolt from an airplane.”
“It is,” Taylor says, nodding.
These guys are brilliant. They have an amazing grasp of the obvious.
“We‘ll make a line and walk the runway, see what else we can find,” Taylor says, turning the bolt over in his hand.
“The plane is already in the air; we need to track it somehow!” I scream. The men look at me, then go back to their chicken imitations, darting around, gathering shiny objects.
Carl steps close, buttons his jacket, then lowers and slows his voice to a soothing tone that he saves for clients whose loved ones have been kidnapped and are in grave danger.
“They’re checking all the flights in Northern Mexico right now. There are cargo flights, FedEx flights, leased planes, and vacation planes. Lots of planes to monitor.”
“And they’re contacting every plane that crossed the Air Defense Identification Zone,” Taylor adds, tossing the bolt in his hand. “We can’t just chase every one of them.”
“What about the broadcast?” I ask. “He wrote that the show would be transmitted on that special KU band.”
“They’re scanning all the frequencies. But if it’s a direct antennae-to-antennae broadcast—unidirectional—it’s hard to find.”
Federal Agent Jorge De La Mora runs over from the cars on the hill, with Mendoza and Gorney right behind. He’s holding a cellphone in the air.
“We found it! It’s flying low, headed west. Their flight plan says they’re taking photos for maps, but the pilot doesn’t answer. They’re transmitting very strong signals toward La Paz.”
“Can you stop it?” I ask.
“They’re putting jets in the air now,” Agent de la Mora says. “Maybe they can intercept it before it gets over water.”
“We need to find out what happens to those signals, who’s picking them up, and where they’re sending them,” I say.
“On it,” Glenn says, and yanks out his super cellphone. I wish he could just transport me with that thing.
I turn to Carl and grab him by both lapels. “I need to get to La Paz. Now.”
“You want me to call you a jet? You know more jetsetters than I do.”
He’s right. I pull out my cellphone and start scrolling. I find the number I want and dial.
“Who are you calling?” Carl asks.
“The head of Sony Pictures. In December, he wanted me to sign a three-picture deal, and offered to fly me to Taos on the company jet to go skiing with him, but I said no. Maybe he’ll fly me to La Paz right now for the same deal.”
Carl laughs and shakes his head. “Go for it, Hollywood. I love you.”
“Hey, I get things done,” I say, and put the phone to my ear.
Chapter 52
* * *
Robert Snow
Game Day
Somewhere over Mexico
It’s nice that my airline seat reclines all the way back in first class, but it sure hurts my back. I’m also bleeding all over the plane, so someone should really ha
nd me a towel and help me mop up. Plus, a drink would be nice. And a cookie. Where’s Tina? She must have gone to the bathroom. She’s going to love Ixtapa. Spring is the best time to visit that part of Mexico.
That’s weird—the ceiling has a blood smear on it. What kind of airline is this?
Oh, yeah, I’m on the floor by the cockpit door. The plane did something weird and I bounced off the ceiling. That’s my blood up there.
Tina’s not in the bathroom, either. She put me on this plane. I still love her, though. That proves that I know what love is. She doesn’t know love like I know love.
The plane feels weird, lying here on the floor. Like it’s rising up a hill… then going down a hill… then rising up a hill… then going down a hill… like a nice car ride in the country.
“Robert, look at me.”
It’s Quintana, that jerk. How’d he get down here so fast? “Leave me alone. You ruined everything.”
“How long is the flight? From takeoff to crash?”
“Forty-five minutes. Then the fuel runs out and the plane drops like a rock.”
“That gives us ten minutes,” he says, and drags me by the collar toward the back of the plane.
Chapter 53
* * *
Steven Quintana
Game Day
Somewhere Over Mexico
We were all unconscious for ten seconds. Not more, I hope. We hit a pocket of different air density when we reached water, maybe from the temperature change. The Arab guy shakes himself awake, then grabs for me again.
“Wait! I know how we can survive!” I shout, but the Arab keeps coming. I push his hands away and climb out of the fighting pit just before the floor closes over him. I dart toward the rear opening and catch my breath. I have a few seconds before it opens and he’s out again.
