“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Jake said, tapping his beer mug against Pete’s. “You’ve got skills. Military background?”
“Ten years,” Pete said. “The last six in the SFA.”
Jake’s cognitive abilities had allowed him to learn a number of languages. Irish wasn’t one of them.
Noticing his blank expression, Pete added, “Irish Army Ranger Wing. A lot of us in the business started out pounding the ground in one army or another. It amn’t easy settling in to a desk job after puttin’ time in the field.”
Jake nodded. He understood the sentiment all too well.
“So how do ye like our hideaway?” Pete asked.
They were seated at one of several tables in a private room at the back of a basement strip club in Kowloon. The bones of the windowless room resembled an old Western saloon, with a long bar, rustic flooring, and paneled walls illuminated by ornate sconce lights and a wagon-wheel chandelier. Except for the faint trace of spilled beer that lingered in the air, that’s where the Western theme ended. Classic rock played on a jukebox, and every wall in the room was adorned with framed photographs of action film scenes featuring locations in and around Hong Kong, each one autographed by one or more of the stunt actors featured in the shot. A modern lounge area dominated one end of the room, with a big-screen TV, leather furnishings, and a black-lacquered pool table that seemed to float atop an arched pedestal.
“I’m impressed,” Jake said. “Cops have their own bars. Why not stunt crews?”
“Yep. After all, it amn’t often that one gets a chance to tip a few with folks he died with, right? It’s like a home away from home when a crew’s in town for a shoot, which happens more often these days now that mainland China is getting into the act. The owner of the building has been a huge John Woo fan since the early days. He set up this space in the ’80s when Woo’s Triad films started drawing in teams from Hollywood. We call it the Wreck Room.” His lips curled into a smile. “That’s spelled W-R-E-C-K. The lads can get a tad rowdy in here when they’re twisted. But it’s all in good fun.”
Jake pointed toward the door leading to the strip club. “With all the comforts of home?”
“Oi, sure. A few of the younger lads partake from time to time. That’s just the way of it, eh? But most of us veterans like to get our excitement—and our women—the old-fashioned way. By being the craftiest tough bastards in the valley.” He tipped his mug, took a swig, and smacked his lips. “Like me da used to say, if ye protect and respect a woman, everything else will fall into place.” He nodded toward Skylar, who was sitting on a leather couch helping Lacey remove her disguise. “How else could I have won over a prize like her?”
Despite their age difference, Jake wasn’t surprised the two were more than just coworkers. “She’s a pistol, that’s for sure.”
“More like a double-barrel shotgun,” Pete said with a wink.
They toasted again and Jake embraced the respite. He knew it wouldn’t last long.
“Pete, I appreciate the help you’ve given us, more than you can imagine. And I’m not going to insult you by asking again if you want to stick with it. But things are about to get dicey.” He motioned toward the hardened men in the room, all of them of Asian descent, one changing the song on the jukebox, two more grabbing drinks at the self-serve bar, and another group hanging out around the pool table. They were in their twenties and thirties and wore casual street clothes. Pete had introduced them earlier, all of them part of the stunt game and each eager to help. “It’s more than just you and Skylar placing yourself at risk, and I can’t help but ask why you’re all willing to do it.”
Pete sat back in his chair and appraised Jake. “It’s a fair question,” he finally said. “The short of it is that Lacey is much more than simply someone we’ve worked with over the past several years. When Sky and I met her on her first film, we all became famous friends right then and there. The lass was so damn eager to learn and her enthusiasm was infectious. Other actors couldn’t wait to get back to their posh lifestyles at the end of a day’s shooting, but she’d prefer to hang out with us. Since then, she’s gone out of her way to insist that we’re part of her subsequent films, regardless of the rifts it caused with the bleedin’ directors and producers. That’s loyalty. And loyalty begets loyalty in our book, no matter the costs.” He paused before adding, “But it’s more than that. Our business is all about trust. Whether it’s trusting that the man standing across from ye in a staged bar fight knows how to hold his punch, or trusting that the team setting the effects explosives amn’t going to accidently blow ye to kingdom come, we trust one another with our lives. And that level of trust doesn’t disappear when ye clock out at the end of a shoot, any more that it does for soldiers fighting together. It sticks with ye. Like family. And in our world, family comes first. I suspect ye know what I mean.”
Jake nodded, fighting back a swell of emotion as he contemplated the debt he owed this man and his friends.
The din of conversation in the bar quieted when the front door opened and another crew member entered, carrying a motorcycle helmet, a roll of blueprints, and an iPad. He hung the helmet on a wall hook, nodded at Pete, and strode over to the lounge area.
“That’s Feng,” Pete said, pushing back his chair. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” He made his way toward the pool table. Jake and the others in the room gathered around.
“Sorry it took so long,” Feng said with a British accent. He looked to be in his early thirties, with a moppy haircut, piercing black eyes, and a sleeveless T-shirt that did little to hide his ripped build. He had an intensity that reminded Jake of Bruce Lee. “My friend at the planning office was on an extra long lunch break. But it was worth the wait.” He flattened the roll of blueprints on the table and several hands reached in to hold it in place. Then Feng brought up a satellite image of Kowloon on the iPad. He zoomed in on a cluster of tall buildings.
“We followed both cars to a former high-rise factory,” Feng said. “It’s in the Kwun Tong district.”
Though Pete and Skylar nodded, Jake and Lacey didn’t know the reference, so Feng added, “It’s one of the poorest and most densely populated areas of Hong Kong. It was largely industrial until China opened a Special Economic Zone across the river in Shenzhen. Since then, businesses have abandoned the district in droves, eager to take advantage of the trade incentives available within the zone. Most of the vacated facilities will be torn down to make way for more modern structures, but in the meantime many of them have been crudely converted to residential use.” He zoomed tighter on one of the buildings. “Like this one.”
Even from the satellite view, Jake could see that the drab building had seen better days. Skylar leaned in for a closer look. “How many stories is it?” she asked.
“Twenty-five.”
“And these buildings nearby?”
“Thirty to forty.”
Skylar turned to Pete. “Turbulent City?”
Pete’s brow furrowed. After a moment he said, “It’s possible, but risky.”
Feng zoomed in tighter on the rooftop of the target building. It was crowded with exterior ducts and equipment. “No way,” he said. A few of the other locals nodded.
Pete took a closer look. “He may be right.”
“Don’t be such wimps,” Skylar said. She pointed to a small structure in the center of the roof. “Plenty of space there.”
“That’s jam on yer egg, lass,” Pete said, studying the tiny space. “Wishful thinking amn’t going to make it so.”
“Oh, gimme a break.”
“Especially with the squirrelly winds running twixt those buildings.”
Lacey said, “Uh, I hate to interrupt your little argument here, but do you mind explaining what the hell you’re talking about? Where’s Turbulent City?”
“Oh, sorry,” Skylar said. “It’s not a real place. It’s a skyscraper flick we worked on. The producer ran out of money so it never made it into thea—”
“And
we never got paid,” Pete interjected.
“Anyway,” Skylar continued, “what we did was...”
A part of Jake’s mind drifted as she explained. He flipped through the pages of blueprints, glancing back and forth from them to the satellite view on the tablet. His brain placed one over the other as he memorized the layout and imagined himself moving from room to room.
Is his family there? Or Marshall?
Feng slid his finger across the iPad and the satellite image was replaced by a series of photographs that checkerboarded the screen. He zoomed on one and then slid from one to the next as he spoke. “We took these when we first arrived at the scene.” They were street-level shots of the area surrounding the building. The structure occupied its own small block, with rows of ground-floor shops and stalls along three sides and an alley in the back. Traffic was heavy and the sidewalks were packed with people.
“We’re going to need a distraction,” Jake said as he blinked at each photograph, storing them in his memory.
“Both coming and going,” Pete agreed, scratching his chin.
Feng and his local crew exchanged smiles. “That won’t be a problem,” he said.
The conversation continued, and before long a plan began to take shape.
After a while, Jake asked, “Where are we going to get all the equipment?”
“Follow me,” Feng said. He led Jake and Pete toward a door at the back of the room, entered a code on a keypad, and the lock clicked open. Stepping inside, he flicked on the lights and spread his hands like a magician revealing a surprise. “Walla!” The storage space was as large as the bar, with rows of pallet racks stacked with props and equipment. “After thirty years of films, our little club has collected a few things.”
As they walked down the rows, Jake saw air bags, air rams, mini tramps, tumbling mats, and all sorts of protective gear and rugged apparel designed for use by crews in various physical stunts. There was climbing gear, skydiving equipment, and much more, even a variety of costumes, including military and civilian uniforms. One section contained all manner of martial arts costumes and weapons. Jake inspected a Japanese katana, pulling the blade partway out of its scabbard. “Anything more modern than this?”
Pete and Feng exchanged a smile. “Oh, yeah,” Feng said. He rounded the end of a rack and unlocked a corner room. The secure space smelled of gun oil and powder. A workbench on the back wall supported two reloaders and some other equipment that Jake guessed had something to do with making explosive devices. The variety of well-kept weapons that hung from the surrounding pegboard walls ranged from pistols to light machine guns.
Jake nodded appreciatively. “You guys don’t mess around.”
Pete winked. “The job wouldn’t be half as much fun otherwise.”
As they exited the gun room, Jake asked, “What about the gear Skylar’s going to need?”
“It’s by the rear roll-up door,” Feng said.
“Then we’re set?” Jake asked.
“Set enough to get inside,” Pete said as the three of them started back toward the bar. “That’ll be the easy part. Finding yer friends and family will be another matter.”
Jake couldn’t argue with that. Each floor of the building had at least fifty thousand square feet of space. Excluding the ground-floor shops, that made over 1.3 million square feet. Couple that with the fact that the old factory was now subdivided into tiny apartments and they faced a daunting task. In his mind, he scrolled one by one through the sixteen exterior photos he’d memorized, noting the crusty exterior of the building, the hodgepodge of aging window fans, the maze of exterior pipes, and even the laundry hanging from open windows. He searched for any clues that might help narrow down their focus.
He was flipping to the ninth picture when his mind went blank.
He shook his head, trying to clear it, but it was no use. The image wouldn’t clarify in his consciousness, nor would any of the other photos, including those he’d pulled up a few seconds earlier. It was as if the folder containing the images had just been deleted. He tried to recall the page he’d memorized from the blueprint but the results were the same. A spark of panic ignited; the sensation was all too familiar. It had first happened two years ago, a few days after he’d buried the mini in a lead-lined box in his backyard.
He’d been in the open cockpit of the Pitts, flying at five thousand feet with a student in the back. They’d been halfway through an acrobatic maneuver when his brain had faltered and he’d lost control of the aircraft. He’d recovered before the slipup had turned into a disaster, but he’d taken the next week off while he tried to figure out what was wrong. He’d grown fatigued and anxious, his memory had blanked several times—more often with each passing day—and a part of him had worried his cancer had returned.
Until he’d dug up the mini.
The instant he’d opened the case, he’d felt rejuvenated. His mind had cleared, his senses had come alive, and his muscles had flowed with energy. It had been an instant high, accompanied by euphoria. The intensity had reminded him of what had happened to him years before when he carried it on his person day after day.
It had killed him.
It had been Timmy’s idea to create a semi-permeable housing for the mini, one that would allow a measured amount of its energy to pass through. And it had worked. The trickle charge Jake had received each night while he slept had kept him in balance. But it wasn’t available to him now and—like an addict going into withdrawal—that reality filled him with despair. It wouldn’t be long until he couldn’t function at all.
Pete’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Jake, did ye hear me? Are ye okay?” He and Feng shared curious looks. The three of them were still in the equipment room.
“Uh, sorry. Yeah, I’m fine. What did you say?”
“I was saying that with a day of recon, Feng and his boys should be able to infiltrate the building and narrow down the target location.”
“No way,” Jake said, glancing at his watch. “We go tonight.”
“But—”
“There’s no time to waste.”
Chapter 4
Hong Kong
MARSHALL WOKE WITH A START. He sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and the room seemed to spin around him. He latched on to the edge of the mattress to steady himself. Blinking through the crust in his eyes, he tried to make sense of his surroundings.
His body was stiff, his mind was foggy, and panic clutched at his chest. He was on one of two bunk beds, in a room that reminded him of his old dorm at UCLA, with a private bathroom, free-standing wardrobes, heavy-metal wall posters, and clutter surrounding the computer stations on each of four desks. An acoustic guitar leaned against one corner. The other beds were made but still ruffled. Though the room was windowless, a large, high-def LED screen on one of the walls streamed a colorful mountain scene that made the space feel light and airy.
Where the hell am I?
The last thing he remembered was the angry scowls of the three men who’d burst into his hotel room in Rome. There’d been a struggle, until one of them emptied the contents of a hypo into his neck and everything had gone black. He rubbed the puncture point. It wasn’t as tender as he might have expected. He traced his hand over his chin. From the light stubble, he guessed he’d been out for twelve hours or so, though the rumble in his stomach made him feel like it had been days.
The only door to the room was cracked open and he heard the hum of casual conversations in the distance. He rose on wobbly legs, steadying himself against the bed frame. That’s when he noticed the sleek bracelets wrapped around both wrists. The glimmering bands were about half an inch wide and double the thickness of a watchband. They were rigid and snug against his skin. When he rolled his wrists over, he saw that each had a hairline seam on the underside but no obvious way to unfasten them. He slid his fingers along the metallic edge of one bracelet, searching for a hidden release, squeezing and tugging along the way. But it was no use. He howled in frustration and s
lammed the band against the frame of the bed so hard that the impact sent a flash of pain up his forearm.
“Ouch!” a man’s voice said behind him. “That looked like it hurt.”
He whirled around but there was no one there.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Erickson,” the voice said with a refined British accent. It was coming through a ceiling speaker. “Did you sleep well?”
Marshall scanned the room and spotted the mini camera mounted on a corner of the wall. “Who the hell are you? And where the hell am I?”
“Oh, dear, there’s no need for anger,” the voice from the speaker said pleasantly. “We’re friends here, and you’re in a safe place. I’m terribly sorry about the dramatic manner in which we picked you up, but every second counted, and it was the only way we could remove you from their crosshairs before they pulled the trigger.”
The words sent a shot of adrenaline through Marshall. His mind began to clear and he recalled the emergency text he’d received from Francesca.
“You are a target of some very dangerous people, Mr. Erickson. As is your wife.”
“Lacey—is she okay?” he said breathlessly. “Is she here?”
“She’s fine. Our team had to wait for the right opportunity to pick her up. Security around her trailer was very tight. Of course that kept your enemies at bay as well. We finally picked her up after the shoot. She’ll arrive tonight.”
Relief swept over him, but it wasn’t enough to stem a growing sense of apprehension. “I wanna talk to her.”
“That’s quite impossible. She’s cruising at thirty-five thousand feet somewhere over Ukraine right about now and the crew is under strict orders to maintain radio silence.”
“Ukraine? What’s she doing over Ukraine? Where am I, anyway?”
“Why, you’re in Hong Kong, of course.”
“But—”
“Patience, please, Mr. Erickson. Your wife is safe. That’s what matters. And all your questions will be answered, I promise. I’ll be down in a few min—”
Brainrush 05 - Everlast 02: Ephemeral Page 2
