Internal Threat

by Sussman, Ben

  A small black gift box with a white bow on top.

  He stepped on the brakes, earning a honk from the Bentley behind him. Matt ignored it, clambering back out. Waving his valet down, he held out the box.

  “You must have left this in the car.”

  “No, Mr. Weatherly. Yours.”

  “It’s not mine. Maybe another customer’s?”

  The man shook his head again, reaching for the box. “Yours,” he said emphatically, revealing a folded gift tag half-hidden beneath the bow. It read, “Matt Weatherly.” The valet turned at his name being called, nodded to Matt and hurried away.

  Matt shook his head. Weird, he thought. Maybe a secret admirer? Perhaps that hostess he had dated briefly at Il Cielo had moved over to Campanile and had seen him. He lifted the top of the box and pushed aside the creamy tissue paper that lay beneath it.

  A slim silver cell phone was nestled inside. Something that appeared to be an iPhone but a bit longer. The front was a smooth screen of smoked black glass. Before Matt could investigate further, a series of honks pulled his attention. The Bentley driver was angrily gesticulating for him to get out of the way. Matt waved apologetically and climbed back into his Porsche while tossing the gift box on the passenger seat. Within a few minutes, he was cruising down Sunset Boulevard towards his office.

  The high-rise tower came into view just as his Blackberry rang. He thumbed it, shoving his Bluetooth into his ear.

  “Matt, are you on your way?” a female voice chirped with annoyance. It was his assistant, Eden, a bright and pleasant girl whom he had promised to show the ropes of the business to after she finished college this year.

  “I am, what’s up?”

  “TekStar Media keeps calling and I don’t know what to tell them.”

  “Call Colin. It’s his account.”

  “I have, but he hasn’t answered my calls, emails, texts. I was thinking of sending smoke signals next.”

  “OK, fine. Tell TekStar I can do a conference call in twenty minutes. I’ll calm them down.”

  “Thank you,” Eden said, clearly relieved.

  “And find Colin,” he ordered before ending the call. He decided he would also make an attempt himself. It was not like his protégé to be absent or even late. Maybe he had caught a spell of the flu that Luke had been inoculated against.

  A couple of his own calls and texts went unreturned, confirming Eden’s story.

  Matt made a right turn into the sunken driveway of his building, entering into the cool darkness of subterranean parking. He glanced at the Porsche’s dashboard clock and mentally calculated his time upstairs to the office to make the newly set conference call. Before climbing out, the gift box caught his eye and he snatched it off the seat.

  An elevator whisked him to the top floor of the high-rise and he exited to find Eden waiting for him.

  “You’ve got three minutes until the call,” she informed him. Without waiting for a response, she slapped a file folder into his hand. “This was everything that was in Colin’s office.”

  Matt nodded his thanks and moved towards the glass-walled conference room overlooking the busy streets below. “Keep trying him.”

  There was a loud ping that surprised both of them. It chimed again.

  Matt looked around in confusion but Eden pointed at his gift box. “It’s coming from in there.” Matt pulled the top off, revealing the phone. A blue text box informed him that there was a text message waiting. “Cool,” Eden said. “I haven’t seen one like that before.”

  Matt withdrew the phone from the box, pressing the screen to open up the full text message. The words instantly popped up:

  Colin is dead.

  The breath froze in Matt’s lungs.

  Eden had turned away, not seeing the text. She was sprinting for the ringing telephone at the front desk. Answering it, she called out to Matt. “It’s TekStar.”

  He ignored her, flinching slightly as another text message popped up:

  Photo message arriving in 3…2…1

  Matt’s legs nearly buckled from the image on the screen.

  On it, Colin Nemec stared with vacant eyes, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

  “Matt?” Eden was next to him now.

  “Cancel the call,” he whispered, hiding the screen from her.

  “What? But they’re waiting. What should I-”

  “Cancel it,” he barked, heading for the nearest door he could put himself behind. It was the one that belonged to a nearby empty office that he shut. He waited for another text message for a full minute but nothing arrived. Another sixty seconds came and went.

  Then the phone rang.

  It merely said, Incoming Call, on the screen. Matt pressed it to answer.

  “Who is this?” he demanded.

  “Mr. Weatherly, I am only going to tell you this once.” The voice was male, cold and dispassionate.

  “Wait just a damn minute. What did you do to Colin-”

  “Go to your house. Right now. Be there in the next fifteen minutes.”

  Matt stole a look at a wall clock in the office which read 3:44pm, his heart pounding before he even heard the man’s next words.

  “Or your son dies.”

  Six

  Please, please, please…

  3:46pm. Thirteen minutes before the killer said he would harm Luke.

  The Porsche’s tires squealed out of the parking garage in a cloud of brake dust. It turned on to Sunset Boulevard, narrowly passing a brown pickup truck dawdling in the right lane. Matt downshifted, flooring the accelerator.

  3:48pm

  A yellow light at the Crescent Heights intersection made Matt’s heart jump. He urged the car forward, focused on the crosswalk as the traffic light popped to red and hoping like hell that none of the pedestrians on the corner were feeling especially entitled today. Horns blared in his ears as the Porsche rushed through the intersection with nobody crossing its path. He released the breath he did not realize he was holding tightly in his chest.

  3:51pm

  The street was now wide open with just a few cars dotting it before Matt’s turnoff. His own car was a black blur to the people on the sidewalks, an engine that was roaring past being pushed to its limits.

  Matt had been calling his home number the entire ride, repeatedly getting the voicemail.

  Damnit, Ana! Pick up! he thought.

  3:53pm

  Tires screeched on the asphalt as the Panamera cornered with precision. Matt braked briefly to avoid losing control and then sped away. His road was full of the twists and turns common to the Hollywood Hills, making the going slow enough for him to pound the steering wheel in frustration.

  3:56pm

  Nearly there. He had given up on making any more calls. A glance at the dashboard clock let him know that he was cutting the deadline close. The roofline of his house appeared over a crest in the hill. Hang on, Luke. I’m almost-

  He slammed on the brakes.

  Shit!

  A neighbor was crossing the street without looking, her white Chihuahua trotting on a rhinestone leash in front of her. Her mouth gaped as Matt’s car came barreling towards her and the dog, no time to react. The Porsche slid to an instant stop. Seeing that both were uninjured, Matt maneuvered the car around them as the woman angrily shook her fist and unleashed a stream of obscenities after him.

  3:58pm. Only one more minute.

  The car skidded to a stop in Matt’s driveway, driver door swinging open as his feet hit the pavement.

  3:59pm

  “Luke!”

  The front door nearly bounced off its hinges as Matt charged through. He raced into the living room where the television screen played a Japanese cartoon with the sound muted. Finding this room otherwise empty, he rushed into the kitchen. A pan and two dishes lay freshly scrubbed on the counter next to the sink, but there was no one here either.

  “Luke! Ana!” he called out.

  His voice echoed back, reverberating off the steel c
ounters and appliances.

  Quiet, he ordered himself.

  One of the skills he had obtained in the heat of battle was the ability to simply listen. At times, the yells and shouts that came with military chaos would drown out the more important din of the enemy’s movement. Matt forced himself not to yell out again, the sounds of the house gradually filling his ears. He glanced at his watch. The fifteen minutes had passed. But where was—

  A sound brushed by his ears. Something fleeting but recognizable. Matt strained to hear it again.

  A light tinkling sound.

  He turned around, heading towards the source – the bathroom door down the hallway. It was shut firmly. Matt approached, placed his ear against the wood. The sound of water hitting water was clearly audible beyond. He steeled himself, taking hold of the doorknob and pushing it open.

  A ghastly vision struck his eyes.

  Ana lay in a half-filled bathtub, her eyes open but unseeing. Her throat had been opened up from ear to ear, blood coursing out from the wound. It splashed into the half-filled tub of water, causing the sound that had drawn Matt inside.

  “Ana!” Matt cried out, rushing towards the tub. He slipped, knocking his elbow on the toilet. He noted the blood on the floor, staining the white marble tiles. By the time he was closer, he realized that any help he could give was already too late. The blood was already slowing its pumps out of the gash, meaning that her heart had stopped long ago.

  “Holy hell,” he mumbled, then forced himself back to standing.

  What kind of monster did this? Why was this happening? And, most important of all, where was his son?

  “Dad?” Luke’s voice caused him to spin around. His son stood in the doorway, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

  “Luke! Thank God, thank God,” Matt was at his side instantly, clutching him fiercely.

  “Is that Ana?” Luke managed to squeak, his eyes widening in shock.

  Matt pushed him back out of the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. “Don’t look.” He knelt down, boring his eyes into his son’s. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  Luke’s mouth worked but no sound came out. Matt shook him by the shoulders to emphasize the importance of the question. “Are you hurt?” he repeated.

  Luke shook his head. “No. I’m fine, Dad. I wasn’t feeling well so I went to my room to read. I must have fallen asleep.”

  Matt’s mind raced. What the hell is going on here?

  Before he could form another thought, the silver cell phone rang.

  Seven

  Ashley Kane was confused.

  It was a feeling so wholly unfamiliar to her that she found it deeply unsettling. Her feet were carrying her to the Buzz Coffee shop at the end of the block but her mind was busy chewing on what had just happened.

  Right after lunch, her assistant informed her that a group of executives from TekStar Communications were on the line. Ashley knew the company was a client of Weatherly and his boy wonder so why were they calling her? Of course, she also understood that it must be because something was wrong and they were looking to shift their rather substantial business.

  Ashley hopped on the phone, shutting the door to her office. “This is Ashley,” she said smoothly, silently ticking through the firm’s facts on her computer to make sure she was up to speed.

  “Miss Kane,” said an unctuous voice on speaker phone. “This is Peter Murlson. You know who I am?”

  “Of course,” she replied quickly. “You’re TekStar’s Chief Technology Officer, sir.” Thank you, Google, she added in her head.

  “Good. You’ve got a window of opportunity here. Let’s see what you can do with it.”

  Ashley knew that she could do a great deal with it. All her professional life, she had taken the ball and run with it. Her only impediment had been getting the pass from the right player.

  “Mr. Murlson, I know you’ve been a client of Matt Weatherly’s company for a couple of years now. Obviously, they’ve done something to disappoint you.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I can’t say it’s completely unexpected but I’m not here to speak badly about competitors,” even though I just did, she thought. “You’re calling me because you think my company can make things right. And let me assure you, before you tell me anything else, that we can and will make things right for your business. Sound good?”

  There was a beat of silence on the other end which Ashley knew indicated that Murlson was casting his eyes around the conference room he was surely in, gauging the effect of her words on his coworkers. It was only in this moment that Ashley ever felt unsure of herself; the breathless seconds of silence when her prospect was weighing their decision. The moment before they said, as Peter Murlson said now:

  “Alright. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

  With that sentence, Ashley knew she had the deal; all she had to do was close it. Within thirty minutes, she had a verbal commitment from TekStar to move their server space to one of her buildings. When she hung up, she let the endorphins that victory typically brought flood her system before telling her assistant she was going downstairs for a much-needed caffeine break.

  On sun-splashed Beverly Boulevard, Ashley came back to the same nagging question: how could Weatherly have let such a client slip away?

  She tried pushing the thought out of her mind, giving a smile to the barista who greeted her by name when she walked through the door. Her usual triple shot of espresso slid across the counter, giving Ashley a good reason to throw a five dollar bill in the tip jar. Taking her cup, she grabbed a seat at an outside table and found herself staring across the street at the entrance to the CBS Studios lot.

  The gates brought back a rush of memories of Ashley’s arrival in Los Angeles. Had it really been only ten years ago that she did her first extra work on that lot? She recalled stepping through the gates, thinking that she had just taken the first steps on the path to stardom.

  All of her young life she had wanted to act, but knew there was not much point in doing it in her small Texas town. A brief visit to the commercial hub of Dallas confirmed her suspicions that if she wanted to do anything of importance, anything where her talent would actually be seen, it had to be where the industry lived and breathed. So it was that she found herself at eighteen years old with two thousand dollars of her life savings and her father’s ancient Buick LeSabre, taking up residence in a crumbling Hollywood Boulevard walkup.

  Her first two years were a blur of waitressing jobs and extra work. Nowadays, she found it amusing to spot herself in the Central Perk background of a Friends rerun or a city crowd shot of Law & Order. At the time, however, it was grueling work that paid little and did nothing to help her earn a coveted Screen Actors Guild card. The fellow toilers she had met when she first moved out had all gone back to their hometowns, disheartened by the lack of opportunities they thought would be abundant here.

  But that was not Ashley Kane. Quitting was not something she took lightly and it was the last thing on her mind.

  Finally, her break came. She had just begun a waitress job at the legendary Musso & Frank’s restaurant, which was already looking like it would be a short term proposition. Coming off a background acting job that consisted of standing on her feet for a week straight, Ashley was suffering from exhaustion that manifested itself as simple clumsiness. The manager shot her looks of loathing after she spilled customers’ drinks for two nights in a row. It was towards the end of her third night’s shift when a distinguished older man in a ghastly patterned tie sat in one of her booths.

  “Martini, dry. Bowl of cream of tomato soup,” he said gruffly, not bothering to look up when she approached.

  Ashley nodded and came back with the order a few minutes later. In her determination to not upset the martini glass, she allowed herself to relax while placing the soup on the table. Slightly fumbling it, a large splash ended up on the man’s tie. He gasped and looked up at her.

  “I am so sorry,” Ashley offered. And
so fired, she thought to herself. The man was glaring at her so she decided to add, “Guess it’s a good thing nobody will ever spot it on that tie.” If she was going to go out, it may as well be with a blast.

  The manager hurried over, fawning over the customer. “Mr. Corbert, I’m so sorry. Please send me the cleaning bill. I assure you this young lady will never wait on you again.”

  Corbert did not hear him, though. His face had broken into a wide smile which quickly turned into a hearty laugh. He waved the simpering man away but not before the manager shot a murderous look at Ashley.

  “I should go pack my things. If you’ll excuse me,” Ashley said to the customer.

  “Wait,” Corbert said. “I like the way you delivered that line. You’re an actress?”

  Ashley gestured at her waitress outfit. “Clearly.”

  The man fished out a business card, handed it across the table. The cream white paper had elegant black lettering on it that read, “Ronald Corbert Films.”

  “Call me tomorrow. I’ve got a script I’d like to show you.”

  Ashley pocketed the card with a mumbled thanks and headed off. It was not the first time that a male stranger had given her a fancy business card that identified him as a producer or agent. It had taken her only a couple of those instances to realize that the men seldom had acting parts in mind for her.

  On her way home, however, she called a friend of hers who worked at a talent agency. “Ever hear of him?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding? The guy’s a legend,” her friend replied, causing Ashley’s pulse to quicken. “He’s the king of the B-movies, been around for decades. You should totally call him.”

  The next day, Ashley was ensconced on a black leather couch in Ronald Corbert’s Burbank office. She was surrounded by movie posters featuring titles such as “It Came From The Deep” and “Screaming Jailbait” with the lurid artwork to accompany such names.

  Corbert was deposited behind a large oak desk covered in stacks of screenplays. “I make about thirty films a year,” he said matter-of-factly. “And I’ve been doing this for a long time so I know how to spot talent. There’s a picture starting in two weeks that I think you’d be perfect for.”