by Ian Bull
“Call me Boss Man, like Robert does,” he says. “My name isn’t important.”
The engines start up and the yacht starts to move. “The pilot will motor us out into the channel so we can drift with the current. It’ll give us a great view of the island during dinner.”
As the lights of Puamana shrink away, I feel trapped.
“Relax, Robert, I won’t make you swim to shore. Now, come see my tiger sharks.”
We follow him to the long white containers. Inside each is a three-foot-long brown shark with stripes. They swim the length of their containers, turn, and glide back down.
“You raise sharks?” Tina asks.
“Yes, and I release them into the wild. It’s one of my hobbies. We’ve destroyed nature’s necessary predators. I’m just trying to give them a fighting chance again.”
“Aren’t they dangerous?” I ask.
“They can be. A few years back, a couple went kayaking at sunset and couldn’t fight the winds to get back to shore. They drifted all night, and the woman kept jumping into the water to warm up. Her splashing attracted a tiger shark that bit her arm off. She died within an hour.”
Boss Man takes fish out of a bucket and trails it in the water, then lifts it above the surface. The shark accelerates and bites it from his hand in mid-air. Tina gasps and steps back.
“But there’s no reason for anyone to ever be in danger. Be aware, plan carefully, don’t take unnecessary risks, and don’t do anything stupid. That way, you’ll never get bitten,” Boss Man smiles at us, letting his lesson sink in.
The ship’s engines stop. We follow Boss Man up three sets of stairs and emerge on the top deck. Six canvas triangles trimmed with rows of tiny white lights connect above us, illuminating a long table with three place settings, plus pens, paper, a computer, and a large monitor.
“My chef is fantastic. You’ll love dinner,” he says, steering us to the business side of the long table. “But first, your presentation.”
Boss Man and I sit, while Tina plugs her flash drive into the computer monitor. She exhales, looks down at her feet…then hits play. Tina introduces Kahlil Omidi, the Arab...Miko Asenov, the Bulgarian...the Brazilian, Lucas Souza...Andre Uwase from Africa...and Rico (who she calls Richard) Perez from Honduras. The editing is tight. The fights are brutal, but flashy. Tina has created intros worthy of HBO Fight Night. I sneak glances at Boss Man, and his half-grin tells me he’s pleased.
Tina wraps it up. “We cast our Asian contestant in Hong Kong, and we can start preproduction as early as next week.” She gives a tiny bow.
Boss Man claps slowly, then leans back and closes his eyes. “Amazing job. Robert—when you first came to me with this idea two years ago, I didn’t know if we’d ever get to this point. And now, the show will debut eight days from tomorrow.”
Eight days. That’s the first time he’s given me an actual date—a week from this Saturday. I wanted three weeks. Eight days is tight, but I can do it. I’ll lock in the budget next, enjoy dinner, and get Tina back to the honeymoon suite by nine p.m., reality manifested.
“However, I have one note. And we must reveal everything to Tina,” he says, opening his eyes and sitting up. “But we can discuss all that after dinner.”
My stomach drops. One note? He taps on an iPad next to him. A service door opens, and three women in ship steward uniforms—one blonde, one, brunette, and one redhead—emerge with trays of food, which they lay on the table in front of us. Salad, fish, rice, sushi. The redhead steward pops a bottle of champagne and pours three glasses.
“To the most profitable show in history,” Boss Man says, raising his glass.
We clink and sip. During dinner, I sneak glances at him. He looks like a beachcomber, yet his clothes are expensive. His $20,000 Piaget watch proves he has money to burn. That, and the yacht with the female stewards. He’s around sixty, but looks forty-five. He’s had work done, but he’s also in great shape. Does he dye his hair, too? I glance at Tina, who raises her eyebrows. She’s studying him, too.
I don’t know his true identity. After searching online, I found his private investment group which funds “alternative” movies and programming. I presented myself as a producer with some moneymaking ideas. Boss Man is their CEO, leader, hedge fund manager, and Dark Lord. I’ve only met him once before. I’ve never seen a photograph of him. I heard rumors that he owned and sold a huge TV production company, that he consulted for Las Vegas casinos, ran a Wall Street hedge fund, and has ties to money in Dubai. Yet I don’t know his real name.
Boss Man now fills our wine glasses. “Tina, how much do you know about the game show you’ve been casting?”
Tina stops stabbing her salad and sips her new wine to be polite. The wind blows a few strands of hair across her face, which she gracefully pulls back into place. “I know that prisoners will fight each other, some to the death. I know they’re fighting for a chance at freedom and money. That’s all Robert told me, but it was enough for me to want to be involved.”
“That, and the money you will make,” Boss Man adds.
“Yes, thank you. And that Robert is producing. He’s got an amazing track record.”
“What do you know about my track record?” he asks.
“Nothing, except that Robert says you’re the best and I’m lucky to be working for you.”
Boss Man nods. Right answer. “Robert, bring Tina into the fold,” he says, leaning back.
I sit up straight. The more relaxed he appears, the more formal I want to be. “The name of the show is Six Passengers, Five Parachutes,” I say, and let it sink in.
Tina’s eyes widen. She gets it. Like any good show, the title says it all.
“It will be the ultimate pay-per-view event. At a set time, viewers will log on to a secure website. The show begins. Over the title sequence, we see six convicted killers board a DC-9 airplane in remote Northern Mexico. Dozens of mounted cameras will capture every angle as they are locked into their seats. A NASA transmitter will shoot these signals to a TV station in La Paz in Baja California, where a studio director and crew will add music and graphics. As the plane takes off, the audience will see each fighter in close-up, along with their intro package. Live betting will amp up the excitement as odds for each fighter run at the bottom of the screen.”
I pause for effect. The lights of Lahaina flicker in the distance. A ship’s bell tolls. We must be drifting past the harbor. Tina leans forward, which is a good sign.
“At 3,000 feet, the pilot puts the plane on autopilot. He locks the cockpit door behind him, puts on a parachute, opens the rear air door, and bails out. At that moment, the prisoners’ seatbelts unlock. There are six passengers, but only five parachutes hidden onboard, and in less than an hour, the plane will crash in the Pacific Ocean. The battle begins.”
It’s quiet except for the wind ruffling our clothes.
“I’d watch that show,” Tina says.
Boss Man laughs. “And a small but wealthy audience agrees with you. Six thousand people have paid $20,000 each for private access to our website. These are gamblers who play at $20,000 baccarat tables, so for them it’s nothing. But that’s 120 million dollars, just from the production. We’ll also take a two percent electronic fee for every bet placed, which will cover any big payouts, while making us another 120 million dollars. That’s almost a quarter billion, in one hour. But I asked Robert for a few guarantees,” He nods at me to continue.
“We can’t risk the fight being over in five minutes, or our viewers will be unhappy,” I say. “We must keep our prisoners fighting on that plane for as long as possible before bailing out—so we must give them more to fight over. We’ll hide food and water to survive in the desert. And two million dollars in diamonds in a small bag, so some lucky prisoner can win wealth with his freedom. Who will fight for food? Water? Money? A parachute? The choices they make in that hour will be thrilling.” I open my palms to Tina. “It’ll be the best show you’ve ever cast.”
Boss Man sips
his wine and stares up at the West Maui Mountains. High clouds glow silver from the moon hidden on the other side of the peaks. It will rise and break over the top soon and light up the entire channel. He looks at Tina. “This project puts us all at tremendous risk.”
“I have the stomach for it,” Tina says. “And I can keep a secret.”
“Good. To trust one another, we must address any concerns we have. What are yours?”
Tina sips water instead of wine, giving herself time to gather her thoughts. “I’m afraid of going to jail. I’m afraid of losing my son.”
“Reducing overall risk and keeping us secure is my job. What concerns do you have about the show itself? Where are the sharks coming from?” he asks. He props a leg up on a chair and smiles while running his finger on the rim of his wine glass.
“Can we trust the six thousand investors who bought into the game?” Tina asks.
Boss Man smiles. “They’ve all invested in other gambling ventures with me before. Each one knows that he’d be at risk if there was a security breach. We’re a suspicious group, so we police each other. In the four weeks since we launched the investing site on the DarkNet, there’s been one security hiccup, which we’ve already handled. We release information slowly. Only the three of us will know all the details. Everyone else—wardens, guards, prisoners, gamblers—only know a portion. And I can cancel production if the risk gets too high.”
Tina juts her chin out, more confident in her role as critic. “What about the people managing the site and the delivery system? Who are the bookmakers creating the odds, and who manages the payouts?”
“That’s my area. My people can be trusted. Winning bets are paid out instantly, and when the plane crashes, the site will disappear. And if I don’t feel right, I erase heads and clean house.”
Tina glances at me, probably wondering what “erase” means.
Boss Man continues, “In exchange, I trust you two with the security of the actual production itself. I give you all the resources you need to create the show, with zero mistakes. I then distribute it.”
“How do you get six prisoners to Northern Mexico without being detected?”
“Consider this yacht, Clairvoyance. Millionaires and billionaires lease yachts and jets from one another, and not just for pleasure. We often carry cargo more dangerous and illegal than six convicted killers. With a few calls and a few bribes, we can transport anything anywhere in the world.”
Tina bites the inside of her mouth, then exhales for courage. “My brother-in-law is a pilot. I know that every flight must register a flight plan—”
Boss Man interrupts her. “A flight plan is a story, and every plane, including the DC-9, will have a story that everyone believes. And if a mistake is made, the plane disappears,” he says, letting it sink in. “Just like people.”
Silence holds the table hostage. The breeze kicks up and the clanging of sea buoys mixes with the pulse pounding in my ears. Boss Man made Steven Quintana disappear. He stares at us with wide eyes, and I remember the tiger sharks on the bottom deck. We are now parallel with the lights of Kaanapali beach, and music from a luau drifts past the yacht, breaking the trance.
Boss Man faces Tina next. “Now let me share my fears about you. When you return from Hong Kong, you will have less than a week to mount this production. Each day, you will hire more people. How will you maintain secrecy?”
Tina twists a napkin under the table, but her response is fast and strong. “I will keep the crew small. I’d keep most of them in the dark about the details of the project, like you’ve done with me. Then, I’d pay them very well. The better you pay them, the less they want to know. And I’d make sure I know enough about them that I could punish them if they become a risk.”
“Great answers. Welcome to the club,” Boss Man says, raising his glass.
“Thank you,” she says, as they clink glasses and sip.
Boss Man taps his iPad again, and the three Barbie stewards appear from the service stairway. Two of them clear the plates, and the last brings a tray of fruit and chocolates with a stack of small dishes. Boss Man puts strawberries and chocolate truffles on a plate and pushes them toward us.
“Consider the project and the budget approved,” he says. “The intro packages are perfect. Once we cast our Asian contestant, just make his intro package as good as these. My team will add graphics and narration, and we’ll upload them to the site. Then, our investors can view the fighters and start early wagering while you two start preproduction.”
My lungs exhale, emptying me of tension. I pop a truffle in my mouth and it has a hint of anise. Tina and I will be walking on that beach soon, manifesting my reality.
“Now for your pay. How does twelve million work for you, Robert, and six million for you, Tina? Think that’s fair?” he asks.
Tina grabs the sides of her head like she just heard the voice of God. She nods, beyond happy. Boss Man pushes the tray of dessert toward Tina and she pops a strawberry, her eyes teary with thanks. It could be a dead mouse and she’d eat whatever he gave her.
He holds up one finger. “But I still have one note. I want an American contestant.”
Tina’s shakes her head and closes her eyes. She was right, even back in Honduras. I was too cocky; I thought our intro packages and our pitch would be like a bright and shiny trinket—so pretty that he’d approve everything and I’d just skate away. But my trick didn’t work this time; Boss Man is smarter than the usual network execs that buy my shows.
I could explain how impossible it will be to find an American in a foreign prison and how it’s too risky to infiltrate and bribe anyone in an American prison, but it doesn’t matter. With an American contestant, the betting will be huge. And with the amount of money he’s paying us, my answer must always be “yes.”
When Boss Man sees my fear, he moves around the table and sits by me. “Robert, our American doesn’t have to be a convict. If he can fight, people won’t care. Swap out the American for Andre Uwase. You can keep Rico, however. And call him Rico, not Richard.”
“It’ll be tough.”
“That’s why I hired you,” he says. Boss Man offers me another truffle, which I take with another sip of wine. I am both thrilled and terrified. If I find an American I’ll make twelve million; if not, I may die like Steven Quintana.
“One more thing—I’m going to Hong Kong with you so I can be more hands-on.”
“Hands-on?” I ask. I know he just offered me twelve million dollars, but if he gets any more hands-on, I may explode.
“We’ll travel by private jet tomorrow afternoon,” Boss Man says. He grabs his iPad from across the table, taps it, then hands it to me. A lanky Japanese man in punk attire appears on screen. “That’s Hachiro Kobayashi. He’s a Japanese game show designer. He’s going to help us punch up the plane’s interior, make it more compelling. Read up on him.”
Tina stares up at the half moon, still in shock.
“Tina?” Boss Man asks, bringing her back. “There’s a physical therapist I want you to meet. I think he can help your son. Let me show you the ship and I’ll tell you about him.”
He goes down the stairs, and she floats after him like she’s in a trance.
I get to the top rail and upchuck my five-star dinner in a brown streak down the side of the yacht. This is not the reality I envisioned for the past two years. Hugging the railing, I ease down the staircase. Physical therapist? How does he know so much about her son? Because he’s Boss Man and knows all, of course. When I reach the bottom deck, the two guys in black struggle with a young tiger shark flopping in the fishermen’s net.
“Grab its tail!” the guy with the black hair yells. “We have to get it over the side!”
I grab the thrashing tail, but the fish twists in the net and his teeth slice open my right forearm like surgical blades. I see the pink interior of my flesh, and then blood gushes out all over my white linen pants. The two men toss the fish over the side.
“That’s the l
ast one,” the one with the brown hair says. “I bet he’ll do some damage.”
I stare at the blood pulsing out of my arm in time with my heartbeat. I’m going to need stitches. The two fuckers in black see my dilemma and laugh.
“Look at that! He already has!” the other one shouts.
Chapter 17
* * *
Julia Travers
Day 6: Thursday Night
Malibu, California
Trishelle and I sit on the edge of the sofa, watching Major Glenn Ward wander the house and stare at his beeping toy while his electronic groove music whines on the stereo.
“That’s it, turn that music off,” Trishelle says, rising off the couch.
He looks at his toy one last time before turning down the volume on the stereo. “We’re clean. I can let Paul come in, but I want this on low to run interference.”
Glenn opens the front door. Paul Telles, my day-to-day agent from the Griffin Agency, walks in. He’s a slick and confident twenty-eight-year-old L.A. native with wavy black hair. He wears the agent uniform—a black suit with a blue power tie and matching pocket square.
“Even at ten at night you’re wearing a suit,” I say. I stand up and shake his hand.
“I’m working,” he says. “I don’t wear sweatpants to see clients.”
Glenn holds open a silver metal bag. “Please turn off your cellphone and put it in here. It’s a Faraday bag that blocks all incoming and outgoing signals.”
“Who is this guy?” Paul asks me, irritated that Glenn made him wait outside. Only after I nod at him does Paul reluctantly drop his cellphone in the bag. He then joins me on the couch. The curtains are drawn, and the room is dark except for a few flickering candles.
“I’m so sorry. This is the first time I’ve seen you since the shooting,” Paul says.
“Your phone calls helped a lot,” I say. “Thank you.”
Trishelle walks in with a glass of water for Paul and an iced coffee for me and places both on the table, like offerings. Paul and Trishelle nod hello. With the closed curtains, the low light, the weird music, and whispering, it feels like we’re in church.