by Ian Bull
He wants answers, and he plans to get them out of me.
I see my reflection in the tinted window. My cheeks are swollen and blue. My eye is swelling up. He beat me, and he’s going to beat me again.
The ship’s engines start up. The tender couldn’t be back already. He’s leaving Carlos ashore as well. Douglas, Devon, and I are the only people on board. Douglas will run the ship from his computer tablet. It’ll be easy. It’s a straight shot to the middle of the Tyrrhenian Sea, where he’ll board another yacht and sink Reckoning. The only question is whether Devon and I will be on that new yacht with him or sinking with this one.
He’ll be back in two minutes. Goosebumps make me realize that I’m still naked. I pull on a terrycloth robe and yank it tight.
Always have a plan.
Maybe there’s something in the wet bar. A tool. A knife. The fridge holds only vegetables for juicing, vitamins, and fish oil supplements. My face swells from all the blood rushing to my injuries. It’s tingling, but there’s too much adrenaline in my body to feel pain.
His bullet blender is on the counter, the one he uses to make his green smoothies, and his coffee with yak butter and MCT oil. I yank it apart and pull out the circular chopping blade.
Next stop is the bathroom. Anything here? There’s a mop in the cleaning closet. My mind flashes back to my days mopping up in the Italian restaurant in my late teens. I won’t go back to that.
Next to the closet is his hexagon-shaped cryochamber. I open its door a touch. I then face the mirror, place the blade on the counter, then put toothpaste on a toothbrush.
The door unlocks. I wrap a hand towel tight around my hand, and hide the blade under it, then pick up the toothbrush and start brushing. My reflection shocks me. The entire left side of my face is black and purple, and my left eye is swollen shut. He walks into the bathroom and stands behind me, catching my eyes in the mirror.
“Hello, beautiful.”
I spit out toothpaste. “Hello, my love.”
“You moved. I told you to stay on the bed.”
“I was worried about my breath. And I wanted to—”
“What?”
I start to cry. “Put on makeup. To cover my …”
He makes a shushing sound and moves close behind me. He slides his smartphone out of his pocket and shows me the screen. There’s a black and white QR code on it.
“That’s the code for our bitcoin account. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
“That’s what a billion dollars looks like, turned it into a black and white digital painting. See?” He shows me with his thumb, as if teaching me how to use an app. “Just touch the app on the screen and this pops up, along with our 27-digit code. And, now, we can go anywhere in the world. Be anything. Be anyone.”
“Total freedom. We can reinvent ourselves.”
“And I can find my Einsteins. And all the money is yours.”
“Mine?”
“All of it. I already have money, remember? You earned this. And we won the game. And you remember what I chose for the passcode to my phone?”
“My birthday.”
“That’s right. Because we love each other.” He slides his phone inside his pocket and puts both hands on the counter, trapping me between them. My eyes catch his and he leans close. “The only question is whether it’s the three of us, or the two of us. Just tell me what Devon did. You don’t want to see him—”
Devon’s name is the trigger. My clenched left fist flies back with the blender blade, driving it straight into his left eye. He screams and staggers back. I spin and punch the base of my palm into the same spot, slamming the round plastic base flush with his eye socket.
He staggers back against the cryochamber. The door falls all the way open and I push him inside, close it, then jam the long mop between the door handles. He kicks against the door, almost breaking the metal and wood. I press my back against it, then search with my hand along the outside, find the control panel, and turn it on high. It hums to life, blasting cold air. He kicks again and almost breaks through.
I prop my legs against the marble bathroom counter, bracing my back flat against the cryochamber doors. My thighs are strong from years of running, which I intend to do for years more, once I get off this yacht.
“I loved you, Douglas. Right up until you hurt me.”
The chamber is louder now. Frozen nitrogen gas seeps through the crack against my back. It’s so cold it burns me, but it’s Devon and me against the world again.
He screams and kicks against the doors with new strength. He knows it’s life or death for him now. The doors flex and almost open against my back. I lock my knees and push my feet against the marble edge. I can stay this way for hours.
61
CARL WEBB
Monday, March 18, 9:00 a.m. (CET)
Approaching Rome
I pace the narrow aisle of the Lear Jet, staring at my phone, willing it to ring. This plane lands at the Rome airport in thirty minutes and Interpol is supposed to send a message that an Italian Special Forces team and helicopter is waiting for me. Glenn and my Miami office arranged it, but there’s no confirmation. Nothing. Nada.
“Sit down.” Trishelle pats the plush leather seat next to her.
“I’ve called in every favor I have stashed in every country around the world, and, after this, I’ll have nothing left. And I’m hundreds of thousands in debt.”
“Do you mind?” Larry Naythons asks. “I’m trying to conduct an interview.” He swivels in his thick leather chair next to Julia, who’s propped up on a medical gurney and wearing a gauze bandage on her head as big as a turban, which then wraps down the right side of her face, covering her right eye.
I hold up my phone. “I’m trying to arrange an international arrest.”
“And you’re still on my jet, Mr. Webb.”
I plop down next to Trishelle. She squeezes my arm and smiles. At least she knows what’s at stake.
My ear hurts from being on the phone all the way from San Diego to the East Coast. After we refueled in NYC, I couldn’t reach anybody, so I slept for four hours—my first solid sleep in three days.
When we got close to Spain, the Italian Army finally called. My company provided expertise when they rescued Italian oil refinery workers kidnapped in Mozambique a few years back. Because of that they have agreed to help me now, but only if Interpol confirms the evidence Glenn submitted about Bushnell and his yacht. It turns out that they’ve been seeking a positive ID on him and want Bushnell for their own reasons. But for the past two hours it’s been silent.
My survival pack is ready, just in case we end up floating on a life raft in the Mediterranean. My Taurus is on my hip, fully loaded with spare ammo on my belt. It’s a little gift from the Brazilians as they submitted their invoice for two hundred thousand dollars, plus fifty thousand dollars to the Mexican Coast Guard for looking the other way. They require payment by Friday.
I am so fucking broke.
My headset is around my neck, ready to plug into any walkie the Italians give me. But, no matter how hard I stare at it, I can’t make my phone ring.
I look at Trishelle. “If this doesn’t ring soon, we’re screwed.”
“Staring at it won’t help.”
If McCusker and Gum got their warrant and are inside the Malibu house, it may all be over anyway. They and the FBI could nix our plan with Interpol before we even get to Rome.
Julia laughs, still radiating star appeal.
“How does she do it? She was trapped in a cement bunker a few days ago.”
Trishelle nods. “Because she’s a pro.”
“She must be in pain.”
“From the burns? Or from talking to Naythons?”
Naythons glares at us. He heard that. He had a row of seats taken out, so they could fit in the gurney and the beeping machines. The reporter he dragged along is in the closest seat, aiming a smart phone at them. That’s all you need to do interviews now.
“I must check her,” Doctor Isaac says from the aisle behind me. Naythons forced Doctor Isaac and the nurse, a Navy Ensign named Sarah, into seats in the back, to keep them out of the shot.
Naythons waves him away. “I need ten more minutes.”
“Let him do his job,” Julia says, and waves him over. The celebrity always wins.
Dr. Isaac darts to her side. He checks her pulse, then slides a blood pressure cuff up her arm. “Your bandages are getting wet again. We’ll have to change them.”
Larry holds up his hand. “Can’t it wait until we land? We’re almost there.”
My phone finally rings. I answer fast. “This is Webb.”
“Carl, it’s Bruno.” Hearing his voice makes me smile. Colonel Bruno Cappello and I have helped each other several times over the past decade.
“I’m glad it’s you, Colonel. What’s the news?”
“We’re in contact with Major Glenn Ward. Reckoning is headed toward Sardinia, two hundred miles west of Rome, and they’re moving fast.”
“What are you flying?”
“An A129 Mangusta. We can cross the Tyrrhenian with it, but we cannot crisscross the sea looking for them. And we’re going to burn fuel going full speed.”
“Understood. Glenn says the yacht has a helipad. We can touch down, get them, then go on to Sardinia.”
“Interpol says that the FBI wants to arrest you when you land in Rome.”
Naythons waves at me. “Mr. Webb? Can you sit down and be quiet please?”
I keep talking. “Can they wait and arrest me in Sardinia? After we catch Bushnell?”
“I’ll see you on the tarmac,” he says, and hangs up. Bruno didn’t say “yes,” but he didn’t say “no,” either.
The landing gear clunks into place. The steward touches my arm. “Please sit down, sir, we’re landing.”
I buckle in, then watch Naythons pepper Julia with more questions. He never lets up, and she doesn’t fade. I don’t understand the celebrity game, but I have to admit they’re both pros.
“Be honest, is all this real?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re an amazing actor and a successful producer. The explosion at your Malibu press conference was only nine days ago. Some people doubt it even happened.”
“You saw the episodes. Of course, it happened.”
“People are saying you produced it all. The explosion, the kidnapping, The Danger Game, The Rescue Game—even the bandages and this plane ride. It could all be an elaborate hoax designed to make money, or a brilliant new kind of entertainment. What do you say to your critics?”
Julia stares at him with a frozen blank face. But knowing Julia, she can’t be stunned. She finally laughs.
“The same haters said I was a dumb blonde who just got lucky. Now, they say I’m an evil genius capable of constructing a gigantic secret conspiracy. That would make me a brilliant dumb blonde, wouldn’t it?”
Naythons didn’t get the answer he wanted…until he laughs too. The wheels touch down. When the cameraman lowers his smart phone, Julia makes a cutting motion. “Interview over. Done.”
“No, it’s not.” Larry wags his finger at her.
“Yes, it is, love. We’ve arrived. That was the deal.”
“And you’re here because of me. Quid pro quo, Julia Travers.”
“True. We need each other. So, thank you.”
He puts his hands in prayer position. “You’re welcome.”
Julia smiles, then stares out the opposite window to avoid looking at him.
We taxi to an isolated section of the airport, where a Blackhawk helicopter is waiting. Colonel Bruno Cappello stands by the open door of the sleek, green, Italian Army chopper, already in his flight suit with his helmet under his arm.
I slide on my survival pack and tighten my vest. The moment the steward lowers the staircase, I’m down the steps with my headset on. Cappello tosses me my walkie talkie, and I plug in.
His voice crackles. “We leave in sixty seconds.”
“Copy.” I flash him the thumbs up as he boards the chopper through the copilot door. With Bruno, the pilot, copilot, and me, it’s a four-man operation. He probably didn’t even file a proper flight plan.
“Carl!”
Trishelle runs toward me. Behind her, Dr. Isaac, Ensign Sarah, the two stewards, and even Naythons are lifting Julia on her gurney out of the plane and onto the tarmac. The reporter is still shooting it all.
Trishelle gets close. “Julia insists she gets to go. She wants to stare at Tina Swig in handcuffs as you fly them to jail.”
Shit. I forgot that was the deal. The helicopter starts, and the blades whip up wind around us. Julia stares at me with one blue eye, her hair on the left side of her head flapping alongside the bandages. Even with one eye, her thousand-yard-stare could drop a gazelle on the Serengeti.
I have to admit, I’d like to see that too. I click my walkie. “Requesting permission to bring a doctor, nurse, and patient on a gurney.”
Inside the chopper, Bruno leans between the pilot and copilot as they gesticulate like frustrated Italians. Bruno crackles back on. “Six max. Only the patient and the doctor.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“Carl, dopodiché, siamo pari. After this, we are even. Capiche?”
It helps that I rescued his men before. “Capiche. Grazie.”
I walk back to the group. The reporter lifts his smartphone to record me, but I shoot him one glare and he lowers it. “Julia and Dr. Isaac only.”
Dr. Isaac and Ensign Sarah get Julia, her gurney, and the first aid kit onto the helicopter in record time. Navy medics know their shit. Ensign Sarah backs away. I climb on after the doc. Of course, the reporter is recording video as the chopper revs up. Trishelle, my guitar-playing muse, blows me a kiss as I close the door.
62
JULIA TRAVERS
Monday, March 18, 11:00 a.m. (CET)
My face and scalp feel like burnt meat. My body screams for pain killers.
Why did I look when I slammed down that rock? Steven told me not to look.
Steven, where are you right now? Are you awake? Alive?
The wind screams through the open side window of the helicopter. Water is far below. The bandages are too tight to turn my head, but Carl and Dr. Isaac are just a foot away. The wind shakes us like a toy.
Dr. Isaac yells in my ear. “I’m changing the bandages!” He peels off the layers of gauze surrounding my skull. When he reaches bare skin, the shock of the wind hurts at first, and then numbs me.
“How do I look?”
“I’ve seen worse.” He applies fresh gauze and wraps me up with new bandages. He does it perfectly, even with the wind blowing in the helicopter. He has bandaged wounded people on windy helicopters before, probably with people shooting at him.
No more self-pity. Steven looked worse after our last adventure, when Heyman made him look like a turtle. I shot him as we were lifting off, and I’m glad. I hope he’s bleeding to death under a cactus. I wish I had that rifle again, so I could shoot both Tina and Bushnell and watch them die.
No. That would make me worse than them. Just watching her get handcuffed will be enough. Then, I’ll stare at her the entire way back to shore.
Minutes pass. The pain increases. Dr. Isaac stares at me. “I’m going to give you a painkiller. To rest.”
“No! Give me something to keep me awake.”
He glances to the side and confers with someone on my blind side. It must be Carl. Isaac nods and turns back to me. “Okay. You will feel invincible, but you’re not. You’re wounded. Understand?”
I nod. He preps the needle, and it goes into my arm.
Walkie talkies crackle, then Carl’s face leans in front of mine.
“We spotted the yacht. We’re landing in five minutes.”
Steven, if you can hear me, it’s happening. It’s ending now.
63
STEVEN QUINTANA
Monday, March 18, 2:00 a.m. (CE
T)
The ocean is warm. The water rises and falls under me, just far enough off the beach that the swells haven’t turned into waves yet. A turtle pops his head up next to me, then another. It breathes through its black beaked nose and blinks…then goes back under.
Honu. Hawaiian for turtle. My leg is bleeding. The water around me turns dark as wine. A huge fin passes by. A shark. They always show up whenever I’m hurt and in the water.
Someone squeezes my hand. It’s the turtle again, except turtles don’t have hands.
“Steven, you’re in a coma. But I know you can hear me.”
The turtle sounds just like my brother Anthony. In fact, he transforms into Anthony right before my eyes. Except he’s a thirteen-year-old version of Anthony, and our family’s camper van is on the beach, and my parents are waving next to the campfire because dinner is ready. We’re on the beach in Baja, one of the best trips of my life, when I learned how to surf, speak Mexican slang as good as my father, and we saw turtles.
“If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
What’s the big deal, Tony? I squeeze his turtle hand as we float there in the water.
The sky pulses. A vibration moves through me.
Steven, if you can hear me, it’s happening. It’s ending now.
That’s Julia’s voice, barely there, but it vibrates through the water. No. It’s part of the breeze. The sky moves like a sheet that someone’s shaking.
“You’re going back into surgery,” Anthony says, and he lets go of my hand.
My body sinks under the water and falls back asleep.
64
TINA SWIG
Monday, March 18, Noon (CET)
Devon and I are not starting over. That money is ours.
I left the cryochamber running while I spent the night with Devon. When he saw my battered face and no Douglas, he knew what I’d done without having to ask. He’s a smart boy and trusts his mother.