Six Passengers, Five Parachutes (Quintana Adventures Book 2)

by Ian Bull

  Trishelle points at Glenn as she walks to open the door. “You boys play nice. Julia and I don’t need another pissing contest in here.”

  Paul bounds in with an iPad, wearing the same black suit, but with a new shirt and tie. “Ask, and I deliver. I have a QuickTime movie to show you,” Paul says as he strides into the living room. He pulls the drapes shut and puts the iPad on the coffee table.

  “Is that tablet secure?” Glenn asks. He moves to touch the iPad, but Paul blocks him.

  “Don’t touch my tablet, dude. It has no Wi-Fi, no web browser, and no email, okay?”

  “I still need to see it,” Glenn says, but Paul puts up his hand and blocks him.

  “Are you dense? I don’t get up in your grill and question your shit, so step off.”

  I stick my hand between them and pull Glenn away. “Did you get the photos of Le Clerq that I need?” I ask him.

  “Not yet. He’s difficult to follow,” Glenn says.

  “Focus on that, and let Paul show us his QuickTime movie, okay?” I sit down next to Paul. He and Glenn still mutter at each other.

  Trishelle snickers and joins me. “Told you they couldn’t do it,” she says, which is a harsh enough comment that they both fall silent.

  Paul sits down and turns the iPad toward me. “This was shot on an iPhone at Velodrome USA this Monday, in a creative meeting by someone on their development staff.”

  Paul starts the video. Someone shoots through the underside of a glass table in a conference room with a TV monitor mounted on the wall. A photo of a naked brunette woman with huge breasts appears on the monitor. You can hear the men in the room laugh. Someone speaks as more pictures of naked middle-aged people come on the screen.

  “This is a breakthrough?” I ask Paul, who reaches forward and pauses the movie.

  “I’m turning up the volume. Listen to this voice and then look at this face.”

  He hits play again, and the phone pans left and lands on a Caucasian man in his late twenties with average looks, blond hair, light skin, and freckles. I can hear his voice clearly now.

  “See? No pockets for cellphones. Therefore, no emails.”

  Whoever’s holding the iPhone pans and shows faces. Everyone laughs except for two people—the talking blond guy and a bald guy in a black turtleneck with a red face ready to explode. There’s a curly-haired woman, but I can’t see her face. Paul pauses on the guy talking.

  “This is Robert Snow. He was the director of development at Velodrome USA for four years. He created shows like Mistress to the Mob, Shotgun Wedding, Roadkill Cookbook, Living with Killer Bees, and I Dare you to Eat That.” He hits play again, then pauses it on the angry, red-faced man. “And this is his boss, Gil Krauss, the VP of Production. He demanded to know what Robert Snow did on vacation. Snow showed this and was fired.”

  “What makes you think he’s the producer?” I ask.

  “I found out about the video at a pre-Oscar party at the Mondrian Hotel last night. It’s been making the rounds among staffers who have worked for Krauss. He’s got a reputation for frothing at the mouth and throwing his fruit salad at people. It was like Snow wanted to be fired.”

  “How did you get it on the iPad?” Glenn asks, pacing behind the couch.

  “Relax, Rain Man. I used a USB connection. No text or email.”

  “You think he could pull off a big reality show like this?” I ask.

  “The shows he’s created have made millions, but he’s only made about two hundred fifty thousand a year. I think he’d kill to do this kind of show.”

  “Literally,” Trishelle adds.

  “I also researched all the nudist retreats in the tropics. I found one on the island of Roatan in Honduras, which looks the same as the one in his video,” Paul says. He flicks through his iPad photos and lands on a photo of a pink hotel from a nudist travel brochure. Then he brings up a blurry freeze frame from Snow’s video. There’s a pink hotel in the background—the same hotel.

  “Snow was in Honduras,” Glenn says.

  “You have a firm grasp of the obvious, Rain Man,” Paul says. “My assistant phoned every hotel in Honduras. A man fitting his description was at the Marriott in Tegucigalpa for three nights last week. Next, I got hold of the concierge who books drivers for the guests, because you don’t drive on your own in Honduras; it’s too dangerous. A guy named Enrique told me he drove a blond man and a curly-haired woman between Tegucigalpa and the National Penitentiary in Comayagua. They had camera equipment with them.”

  “Is he the guy?” I ask.

  Paul nods. “He’s definitely the guy.”

  “Impressive. You could do this for a living,” Glenn tells him.

  “I already do. It’s called being an agent,” Paul answers, and the men share their first laugh. It ends with an awkward pause. They look at me.

  “So what are you going to do about him?” Glenn asks, pointing at the coffee table.

  We all glance down. Right there is Agent Taylor’s business card, the one he left when he came by yesterday afternoon with a search warrant for Steven’s computer. It’s the third card he’s given me, and each time he says, “If something comes up, let me know right away.”

  It’s a dilemma. The name of the producer is exactly the information Steven wants. If I can lure him back to Los Angeles by promising to share it with him only if he comes home, then maybe I can convince him to let law enforcement take over this mad search.

  But how do I reach Steven, and how long before he is safe in front of me? Taylor and Mendoza expect me to share this information about Snow now. If they find out I delayed telling them, even if it was to entice Steven home, I’m obstructing their investigation.

  I flick my hands in front of me, snapping the stress off my fingers like drops of water.

  “What are you doing?” Glenn asks.

  “I’m releasing my excess energy. Actor trick. You should try it.”

  “I don’t have excess energy,” Glenn says.

  “That’s because you’re part-Vulcan,” Paul says.

  “I wish I were.”

  Paul’s phone dings with a text. He reads it, then shakes his head.

  “What is it?” Trishelle asks him.

  “TMZ and The National Enquirer found out about Julia’s arrest and want a comment.”

  “Do they have her mugshot?” Trishelle asks.

  “Probably.” Paul clenches his teeth so hard I can hear them grinding.

  Officer Sanchez screwed me over, even after we shared coffee and donuts. Rage expands in me like hot air in a balloon and I pop. Air rushes out of me in a long loud scream.

  “This is not what I need right now!"

  Paul and Glenn freeze like they’re deer in the headlights and I’m an approaching semi.

  Trishelle laughs at them. “This is your first Julia Travers rage fest, I presume?”

  Paul waves his hands, trying to calm my fire. “Julia, we have to meet with Le Clerq and his lawyer and pay him off now. It’s the top priority. A court appearance would be a disaster.”

  I don’t have time for Le Clerq and the media circus he’s building. I need to focus on how to get Steven home, not on how much to pay Le Clerq so I can stay out of court.

  “Set it up for Tuesday morning at the agency,” I say. “Oscar madness will be over.”

  “Done.” Paul starts high-speed texting with both thumbs.

  “Keep your eyes on the prize,” Trishelle whispers. “You can use this.”

  I turn to face her on the couch. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re international news. You can reach anybody right now, Steven included.”

  “She’s right,” Glenn says, interrupting. “Make a statement. Post something on Facebook, do a tweet, but post something only he would understand. If it goes viral, he’ll get the message.”

  “I can’t imagine Steven following my Facebook or Twitter posts.”

  “He should. I told him to monitor you for messages.”

  The ide
as come rushing. I dart into the kitchen to find a pencil and notepad. My message has to be short and vanilla enough to not raise suspicion, but sharp enough to get Steven’s attention. I scratch out my first two tries, and then hand my final version to Glenn, who reads it aloud.

  “Thank you, fans. Taoist meditation calms me when you visit a temple, but I found the man behind the curtain in my own backyard.”

  “My usernames and passwords are on the other side of the paper,” I say.

  “I can’t let you post that. You sound like a wacko,” Paul says, shaking his head.

  “My image can’t get any worse. I may appear in court on assault and battery charges. If people think I’m a nut and share it with my mugshot all over social media, it just improves my chances that Steven will read it and get in touch with me.”

  Paul and Glenn look at each other and nod. They agree, for once.

  “Good job,” Glenn says. He pats my shoulder with geeky condescension, until my laser stare makes him pull his hand away. “I’ll go post this,” he says, retreating to the kitchen.

  A minute later, he comes back in and holds up his phone. “Done and done.”

  “Good, now you can go and get those pictures of Le Clerq walking like I asked.”

  “Got it.”

  I need privacy. Pushing aside a curtain, I open the sliding glass door and step out onto the balcony. No one follows me, thank God. A quarter moon has just risen over Santa Monica’s tallest beach tower, like God’s fingernail balanced on its rooftop. It’s high tide, but the surf is light. As the waves come in and roll under the house, I inhale the cool salt air, and as the waves roll back, I exhale. Maybe that’s what I’ll call my Taoist meditation, if any reporter asks.

  A light flashes in my face. Two hundred yards offshore, a boat motors to the point and turns, ready to motor back across this narrow cove. I’m being watched. Maybe even photographed. By reporters, by paparazzi, maybe by dangerous criminals wondering what I know and what I may do. Watch me all you want. But you’ll never know what I’m thinking.

  Chapter 23

  * * *

  Robert Snow

  Day 9: Sunday morning

  Stanley Prison, Hong Kong Island

  Chen Long does a roundhouse kick right at Ming Lee’s head, but Ming ducks and punches Chen in the chest with so much “chi” it sends him flying across the concrete room. His body hits the floor hard, the sound echoing off the lime-colored walls. Chen springs back to his feet and counterattacks, kicking and punching like a spinning pinwheel. Their fight looks as good as a Hong Kong martial arts movie, and that’s the problem. The whole setup seems a little too perfect.

  Chen is a tall Northerner who towers over the stocky Ming, but Ming is a better fighter who can get in close and do more damage. But it reminds me of the fight between Kareem Abdul Jabbar and Bruce Lee in Game of Death. The fight has no real violence. It’s all kung-fu artistry.

  “Are they sandbagging it?” I whisper to Hachiro.

  “What is ‘sandbag’?”

  “Not really fighting,” I say. “Like cheating Sumo wrestlers.”

  Hachiro looks at me, then at Chen and Ming, then back at me. “It’s possible.”

  Just like Honduras, we all sit on metal folding chairs behind a wooden table, and it’s so muggy that water drips off all of us, the six uniformed guards included. Only Tina manages to look good—her brown skin glistens, her hair is shiny, and her shirt clings to her chest.

  Focus, Robert. I pop another Ritalin.

  “That’s enough,” I say to the guard behind me. He nods and blows a whistle, and Chen and Ming halt. Neither even looks winded. “You both look fantastic on camera,” I say to Chen and Ming. “It’s so hard to decide.”

  They nod and smile at me, and then so do the guards. You fuckers, in your pickle colored uniforms. You’re all playing me.

  In the other prisons, the guards didn’t care if the prisoners lived or died, as long as the guards got their cut of the money we brought. These guards and prisoners are a unified front.

  “We need less skill and more damage,” I whisper to Tina. “These guys fight like surgeons with scalpels, and we need blacksmiths with hammers.”

  “I like Ming,” Tina says. “He’s short, which means he’ll be good in small spaces, like a plane. Everyone else we cast—Kahlil, Miko, Lucas, and Rico the Honduran—are all at least three inches taller and outweigh him. It would be fun to see someone smaller get inside and mess them up, like Mike Tyson used to do.”

  “I also like Ming,” Hachiro says, leaning in. “His face is smart, like the actor Chow Yun-Fat. He will look good on camera.” His hair gel has melted down his face and his leather jacket is giving him the worst B.O., which makes me dislike him even more.

  “Got it, Hachiro, thank you,” I say and turn away to gag. I must chill. Hachiro’s not the problem right now. These prisoners and these guards pose a bigger issue; they want me to choose their fighter. What are they hoping to gain? Maybe the warden thinks having his ringer in my show will improve his betting odds. Or maybe the guards and these prisoners are in the same triad, and they want their whole group to gain.

  “Ming, you are our first choice,” I say, and Ming smiles. The guards on either side of the stage smile slightly. Chen takes two steps back, conceding his win as if already knowing this was his destiny.

  “I need to see blood,” I say.

  Ming cocks his head and asks something in Chinese, even though he understood me before just fine.

  I don’t wait for the guard to finish translating. “We need proof that you can hurt someone,” I say, pointing at the 5D camera next to me that’s been recording everything. “People will be betting on you from around the world. They will see this footage and wonder if Asia is afraid of a real fight.”

  The guard behind me translates. I jump back in before the guard is done. “This is a fight to the death. Are you afraid of that?”

  Ming shakes his head, says something to the guard at the door, who steps forward and answers for him.

  “He promises to give you good fight,” the guard says in broken English.

  “I need to record something now,” I say. “The rest of the money is on the yacht, and the warden won’t get it until I get blood on this camera.”

  Big Chen steps off the stage. He’s not interested in donating to the Red Cross today. Ming smiles and shrugs. Bring it on, he seems to be saying. The guard at the door calls someone on his cellphone.

  Tina leans over. “Must you create a spectacle?”

  “You need material for an intro, or Boss Man will be pissed. All of Asia will want to root for him, but unless they see real blood splatter on his video package, no one will bet big.”

  The door opens and another prisoner is shoved inside. He’s got a short stubble goatee, he’s bald, and he’s built like a linebacker with muscles that fill out his brown shirt and shorts. He yells at the guards, and they laugh. He’s either crazy, or he doesn’t play their game.

  A guard shouts and Ming takes a fighting stance. The newcomer just laughs.

  “I don’t have this guy on our list,” Tina says. “We don’t even know his name.”

  “I am Wei Wong!” he screams. “And I am a free man! I am the only free man here!”

  “Occupy Central dissident,” Hachiro whispers.

  Wei Wong rushes Ming, who punches him fast in the face three times. Wei Wong’s head jerks back with each punch, and he staggers back with blood streaming from his lips and nose. But he advances again. Ming blocks his punch and kicks down hard on Wei Wong’s ankle, and the snap of the breaking bone echoes in the room. Wei Wong screams as we all inhale through our teeth. Wei launches himself at Ming as he falls, and gets him in a bear hug and takes Ming down with him. They bounce off the cement floor. Wei is like a wounded, slobbering grizzly. He gets his teeth onto Ming’s left ear, and bites the top half clean off.

  Everyone gasps. Hachiro sees the bloody half-ear lying on the floor and vomits into the cooler,
ruining the sandwiches. I guess Mr. Cannibal Island can’t take it after all.

  Ming hasn’t screamed. Either he’s so full of adrenalin that he feels nothing, or he’s the toughest 5’8” son of a bitch in the world. As Wei goes for another bite, Ming gets his left hand free and delivers a chi power punch to Wei Wong’s chin with a splash of the Bak Mei touch of death. Wei Wong’s head snaps back like a bobblehead doll, and he collapses.

  Ming pulls himself out from under Wei’s limp body and stands up. I toss one of our white terry cloth towels to Ming, who clamps it over his bleeding skull, and I hand another one to Hachiro, who’s now got his head between his knees.

  “You’ve got the job,” I say. “We’ll see you this Saturday.” I text one word to Boss Man—Done—then point at the head guard at the door. “Tell your warden I’ll give you his money in thirty minutes, when we’re at the dock.”

  “But he’s wounded,” Major Chu says, stepping forward.

  “Others have been wounded during casting.”

  “It will affect the way he fights. If he looks injured, the other fighters may use it against him. It will affect the betting. It’s not fair.”

  “Then you better make sure he looks good and fights well.”

  “My warden will not be happy.”

  “You tried to rig my game. I get it. I just had to make sure your guy could fight. Now, I have proof that he does. Tell the warden that only now will people bet like crazy.”

  A guard darts in front of the desk and picks up Ming’s bloody ear off the floor.

  “Rinse that, put it in a baggie and get it on ice,” Tina says. “You get the right surgeon in here fast, maybe he can sew that back on.”

  I stop the camera, newly energized about the show. We just shot material for the best intro package yet. I’m still on a lucky streak. Getting my American will be easy. I can feel it.

  Chapter 24

  * * *

  Steven Quintana

  Day 9: Sunday

  Stanley, Hong Kong Island