by Tony Bulmer
“Yes, they said it was a level nine emergency. What is that, some kind of test message from the County or something? Because those folks shouldn’t be scaring people like that, they really shouldn’t.”
Reed snatched up Julia’s cell phone and scrolled through the messages. He turned to Julia, “You remember where the car is right?”
“Sure I do, but…”
“Don’t argue with me, take your damn stupid shoes off and run there as fast as you can, do you hear me?”
“Yes, but my Martini you just bought it, I am not going to leave it, that would be a waste.”
Reed thrust the car keys into her hand. “Get the hell out of here now.”
She looked at him tearfully, still not quite understanding the implications of the things he was saying. But Reed was already off, running down the beach toward the ocean to get Carly. Julia watched him go for a moment then, she bent down and picked up her cup. Tsunami or no tsunami, there was no way she was going to let a good Martini go to waste. She sucked hard on the straw, letting a shot of ice-‐cold booze flood over her tongue. Then she threw the beach-‐bum shopping bag over her shoulder and trotted up the beach.
64
Honolulu International Airport, Hawaii Calista Johnston sat in her leather armchair peering with annoyance out the window of her Gulfstream G650 business jet. The jet was still on the ground, a situation that was inexcusable. Calista Johnston was not a woman who suffered fools gladly, nor did she appreciate delays of any kind to her schedule, especially today of all days. When the power plant went live. Deng Tao had been very clear as to the results—all low-‐lying land would be inundated, cleansed by a biblical flood so devastating that none of the costal cities of Hawaii would be spared. In a few short hours after the initial impact of the tsunami waves, the entire western seaboard of the continental United States would suffer a similar impact. A speedy departure from Honolulu International Airport was therefore imperative
Gulping her Margarita greedily, to calm her building nerves, Calista Johnston peered through the tiny window, looking out across the tarmac towards the airport buildings. If the servants didn’t get here and soon, she would have to leave without them, serve them right for their tardiness, she thought, the ungrateful wretches. The maids she would be able to replace, but then there was Hammond, her English butler, she had become rather fond him. Her personal chef Francois would be rather harder to replace however, She had stolen him from the famous Parisian Hotel, Le Bristol, in Rue du Faubourg Saint-‐Honoré. Francois was a Michelin-‐starred master of his art and his
defection into personal service had caused much upset in the world of haute cuisine. Still, no one was irreplaceable. There were plenty more chefs in France, some of them might even know how to cook, she thought sniffily, but it really was too bad—she had rather liked Francois.
“Where the devil are they Enrique? You know I abhor delays of any kind.”
Enrique shrugged, “Traffic maybe. You know how things get sometimes—”
“Well, they have no business getting caught in traffic, they should have set out earlier, as I directed. We should be on out way to Rio now, I have dinner plans with very important fiends this evening and this delay is threatening to ruin everything.” Calista Johnston brightened
momentarily, then said, “Be a dear Enrique and ring the limousine would you, if they are not here in the next few minutes we will simply have to leave without them.
Enrique gave her a dark look. He didn’t like being given orders. He fingered the silk necktie that was hanging over his shoulders. He didn’t like neckties either, but Calista had insisted he wear it, she had said that it was uncouth, whatever that meant, for a gentleman not to wear a tie. There was no point in ringing the Limo of course, the Limo was not coming—it never had been coming—he had seen to that. He had ensured very carefully that the days events would run very smoothly indeed. He pulled the tie from around his neck, and moved close to his employer. Winding the silk fabric tight around his hands he peered over her shoulder. “You see that,” he said. “Maybe that’s them?”
Calista Johnston peered forward once again, looking out the window, scrutinizing every inch of the runway apron for signs of a black limousine. Puzzled as to what Enrique had meant, she opened her lips to reprimand him for his stupidity, when a sudden tightness closed about her neck.
Instinctively she dropped her glass and her Margarita spilled out across the sharply pressed linen tablecloth. Her thin manicured hands rose shakily upwards and made contact with the cause of her distress—a tourniquet wound tight around her neck. Her eyes bulged wide with fear—her heart yammering wildly as a sudden dizzying tightness filled her head. She tried to call out for Enrique, but it was quite useless, all she could manage was a horrible strangled gasp.
Enrique leaned in and pulled the necktie tight around the old bitches neck, twisting it tighter and tighter every time she spasmed and writhed. He pushed hard with his knee in between her shoulder blades to get more leverage. It wasn’t the first-‐time he’d choked-‐out a woman and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, he thought happily—but this was certainly the most satisfying. Three long years of servicing this wrinkled old pervert and her insatiable needs and now the final orgasmic release was only seconds away. Enrique twisted the necktie tighter, pulling his face back, to avoid the old-‐bitches flailing talons. He was excited now, thinking about how life would be when he moved back South. He would have a ranch, cars a plantation full of cocaína and whole harem of nubile young putas to do his bidding. The old
woman’s strangled thrashing was growing weaker now. He pulled the ligature hard in one final vindictive twist. Only seconds now—he could sense it, feel the adrenaline of arousal coursing through his loins. But, in one last violent spasm the old bitch reached up and raked the back of his hand, her manicured talons tearing deep into the flesh. Enrique cursed, and smashed her face hard against the window. The impact created an ugly blood stained smear. But for Calista Johnston it was the end, she sagged back lifelessly, with a horrible contorted expression twisting across her lifeless face.
He held the ligature tight for another minute but she was dead, no doubt about it. He eased back slowly and examined his handiwork. As he sucked away the blood from the wound on the back of his hand, Enrique felt a rush of pleasure and achievement. So many of the men he had known were dead or in prison, many more had thrown away their lives into servitude for a few miserable pesos, and here he was, a smart guy who had beaten the system, why the jet alone would earn him millions, his connections in the South would be eager to take it off his hands. Then of course there was his payment for killing the old bitch—such easy money, all he had to do was collect and he would be away into the new life he had always dreamed of.
Enrique reached out his cell phone from his jacket pocket and speed dialed a number. He sucked the back of
his hand, as the ring-‐tone sounded. He waited for the pick up, when it didn’t come right away, his brow furrowed and he cursed softly to himself. The back of his hand was starting
to smart now and he was in no mood to wait around—there was a first class flight to paradise waiting, all he had to do was close out one final piece of business and he would be away. Finally, the party at the other end picked up and Enrique said, “It is done. Where the hell are you?”
“I am right here.”
Enrique looked up quickly, and saw the svelte figure of Cheena Tao standing in the doorway. She was wearing an immaculate cream and beige business suit. She looked every inch the boss’s wife. Enrique held up his bleeding hand. “ The bitch got her talons in me, look at it would you? I am probably going to need a shot.
Cheena Tao sashayed slowly into the plane and placed the large attaché case she was carrying very carefully on the table next to the corpse of Calista Johnston. She looked down into the contorted face for a long moment and emitted a tiny grunt of satisfaction, “Tell me, did she suffer much?”
Enough, said Enrique gruffly. “You wanted her dead—job done. Now I want what I got coming.” He looked at the attaché case greedily. “That mine?”
Cheena Tao smiled brightly.
Enrique licked his lips. “Now I don’t like to say I don’t trust you and that husband of yours, Tao— but I don’t trust you. So you won’t mind if I take a look inside will you?”
A tight smile twisted across Cheena Tao’s face. She said nothing, simply held out one of her tiny doll-‐like hands and gestured towards the bag, as though inviting Enrique to inspect the reward at his leisure.
Enrique needed no further bidding. He snatched at the bag and pulled it open. His face lighting up with greed and excitement—it was the greatest score he had ever pulled. He reached in and pulled out a thick wad of bearer bonds. “It better all be here,” he said, reaching deeper in the bag. His fingers closed around something
unexpected and he looked up quickly.
Cheena Tao raised the silenced automatic she had brought from behind her back and let loose two very quick shots at close range. The bullets took the wind out of Enrique. The thick wad of bearer bonds fell from his fingers. He staggered backwards in shock, clutching at his chest. He pulled his hand away and saw blood. He looked at Cheena Tao, a question forming on his lips, but she stepped forward and shot him again—this time in the head. He went down and stayed down, his heels rattling softly against the plush carpet as the final death spasms ran through him. She stood over him for a moment admiring her handiwork. Then, very slowly and methodically she emptied the bearer bonds out of the attaché case, and removed the explosives. She set the digital timer for forty minutes hence and placed the explosives in one of the overhead lockers. Next, she replaced the bonds in the case and made her way out of the aircraft. She turned briefly and threw a wave to the pilot. He had received his instructions and a handsome bribe. He had been told to head for Guadalajara Mexico, but the only place he would get to would be the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
65
Santa Monica More helicopters roaring over head, Blackhawks this time, followed by Cobra gunships and a flight of V-‐22 Osprey short take off planes, with their tilt rotors angled for level flight.
In the beach side parking lot, Reed had the door of the Range Rover open. Carly was already inside, but Julia stood by the vehicle and looked up at the sky. “Look at that, they are having an air show. You think they are putting on a display for the President honey?”
“Get in the truck would you—I don’t know how much time we have, but we have got to get out of here and fast. I am guessing those aircraft are pulling an evacuation, moving out all those G20 leaders to a place of safety. Soon as they have done that, there will be an announcement and all hell will break loose.”
“An announcement?” Reed frowned. “Yeah, an announcement on the radio and stuff.”
His words were cut off by the sound of an old-‐fashioned siren, wailing siren, that sounded like something out of an old war film, or a cold war news bulletin.
“What the hell is that awful noise,” asked Julia, her face scrunching up.
“That is the tsunami warning siren,” snapped Reed, jumping into the Range Rover. Small groups of people were beginning to gather, looking with puzzlement for the source of the awful noise.
“I guess no one has ever heard it before,” said Reed as he slammed the Range Rover into gear and burned out of the lot. The SUV bounced over the sidewalk and pulled through the intersection on red. Horns blared, but Reed paid them no mind. As he hit Ocean Avenue, he found the traffic was backed up as far as he could see. The road was cordoned off and large crowds were gathering on the sidewalks, looking down towards the Pacific Coast Highway to see if they could catch sight of the President or other World Leaders.
Julia braced herself, her feet rising onto the dash, as Reed pulled through the traffic like a mad man. “All these people, surely if there is a tsunami coming…”
“They should be warned, of course they should,” said Reed his face grim. “It is a classic play, the authorities want to evacuate the most important folks first before the panic starts. Everyone else is expendable.”
Julia looked shocked. “How big is this wave exactly?”
“If it is a level nine threat you can bet it is big, real big.” Reed pulled over the central divider and cut through oncoming traffic. He took a turn onto 4th street then over to 7th moving north and east, away from the ocean and towards Pacific Palisades. Reed sped along the back roads at a breakneck speed, with every turn he headed up to higher ground. The winding, palm-‐lined Avenues curved lazily into the hills, then down, rolling west to the sea. Every turn Reed took, the coast road was cordoned off by Black and Whites from the County Sheriff’s Department and California Highway Patrol. He glanced down at the GPS screen with
frustration. “These damn roadblocks have us boxed in,” he growled, we are never going to get into the mountains unless we get creative.” Pausing for a brief moment Reed flipped screens on the GPS navigation system and narrowed his eyes.
Are we going to get ice cream now daddy?” enquired Carly.
“Sure thing, but you are going to have to sit tight for a little while longer princess.”
“I talked to her about ice cream Reed. It wouldn’t hurt you to be supportive would it? I can’t bear it when you undermine my decisions.”
Reed put his foot down and the powerful Range Rover burned up the hill with a squeal of smoking rubber. “Kids like ice cream,” said Reed.
“Well, I don’t agree. Ice cream is
unhealthy—”
The end of the street was coming up fast now and there was nothing but a chain link storm fence between the pavement and a dry scrub covered wilderness that stretched high into the Santa Monica Mountains.
“You are
going to have to save the lecture and hold on to your seat, we are going off piste.”
“Cool,” said Carly. “I love skiing.”
“Are you crazy?” shrieked Julia. “You just got the car detailed, and besides, off road driving invalidates the dealer warranty—you know that.”
“Hey, screw the dealer warranty, there is a giant tidal wave heading our way.”
“Tidal waves and tsunamis are different, said Carly.”
“How would you know?” snapped Julia.
“We did about it in school,” said Carly
proudly. “Tidal waves are caused by the moon and
tsunamis are caused by earthquakes.”
“How can the moon cause a giant wave? It
doesn’t make sense.”
“Gravity,” said Carly.
Julia pulled a face. “Are you hearing this
Reed? She is talking back to me again.”
Reed took a breath and hit the gas. The
Range Rover powered over the dry hillside and
smashed through the chain-‐link storm fence—they
were in a lemon grove now, driving parallel with
the steep hillside. As they sped through the trees,
leaves and branches clutched at the windows and
plump yellow lemons bounced like tennis balls
across the hood.
“You are going to kill us all,” wailed Julia.
“Let me out, I have had enough.”
“Chillax. ” said Reed. “We got ourselves a 4
wheel drive vehicle here, the only place we take it
is Beverly Hills and back every day of the week. I
reckon it’s about time we put it through its paces.” “This is fun,” said Carly, “I like this better