by Tony Bulmer
As she rolled off the couch, a shower of buttery popcorn crumbs drifted to the floor. She watched them fall, absorbing the sudden brightness filtering into the room through a slat in the drawn curtains. Daytime, it must be daytime. The knock came again, harder and more insistent this time. Who the hell could it be? In the past three weeks, every family member and friend she had ever known had beaten their way to her door, all of them demanding an exhaustive rundown of her adventures on the high seas. Kellerman was sick of recounting the story. She had told it so many times
now, her throat hurt and her mind ached, a constant throbbing migraine that refused to quit. Then there had been the flashbacks—nightmares so real and frightening, they forced their way into her consciousness at will, no matter what the time of day. She set her feet on the floor and looked anxiously towards the door. Who the hell could it be? Surely those parasites in the news media had squeezed every last sordid angle from the Nautilus story? She had trusted them at first, recounting events honestly, telling them over and over again, every last thought and feeling she had
experienced—every action she had taken. They called her a hero at first, but when they had done with that, they began to dig deeper—dredging into her past, for any sign of vulnerability or weakness. They found people she hadn’t seen in years, folks who were only too happy to talk about her and her life as though they knew her intimately. Very quickly the stories grew darker and more sensational, painting her as a freak and an outsider, a feminist ball-‐breaker who would do anything to get ahead, no matter what the cost. And then there were the men she had killed—they liked to talk about that. It was impossible to forget the nightmare aboard the Nautilus—the gunfire, the explosions and the blood. Impossible to forget the cold dead faces of the attackers, and the
crewmembers they had murdered. They could have killed her too. It could so easily have been her who had been shipped home in a black-‐rubber body bag, but she had survived, by sheer dumb luck. It hardly seemed fair.
Kellerman shuffled over to the door like a zombie, not even bothering to look through the spy
hole, to see who it was. She unbolted the latch, and swung the door wide, and there he was, his thick arms folded across his stomach, his head tilted cockily to the side just looking at her.
“So what the hell are you doing?” asked Buchanan. “Are you turning into some kind of recluse or something? Because I have rung that phone of yours a hundred times at least.”
Kellerman looked at him. He looked different. He had gotten himself a haircut and a shave. He smelled good too, no more body odor and cigars.
“What the hell do you want?” she asked. “I want to talk to you stupid.”
Kellerman frowned. “I ain’t got nothing to
talk about.”
“Uhuh—well, that makes a nice change—
but you are dead wrong, in fact I was hoping you
would hitch a ride with me.”
“What the hell are you talking about
Buchanan?”
Buchanan looked down at the avalanche of
mail cascading over the entrance. “I guess you
didn‘t get your invitation huh?”
Kellerman ran her fingers through her hair
and looked at him blankly.
“The President of the United States wants to
pin us with medals, what do you say to that hero?” “I am no hero,” said Kellerman. “I sure as
hell don’t feel like one anyway.”
“Bullshit. Are you gonna let those fishtailed
Navy lunks take all the credit for rescuing Captain
Álvares and the crew? If it hadn’t been for us
softening up those killers, those Navy bozos never
would have been able to breeze in like they did.”
“They pulled us from the ocean, saved our
lives,” said Kellerman, quietly.
Buchanan narrowed his eyes, “Get some
goddamn clothes on, I am taking you out for pool
hall pizza and a cold beer, no arguments.” “You are taking me out?”
“You heard me. Although you might want to
grab a shower first, and when you do you might
want to toss that tracksuit you are wearing,
because laundering ain’t going to help it none. Kellerman gave him a look.
He smiled. He had a nice smile.
68
Beverly Hills, California Julia Goodman walked out of her office in Beverly Hills. She took a shortcut through the seventh floor lobby and exited into the multi level parking structure that stood right next door. As she moved through the auto-‐lock security door, a closed circuit security camera tracked her progress. Once outside, the security door snapped shut with an air of finality. The parking structure was dark, a gloomy mausoleum of concrete and steel. Julia stepped out into the darkness and popped the security fob with her thumb. Her Mercedes gave a high-‐pitched trill and the lights snapped on, a beacon in the darkness—warm, familiar, safe.
As the darkness of the parking lot closed in around her, Julia felt her heart quickening. She was late out. Only a few cars remained. She walked faster, her heels reverberating, hollow and metallic against the advancing darkness. She looked about anxiously. A hundred concrete pillars stared back, cold and wordless like tombstones in the night. She bent down, took her shoes of and ran the last hundred yards to the car, with her heart beating out of control. She grabbed the car door, and dived inside.
The doors locked down immediately. Julia’s eyes widened with fear. Were the doors supposed to do that? They never did usually. Perhaps they had done something to the central locking system whilst the car had been in the shop?
She sat back fearfully, her pulse hammered, she felt the unpleasant shimmer of sweat beading on her body. The gloomy parking lot had really gotten her spooked. She turned, looked behind her into the back seat, reassuring her self that she was just being silly; then she checked her reflection in the powder mirror and saw that all the color had drained from her face. She cursed, resolving to ring the buildings Super tomorrow, so he could see about getting the lights upgraded.
Julia popped her key into the ignition and turned it.
Nothing.
She turned it again.
Still nothing.
The engine was dead. Her mind raced forwards with panic. What in the hell was wrong? Had she left something on that had drained the battery? She drew a sharp breath and reached for her phone—she would call triple A; tell them she was a woman alone; they would be with her in no time. Then, she would call the security guard out on the front desk; tell him to watch out for the breakdown truck, so he could let them in through the security gate. Julia felt the power of rational thought eat into the building fear. Everything would be all right, everything would be…
Her phone rang. She jumped so hard she almost hit her head on the roof.
Who the hell could that be? Maybe
Reed, calling to find out where she had gotten to? Or maybe it was her mother ringing to find out about dinner arrangements, or the trip they had planned to Palm Springs. Julia turned the phone over and pressed the button—an incoming video message—
but the number was restricted, not from anyone she knew. Julia peered into the screen, “Hello, who is that?” she asked, as bravely as she could manage.
The face on the screen was backlit, by tall, bright buildings. The skyline looked strange— unfamiliar. The neighborhood looked
overdeveloped, like downtown Los Angeles and yet—
“I have been watching you.” The voice was distorted by some kind of electronic trickery. Julia strained to find something familiar about the caller but the crucial connections eluded her.
Julia took a swallow and said, “Who are you? What do you want?” the words flowed too quickly; she felt them waver as they came.
“That is not important—only your actions are important.”
“My actions? If this is some kind of blackmail call, you can go straight to hell.”
“Hell? That is an interesting place Julia. I suggest you treat your family right or you might just find out what it is like first hand.”
The phone went dead.
The car engine started up, and the headlights burned out across the vacant lot. Julia Goodman sat there in the drivers seat, dry mouthed and terrified. Who would say such things to her— such creepy, horrible things? And what did they know of her family and how she treated them? That was no ones business anyway. Julia shuddered. It was almost as though that crazy bitch Reed had been married to so long ago was speaking out from beyond the grave. But that bitch was dead—long dead, Reed had shown her the obituary himself. Julia grasped the steering wheel with both hands
and jammed her foot hard on the gas. The big-‐ engined Mercedes moved forward quickly sending a squeal of rubber echoing into the darkness.
Karyn Kane crouched on the Shanghai
rooftop and looked down through the night scope of her high velocity M40 sniper rifle. The windows of the Tao Corporation’s head office came suddenly into sharp-‐magnified focus. Julia Goodman could wait—she wasn’t going anywhere.
TONY BULMER
A graduate of the London School of Journalism, Tony Bulmer has spent the last 25 years pulling the oars in news room galleons
across the globe. He lives and works in Los Angeles California. For more information on Tony and his books meet him online at: www.tonybulmer.com
ALSO BY TONY BULMER
THE SEX NET
DEAD FAMOUS
THE FINE ART OF MURDER MANHATTAN TAKEDOWN
www.tonybulmer.com
Copyright © 2014 Tony Bulmer All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1500525552
ISBN-10: 1500525553
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.