Fun and Games

7

Who’s they? I want you to tell me who they is.

—John Aquino, Blow Out

HARDIE COULDN’T believe what his eyes were transmitting to his brain.

“Where the fuck is my car?”

“Get away from the window,” the girl scream-whispered behind him. “Please, I’m begging you. You looked, you’re upset, now move the fuck away before something really bad happens.”

“It was just there.”

“Are you really this dense? Or haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

But Hardie was too focused on the stretch of asphalt in front of the garage. The sight absolutely boggled his mind. It didn’t make sense. When he finally glanced down at the psycho chick crouched next to him, mic stand in her hand, he decided he’d had enough. He darted for the door. He thought he was moving pretty fast, but she was a lot faster, even limping. The girl easily closed the distance, slid herself into the space between him and the wall, and again pointed the edge of the mic stand at the hollow of his throat.

“No,” she said.

Hardie tried to push her out of the way. “Move.”

“They took your car, don’t you realize that?”

“Well, I’ll just force Them to give it back. Move.”

“You can’t go outside. You go outside, you’re dead.”

“I can still catch them.”

Hardie was half-serious about that. The roads up here were twisty. Winding. They— whoever—just stole it a few seconds ago. He heard them do it. Maybe he had a chance —slim, he knew, but it was still a chance—at catching them on foot. But then what? Leave this girl here, by herself, in the house he was supposed to be guarding?

She hissed at him:

“Get down! It’s bad enough they saw you!”

Hardie sometimes marveled at how quickly things could spin out of control. He’d been in L.A. only, what?… ninety minutes total?… and he’d already lost all his possessions except for the wallet in his back pocket, the useless set of car keys in his front pocket, the cell phone with no service, and the clothes on his back. He’d jumped off a roof and landed in unidentified animal crap. Hardie half expected this crazy bird to force him to strip, then make him jump off the back deck into the wilds, just to show him—that’s how Hollywood does ya.

Then Hardie remembered that his carry-on bag had still been in the passenger seat of the Honda Whatever, and a tiny knot of grief formed in his stomach.

Hardie believed there were two kinds of things in the world. Things that could be replaced, and things that could not. He’d spent the past three years giving away or tossing everything in his life that could be replaced. This turned out to be most things in his life. Clothes, CDs, kitchen utensils, old books. All of it junk. You could soak it in lighter fluid and it wouldn’t matter. Because somewhere, out there, was another copy. But his duffel bag, the one he never checked at airlines, the one that never left his side, was full of things that could not be replaced.

And now it was gone.

Hardie pulled the cell out of his pocket. Fuck this. At the very least, his rental car was stolen. He needed to report it.

The girl touched his arm. “They won’t let you call.”

Hardie eyeballed her. “What do you mean?”

“I tried to use my phone, too. They’ve stopped the signals.”

Hardie checked the screen. No bars. Just like earlier, when he tried to call Virgil. At the time, he thought it was just because he was up in the Hollywood Hills, where service was shitty. Maybe he’d get lucky.

Hardie said, “It’s the mountain. Nobody’s jamming anything.”

“Look, I’ve been to countless parties up here. Calls are dropped all the time, but a service blackout like this? For, like, hours? No. It’s Them.”

Well, it was Them.

Mann’s team was equipped with a suitcase-size digital portable jammer—normally reserved for police and military use—as well as handheld jammers given to each operative. These devices were easy to obtain and extremely useful for operating under a blanket of silence. Mann insisted that all of her employees have them on at all times during every production.

To cover the immediate Alta Brea area, Mann had O’Neal power up the larger, more powerful jammer in the van—the same kind police use during hostage situations and drug raids so that the bad guys won’t be able to connect to the outside world.

With the handhelds, Mann opted for simplicity. Every time you talk on your cell, you use two frequencies—talk through one, listen through another. The simplest way to block your cell is to jam one of those frequencies. This makes your phone believe there is no service at all, and it tells you so. You can curse at the phone and shake it, but it will do no good. Cell phones are stupid that way.

To stay in touch with her operatives, Mann issued multiband intrateam tactical radio units with encryption designed to look like ordinary phones, including hands-free Bluetooth devices so they could look like pretty much every other asshole in L.A.

No bars—no service.

No car.

Get ahold of yourself there, Chuck.

Breathe.

Let’s think this through.

All of this talk about Them and ooh, watch out, THEY might see you?

Bullshit.

What Hardie had interrupted was probably a home invasion. Two addicts who knew that Lowenbruck had left on a long trip; maybe even one of them glommed his security code from some party. Hell, maybe the security company even sold them the code—it wouldn’t be the first time.

So we have this girl and probably some crackhead boyfriend. Lots of expensive AV gear on the top floor, even more expensive recording equipment on floor two. They hear Charlie on the roof, then on the deck, and then he’s in—and they’re freaking out, scrambling, not thinking straight. Chick goes downstairs; boyfriend slips out the front. Takes the opportunity and steals the Honda Whatever. Now this chick would be all about getting away while she could.

“I’m telling you, get away from the window!”

Hardie reached out, grabbed her wrist, and squeezed.

She cried out. The metal mic stand fell out of her hand, clattered on the hardwood floor.

“Please stop sticking that thing in my face.”

As he continued squeezing, the girl’s eyes widened, her mouth opening in a silent scream. Then she looked down at Hardie’s chest, and her expression changed completely. From pain to revulsion.

“Oh God, your chest…,” she said.

Hardie was halfway through the motion of looking down at his chest when he realized he was being an