Fun and Games

There was another shriek on the other side of the living room. Hardie could only see the top half of the action, but clearly Evelyn Hunter was kicking the living shit out of the shot and bleeding psycho sister. “Honey, honey, honey,” Jonathan Hunter said, rushing across the room to his wife. Hardie turned his attention back to Philip. Stuck the gun in his face.

“I really don’t care if you live or die. I want to know the plan.”

“Okay, I’m not Philip Kindred. I’m only pretending to be him, oh please, God, don’t kill me.”

“Well, duh.”

“How were you getting out?”

“Th-Through the backyard.”

A.D.2 and Grip were supposed to have been the first ones in, anyway.

When enough time had elapsed, and the kill shots had rung out, A.D.2 and Grip were to play the roles of innocent by-standers—or in this case, gay Studio City joggers—just two lovers out after work, blowing off some steam, when suddenly they hear gunshots coming from a house, and they rush in because they swear they hear kids screaming (and how are they supposed to ignore that?) and they get to the living room just in time to see two grubby-looking people making their way out the sliding doors that lead to the backyard, and oh God, the mom and the dad on the floor, shot in the head and in the chest respectively, and then would come a frenzied call to 911 and the job would finally be over. A.D.2 and Grip had clean backgrounds that would check out. They’d be paid over the next few months to live their lives and serve as witnesses to this awful, senseless tragedy, make a court appearance or two, talk to the media when directed.

But now Mann sent them in early because there was really no other option.

And she sent them in with guns.

She hated guns on jobs, but now the narrative absolutely demanded it, accepted no substitutes.

The instructions were simple: kill Hardie—especially HARDIE

—and wipe out the entire family, kids, too, everybody, and then get the actors the fuck out of there to the black van and get out of Studio City as quickly as possible. O’Neal would provide some backup from the Moorpark side of the block. Mann would then place an anonymous 911 call—though when the gunshots rang out, it was very possible one of the neighbors would save her the trouble.

And then she would have to come up with a new narrative, but things were evolving too quickly to worry about that now. Action first; explanations later.

She repeated the instructions as A.D.2 and Grip ran toward the house, pistols tucked in their waistbands, looking like two rookies from the academy.

“Kill everyone. Especially Hardie. If Hardie does not die, I will find you both and kill you myself.”

30

Did I ask you to be his psychiatrist?

No. I asked you to fucking kill him.

—Ralph Fiennes, In Bruges

PSYCHO PHIL handed over the keys with a trembling hand. He said they would open a black van parked out back, over a fence and between houses, right on Moorpark. Tank full of gas. Please God don’t kill me. The two of them were supposed to leave the Hunters dead and go out there and fade into the Los Angeles night and please God don’t kill me.

“I’m not gonna kill you,” Hardie said. “I want you alive so you can talk to a friend of mine.”

Deke, right this very moment (hopefully) was flying across the whole country just to be here. Deke was still their only chance, their light at the end of the tunnel.

“I can’t, you don’t understand… they’ll…”

“Yeah, yeah, they’ll kill you and make it look like an accident. Really horrible. I feel for you, brother. I really do.”

Hardie dragged Psycho Phil into the middle of the room and told Jonathan to do the same with Psycho Sis. Dark blood smeared across the buff-colored carpet. The last thing he wanted to do was find himself trapped in yet another house, with faceless killers swarming about everywhere. They needed to get out of here. Like right fucking now. Hardie kept Psycho Phil’s gun and handed the Glocks to Jonathan, told him to give his wife one of them.

“They’re still loaded with plenty of bullets. You or your wife see somebody you don’t know, squeeze until they drop.”

Jonathan nodded quickly and handed his wife a Glock. She looked down at it with not so much fear as grim determination, as if steeling herself. You know what, her face seemed to say, if it comes down to it, I could point this fucking thing at somebody and shoot.

Still holding the .38 in his right hand, Hardie fished the stolen handcuffs from the back waistband of his jeans with his left. His plan was to run the handcuffs through a support pole in the middle of the Hunters’ entertainment center and then click them around the right wrist of Psycho Bro and the left wrist of Sis. What a sight he must be. Dirty pants and stolen shirt and no shoes, pretending to do real actual police work. Hey kids, meet Hobo Cop. He rides the rails! He carries a bindle! He solves crimes!

Jonathan Hunter, meanwhile, was holding his smartphone up in the air like he was offering a sacrifice to God. “My cell,” he said. “I can’t get a signal.”

“They can jam the signal. And don’t bother trying the landline. They’ve probably cut it.”

“They?”

Hardie almost smiled. Just this morning he’d been thinking the same thing. They? Who the fuck is They? But there was no time to convert Jonathan Hunter to the Church of the All-Powerful and Immortal THEY. He needed the Hunter family to survive, and to know the truth.

Hardie slid open one of the glass doors leading to the back yard. This being California, of course there was a pool. Modest, but still. Plastic Adirondack chairs were scattered on the grass, along with an assortment of inflatable pool toys. He had to make it across the yard, to the fence, and out to the other side of the block. But did They have anything out there in the way of backup? Were they watching to make sure the Psycho Twins got out safe and sound?

The moment was so fucking familiar—the realization, the horror, the feeling that everything was happening right in this very second and there was no time to think, to react, to act—

C’mon Nate, let’s move let’s move let’s move, out the front, my car’s out there, we’ve got time…

Evelyn Hunter, meanwhile, had her two kids under her arms and was looking at her husband with wild desperation. “We can’t call anybody?”

Hardie had to tell Hunter the truth. Before it was too late. He took Hunter’s arm and leaned in close.

“Lane Madden wanted me to tell you how sorry she was about what happened to Kevin.”

Jonathan’s face—totally ashen. Just at the mention of his boy’s name. “What… what did you say?”

“She was a passenger in the car that hit your son.”

“Who was driving?”

And then Hardie said the name of the man behind the wheel—the Blond Viking God. Hunter ran through a rapid-fire series of emotions within seconds—disbelief, confusion, anger, grief.

“I saw it on the Web, Lane Madden is the one who—”

“—who died this afternoon. I was with her, and she told me everything. This is why she was killed. The same people are trying to kill you, to cover it up. To make sure no one ever finds out.”

Invisible wheels turned behind Jonathan Hunter’s eyes, and then he moaned out loud. “The show,” he said.

“Huh?”