Page 11 of A Very Happy Thanksgiving
We stared at each other.
Who didn’t want that resort to be successful?
Nobody needed to tell Echo to find out. She was already eavesdropping on the call, tucked away in the Sierra Nevada foothills with a lightning-fast internet connection and search tools that would make the NSA weep. Mainly because they’d developed the systems and Echo had backdoor access. On screen, Emmy’s gaze dropped, and I knew she was messaging her own cyber team.
“We also need a list of those missing,” Priest said. “Who disappeared besides Marc and Serena?”
At least six shooters, plus nine probable hostages. If the terrorists had guns, one tango could control several prisoners, but that ratio was still a risk. The green sashes had been spread out. In the video footage, we hadn’t seen the hostages at all, and Marc would have hidden at the first sign of trouble. He wasn’t a dumbass.
I ran through scenarios in my head. Six men bursting from the trees and opening fire, then trying to round up fleeing civilians? Nope. Green sashes jogging up the beach and marching actors and crew over the sand to a boat? Possibly, but if they’d grabbed their prey at the start, there must have been more than six of them. Two to maintain control, one more to drive the boat. Eighteen people on a boat. A good-sized boat with a shallow enough draft to get close to the shore. That would narrow the search a little. Unless they had multiple boats, which would have been the smarter option.
Would nine men have been enough? Marc was no fool, and he wasn’t a coward either. If an opportunity had arisen, there was a reasonable chance he would have fought back. I’d watched enough of his movies—secretly, in my room—to know he was in excellent shape, and he could handle a gun. Plus he’d taken karate lessons with Booker for several years. A video replayed in the corner of the screen, and this time, I focused on the footage instead of my rising panic. A cameraman threw a mic at a green sash, and instead of firing back, the guy flinched, ducked, and fumbled his gun.
These men weren’t pros. And who might hire an incompetent amateur? A pretend terrorist?
Fuck.
We were back to the PR stunt.
“Okay, what if it was an inside job?”
“Run us through your thought process,” Priest said.
“We have nine missing people. Either a whole group of terrorists landed on the island and abducted them, or several terrorists were on the island already.”
“You think the background actors were involved?”
“I’m saying it’s possible that not all of the hostages are hostages. Do we have names? How did they get hired to work on this production?”
“The scenario makes sense,” Emmy said. “Someone had to control the hostages, right? And those idiots on the beach were too busy missing targets and tripping over their own fucking feet. Mack, can you get the names?” Mack was Blackwood’s version of Echo, and the answer must have been in the affirmative, because Emmy gave us a thumbs-up. “The names haven’t been released, but she’s looking into it.”
“Yes, an inside job,” Sinaga said, smiling for the first time as he realised the Indonesian tourism industry might not have been tanked by homegrown terrorists. “This is good news.”
Mimi gave him a “what the fuck?” look, and he shuffled down an inch in his seat.
“Good news will be when we get the hostages back,” Emmy told him. “Any sign of any actual intel from your lot yet?”
“Nothing happens here. The island is almost empty.”
“That’s a no, then? I’m missing the run-up to Thanksgiving for this.” Emmy exhaled sharply and closed her eyes for a moment. “So I guess it’s not all bad.”
“You don’t care for Thanksgiving?” I asked. It wasn’t as if she had to lift a finger to prepare for it.
“Food for five thousand and pumpkins everywhere? Oh, and gourds. Who can forget the ornamental fucking gourds? We’ve been using them for target practice, but the pile isn’t getting any smaller.”
“Bradley made another ordering mishap?” Priest asked.
Emmy’s assistant made Marcel look sane. Last year, we’d laughed our heads off when his typo led to a hundred turkeys running around Emmy’s home, but now who had a bird problem, huh? Maybe it was more karma.
“No, he grew them.”
“For a second there, I thought you said Bradley tried yard work.”
“Someone else did the actual digging. Bradley just watched a BuzzHub video on gardening and went full homestead. Apparently, he thought each seed grew one pumpkin, carrot-style.” Emmy rolled her eyes. “The jungle out back was a total surprise.”
“The video didn’t mention that part?”
“Bradley says not, but the channel’s called ‘The Shirtless Gardener.’ Nobody’s watching it for the horticulture tips.”
