Page 39 of A Very Happy Thanksgiving
“We’ll upload the video to Marc di Gregorio’s social media accounts, and everyone will live happily ever after.”
Except for me, obviously. I’d still be besties with my vibrator and hate myself after every disappointing hookup.
“Why the fuck would I want to do that?”
“Because if we don’t upload that video, we’re going to upload this one.”
I stood out of reach and hit “play” on my phone. The lighting hadn’t been the best, but it was unmistakably McDonald fucking a young Thai boy in the ass. I knew it; he knew it. And the child was clearly crying—a nice touch. The colour drained from Lonnie’s face, and he made a lunge for me. Emmy got in fast and shoved him back onto the couch.
“Down, boy.” She ducked as he swung a punch. “What was it you said earlier about leverage?”
“Fuck you.”
“What, you don’t like it when a woman comes prepared?”
“Nobody’s gonna believe it. You know what they can do with AI these days?”
“Sure, you can tell people we faked it, and perhaps some will even believe that. But plenty of others won’t, and everywhere you go, people will wonder if you’re really a paedophile. Although you probably won’t get out quite so much—I mean, I can’t see you being invited to the Met Gala again.”
“You’re bluffing. You don’t even have access to Marc di Gregorio’s social media accounts.”
That was the card he played? A two of spades? Keep digging, buddy.
“Firstly, we do have access,” I told him. Marc hadn’t changed his email password in a decade, the dumbass. Every so often, I nosed through his overflowing inbox while studiously avoiding the pinned message at the top addressed to me. All I had to do was reset his BuzzHub password, and the whole world would see the video. “And secondly, does it matter where we upload it? Maybe we’ll just email it to reporters on six continents.”
“Make it seven,” Emmy suggested. “I’m sure there’s a bored naturalist in Antarctica who’d love to write a paper on the vagaries of human behaviour. Anyhow, this is a one-time-only deal. If we walk out of here, we won’t be back.”
Realisation began to dawn on McDonald. We might actually be serious.
“Look,” he started. “Kam won’t hurt anyone, I swear. She’s just trying to score points off her old man.”
“At this stage, we really don’t care.” Emmy stuck out her bottom lip and made an exaggerated sad face. “Nobody wants to see those cute monkeys die.”
“You little bitch.”
“I’m actually quite a big bitch, but hey, semantics. Are you ready to be a movie star?”
He glared at us with hate in his eyes before finally nodding, and it was moments like these that sparked joy in my cold, dark soul.
“Good. Here’s what you’re going to say.”
After more cursing and a vain attempt to leave, McDonald managed to record a passable statement, even though it took three tries because he kept getting overly emotional. I saved the clip alongside the other video, and of course I backed up both to a murky corner of the cloud. Was I worried about retaliation? Not so much. I saw McDonald for what he was—a self-centred bully, but also a coward. And I knew how to handle bullies.
“My lawyers will be in touch with your lawyers,” Emmy said, and as a parting shot, she added, “If you consider reneging on our agreement, or if you ever start thinking about payback, remember we still have the video. I’ll rent a billboard in Times Square if I have to.”
I blew him a kiss as we walked out the door. Fucker.
The adrenaline began to dissipate as we rode down in the elevator, leaving a low-level buzz that barely masked my tiredness. But this wasn’t over yet.
“Are you coming back to West Papua?” Emmy asked.
I didn’t want to. No, I wanted to get on the jet, hotfoot it to Vegas, and help Marcel wrangle Thanksgiving turkeys because the closer I got to Marc, the more unsettled I felt. But even with the videos safely in our possession, there still wasn’t a clear-cut end to this. If we were right up against the end of the deadline, we’d have one option—release the “I’m sorry” video and hope both Lonnie McDonald and Wild Roots stuck to their sides of the bargain. And criminals weren’t exactly famed for keeping their word.
McDonald could try to wriggle out of the agreement before the paperwork was completed, or Wild Roots could get spooked and kill the hostages instead of releasing them—why let them go and risk witness statements and e-fits? And even if they set Marc free, success would encourage them to try the same trick again.
Of course, there was a chance the environmentalists were bluffing. The blanks, Marc’s lack of terror, and the group’s relatively benign history suggested that was a possibility. But I didn’t operate on possibilities. No, I wanted Marc safe and on a flight back to the US, and I wanted those fuckers getting intimately acquainted with the inside of a jail cell. Or a hole in the ground—I wasn’t too bothered which one at this point.
And since we had a day in hand, the best way to achieve those goals was to find the kidnappers’ lair and surprise them. Only I couldn’t do the surprising.
