And then the front door blasted open and this crazy-looking guy in an LAPD shirt and bloody jeans raced in, guns in each hand, charging right for them, and the man playing Philip thought to himself—did he miss a page or two of script or what?
This was not what Hardie expected.
He expected Topless or Tallboy or one of the other faceless minions skulking around, flicking their fingernails against a syringe, trying to get the air bubbles out, unzipping body bags and working over every surface with a rag and a can of Pledge.
He didn’t expect to see two punks with guns holding a family hostage in the middle of a modest, tastefully appointed living room.
Frankly, he didn’t expect that they’d still be alive. Hardie thought he’d burst into this room on a mission of pure vengeance, a biblical reckoning.
Hardie lifted his right Glock and fired. The bullet struck the male punk in the shoulder and spun him like a top, sending him crashing into a small table littered with framed photographs.
Then Hardie turned and pointed the gun at the punk girl, who was already on her feet and climbing backward over the living room couch. Hardie gave her one in the arm. She shrieked as the bullet propelled her off the top of the couch and sent her crashing to the floor. She shrieked again, in one hot, angry burst, then started moaning.
Hardie closed the distance between himself and the fallen male.
“Stop stop stop,” he was murmuring, actually cowering as Hardie approached. “Please don’t shoot me again, this is not what you think, oh God, please.”
A voice behind Hardie croaked to life.
“That’s Philip Kindred. He’s a serial killer, along with his sister over there behind the couch. Don’t listen to anything he says, because it’ll be a lie.”
Hardie turned to the shirtless man who’d spoken—Jonathan Hunter—and instantly felt twin pangs of kinship and guilt. Kinship because they were two fathers who wanted nothing more than to keep their families safe. Guilt because Hardie knew the secret history of the Hunters’ worst nightmare. In another life, they could have had a beer together. The sort-of cop from working-class Philadelphia and the television producer from Los Angeles. But not today. Not after what Hardie would be forced to ram down their throats.
The truth.
“You know him?” Hardie asked.
“We ran a special about him, and his sister, a few days ago. I guess he figured he’d come here to tell me what he thought of the show. Isn’t that right, you son of a bitch?”
The lizard part of Hardie’s brain raced to keep up, but he thought he had it. Topless’s big plan. She’d set this in motion days ago. She couldn’t do it alone either. Lane had been right. The Accident People were indeed connected at the highest levels. Hardie wished more than ever that Deke were here right now.
“By the way, who are you?” Jonathan Hunter asked.
“I’m Charlie Hardie.”
“Yeah, but who are you? Why are you here? How did you know these people would be coming for us?”
“You’ve got a guardian angel somewhere.”
HARDIE.
The name lit up in Mann’s brain like pure neon rage.
HARDIE.
She knew they should have killed him in that hotel room, she advocated for it, pressed it, almost begged for it. You don’t leave a man like that alive. Not after what he’s seen. But Gedney insisted: his bosses wanted
HARDIE
kept alive, to be dealt with later, in a manner of their choosing. The narrative would be stronger for it, more airtight, they argued. One living psycho was always better than one dead one found at the scene. Even Lee Harvey was allowed to live for a period of time after the big job at Dealey Plaza. Mann again disagreed, saying that
HARDIE
was a god who needed to be put down, no fucking around, no fancy shit, because a man who’s too stubborn to die will be too stubborn to stay put, and god-fucking-damnit she should have listened to her gut on this one because now
HARDIE
was going to fuck everything up unless she was quick and smart and decisive and ended this now.
Now Hardie had this sputtering psycho—“Philip Kindred”—to deal with. He was still inching away, eyes rolling around in his head, as if waiting for someone to tell him what to do. Hardie crouched down next to him, poked him with the muzzle.
“How are they talking to you? Do you have an earpiece? Are they telling you what to do?”
“W-What are you talking about, man?”
“I know all about her, your boss with the big tits, so don’t pretend, nutboy. Just tell me how you were supposed to get out of here after killing the Hunters.”
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.