swatted him out of his sandals.
Jake sprang out of the mud beside the trail and snatched the fallen M16 and ammo clip, jammed the clip into the rifle, and aimed it at the three men on the ground.
“You have thirty seconds to get out of here,” Jake said. “Or I start shooting.”
The surfer and Neon Nikes each took Flip-Flops by an arm, and the three Hawaiians staggered away. Once they were out of sight, Jake lowered the M16 and grinned at Kate, who was still lying flat amid the philodendrons.
“What did you think of that?” he asked.
Kate stood up and smiled at her father. “You’re having way too much fun, Dad.”
“That’s what vacations are for.”
“Why did you send me such a cryptic message?”
“I didn’t mean to. My battery was near death, and there was barely a signal here. I figured I had just enough juice for two or three words. I was right. As soon as I hit send, the phone died. To tell you the truth, I was sure the message didn’t go out, so it was a nice surprise when you showed up.”
“Why did you go off into the jungle?”
“Alika didn’t see the ironic justice of
an eye for an eye,
or in this case
a truck for a truck.
The F-150 was still smoking when he sent his goons out to get me.”
“How did he know it was you?”
“We’d had a chitchat prior to the explosion.”
“Nice.”
“Turns out he has anger issues,” Jake said. “Hidden inside all that tattooed fat is an insecure, angry man.”
Kate did a grimace. “You could have gone to the police.”
“I didn’t know if I could trust the police. I knew I could trust the jungle. Problem was I had no exit strategy. Alika has too much of the island covered. So what’s
your
exit strategy?”
“We wait until sunrise, hike to a clearing about five miles southeast of here, and then I’ll call in a chopper for an extraction.”
“It’s weak on shock and awe, but it sounds like a fine plan to me.” He put his arm around her and sighed with contentment. “I don’t know how people can come here and surf when they could be doing this.”
Kate grinned. “Neither do I.”
N ick Fox blew into the office of the Hawaii Film Commission just as Allan Mingus, the only employee still on duty, was about to lock up and call it a day. Nick was in mid-conversation on his cellphone and held up a finger to Mingus, instructing him to wait.
“Tom Cruise is too short and too old. This is a movie about a young, virile action hero.” Nick spoke rapidly in a foreign accent of his own creation that he hoped could pass for Swedish, not that many people would know a Swedish accent if they heard one. He’d colored his hair blond and wore sunglasses, a soul patch under his lip, and a pair of phony diamond studs in his ears. “Get me a Hemsworth. Chris, Liam, Luke, Mario, or Zippy. I don’t care which one. Nobody can tell them apart anyway.”
Nick ended his call and faced Mingus, a stout man in his fifties in the obligatory aloha shirt. They stood in the center of the office, which looked like a small travel agency. The walls were decorated with posters of tropical Hawaiian beaches and movies like
From Here to Eternity
and
Raiders of the Lost Ark
that were shot on the islands.
“Show me what you’ve got,” Nick said.
“I’m sorry, but I was just closing for the day,” Mingus said.
“Not anymore. I’m looking for Vietnam, South America, and Florida in one place and I need it quick.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Krister Blomkvistbjurman-Malm, of course. Don’t you recognize me? Writer, director, and cinematographer of
Sherm de Sherm den Hurf.
”
“I am not familiar with that movie.”
“It won the Oscar for best foreign picture,” Nick said. “How can you call yourself a film office when you know
nothing
about film?”
“Oh, yes, now I remember it,” Mingus said, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Great movie. I just forgot the original Russian title.”
“It’s Swedish.”
“Right,” Mingus said, his
Jake sprang out of the mud beside the trail and snatched the fallen M16 and ammo clip, jammed the clip into the rifle, and aimed it at the three men on the ground.
“You have thirty seconds to get out of here,” Jake said. “Or I start shooting.”
The surfer and Neon Nikes each took Flip-Flops by an arm, and the three Hawaiians staggered away. Once they were out of sight, Jake lowered the M16 and grinned at Kate, who was still lying flat amid the philodendrons.
“What did you think of that?” he asked.
Kate stood up and smiled at her father. “You’re having way too much fun, Dad.”
“That’s what vacations are for.”
“Why did you send me such a cryptic message?”
“I didn’t mean to. My battery was near death, and there was barely a signal here. I figured I had just enough juice for two or three words. I was right. As soon as I hit send, the phone died. To tell you the truth, I was sure the message didn’t go out, so it was a nice surprise when you showed up.”
“Why did you go off into the jungle?”
“Alika didn’t see the ironic justice of
an eye for an eye,
or in this case
a truck for a truck.
The F-150 was still smoking when he sent his goons out to get me.”
“How did he know it was you?”
“We’d had a chitchat prior to the explosion.”
“Nice.”
“Turns out he has anger issues,” Jake said. “Hidden inside all that tattooed fat is an insecure, angry man.”
Kate did a grimace. “You could have gone to the police.”
“I didn’t know if I could trust the police. I knew I could trust the jungle. Problem was I had no exit strategy. Alika has too much of the island covered. So what’s
your
exit strategy?”
“We wait until sunrise, hike to a clearing about five miles southeast of here, and then I’ll call in a chopper for an extraction.”
“It’s weak on shock and awe, but it sounds like a fine plan to me.” He put his arm around her and sighed with contentment. “I don’t know how people can come here and surf when they could be doing this.”
Kate grinned. “Neither do I.”
N ick Fox blew into the office of the Hawaii Film Commission just as Allan Mingus, the only employee still on duty, was about to lock up and call it a day. Nick was in mid-conversation on his cellphone and held up a finger to Mingus, instructing him to wait.
“Tom Cruise is too short and too old. This is a movie about a young, virile action hero.” Nick spoke rapidly in a foreign accent of his own creation that he hoped could pass for Swedish, not that many people would know a Swedish accent if they heard one. He’d colored his hair blond and wore sunglasses, a soul patch under his lip, and a pair of phony diamond studs in his ears. “Get me a Hemsworth. Chris, Liam, Luke, Mario, or Zippy. I don’t care which one. Nobody can tell them apart anyway.”
Nick ended his call and faced Mingus, a stout man in his fifties in the obligatory aloha shirt. They stood in the center of the office, which looked like a small travel agency. The walls were decorated with posters of tropical Hawaiian beaches and movies like
From Here to Eternity
and
Raiders of the Lost Ark
that were shot on the islands.
“Show me what you’ve got,” Nick said.
“I’m sorry, but I was just closing for the day,” Mingus said.
“Not anymore. I’m looking for Vietnam, South America, and Florida in one place and I need it quick.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Krister Blomkvistbjurman-Malm, of course. Don’t you recognize me? Writer, director, and cinematographer of
Sherm de Sherm den Hurf.
”
“I am not familiar with that movie.”
“It won the Oscar for best foreign picture,” Nick said. “How can you call yourself a film office when you know
nothing
about film?”
“Oh, yes, now I remember it,” Mingus said, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Great movie. I just forgot the original Russian title.”
“It’s Swedish.”
“Right,” Mingus said, his
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