Fall Out Read online

  Fall Out

  M.N. Grenside

  Copyright © 2021 M.N Grenside

  The right of M.N Grenside to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2020.

  Republished 2021 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  * * *

  Print ISBN 978-1-914614-12-5

  Contents

  Love best-selling fiction?

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part II

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Part III

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Part IV

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Part V

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Acknowledgments

  A note from the publisher

  Love best-selling fiction?

  You will also enjoy:

  Bibliography

  Praise for the author

  About the Author

  Love best-selling fiction?

  Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks!

  * * *

  Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors?

  To my beloved wife, Kirsten,

  who inspires, supports and puts up with me.

  Cast of Characters

  MAJOR ITO OKOBUTO

  GARRISON COMMANDER

  * * *

  GENERAL YAMASHITA

  COMMANDER 14TH ARMY IN PHILIPPINES

  * * *

  YONO TAN

  EXECUTIONER

  * * *

  MARCUS RILEY

  FILM PRODUCER, RECIPIENT OF SCREENPLAY

  * * *

  MELINDA ‘MAKO’ DE TURRIS

  DESIGNER

  * * *

  GARANCE

  Ms.DE TURRIS’ HOUSEKEEPER

  * * *

  SAM WOOD

  SCREENWRITER

  * * *

  JAX WOOD

  SAM’S EX WIFE

  * * *

  BILL BAINES

  STUNT CO-ORDINATOR

  * * *

  CARA BAINES

  FLORIST AND WIDOW OF STUNTMAN BILL BAINES, RECIPIENT OF SCREENPLAY

  * * *

  ROBERT KELSO

  DIRECTOR, RECIPIENT OF SCREENPLAY

  * * *

  CHRISTO MURRAY

  COMPANION TO ROBERT KELSO

  * * *

  LOUIS MCCONNELL

  AGENT AND ENTREPRENEUR, RECIPIENT OF SCREENPLAY

  * * *

  JONATHAN REENA

  ENFORCER FOR LOUIS MCCONNELL

  * * *

  RAFAEL SATO

  BANKER

  * * *

  BENJAMIN

  LOUIS MCCONNELL’S BUTLER

  * * *

  TYLER GEMMEL

  ASSOCIATE OF LOUIS MCCONNELL

  * * *

  LORNE MADDOX

  ASSOCIATE OF TYLER GEMMEL

  * * *

  FERDINAND ‘HARIBON’ GUINTO

  PHILIPPINE ENTREPRENEUR

  * * *

  DATU

  DRIVER HARIBON GUINTO

  * * *

  RIZAL

  EMPLOYEE HARIBON GUINTO

  * * *

  JOSELITO

  EMPLOYEE HARIBON GUINTO

  * * *

  CONSUELA RAMON

  HARIBON’S ‘YA-YA’

  * * *

  STEFAN DE TURRIS

  RETIRED FILM BONDER AND ART COLLECTOR, RECIPIENT SCREENPLAY

  * * *

  ROBIN VALLINGS

  DE TURRIS FAMILY LAWYER

  * * *

  NU-WA DE TURRIS

  WIFE STEFAN DE TURRIS, MOTHER OF MAKO

  * * *

  GILES

  CHAUFFEUR STEFAN DE TURRIS

  * * *

  MARY

  HEAD NURSE STEFAN DE TURRIS

  Prologue

  THE CAVE, PAGSANJAN, PHILIPPINES

  November 1944

  Major Ito Okobudo reminded himself that when the time came, he should put his fingers in his ears. It was not to block out the screams of the dying men, which was a sound he was well used to, but rather to protect his eardrums from the staccato crack of machine-gun fire as it ricocheted and echoed off the unforgiving stone walls. In such a confined space he was pretty certain it would damage his hearing.

  He looked disdainfully at the assembled crowd. All he had to do was nod. The six guards behind him would snap back the tarpaulin covering the tripod mounted machine gun and the carnage would begin.

  “Congratulations to you all,” the Major beamed, immaculately attired in his formal dress uniform, his swagger stick in his leather gloved hand, his close-cropped hair already dripping with sweat.

  Three hundred and seventy haggard faces gazed blankly back at him; a labor force mainly drawn from Australian, American and British prisoners of war. The majority did not understand Japanese and those that did gave scant regard to the thanks. As if there had been any choice?

  “We are all gathered here today as a final mark of respect to the completion of our work; forever a testament to Japanese dedication and skill…”

  Next to the POWs the Japanese engineers repeatedly bowed, bobbing as if ducking for apples while murmuring gratitude f
or the praise being bestowed upon them by the Major.

  The work had been carried out for General Tomoyuki Yamashita; a man with a reputation for savage efficiency and no tolerance for disobedience or disloyalty. A man who had to be shown respect.

  The only way now to enter or exit the cave was to be lowered on a wooden gantry via the airshaft over 100 ft above them. A hole had been cut into the cavern ceiling and opened out at the crown of the great rock. The platform, winched down manually by four men on the surface, could take 25 people at a time. It had taken nearly an hour to assemble everyone, hence Major Okobudo’s impatience.

  Had the cave been empty the cold of the walls would have made the space cool, even chilly. But today the stench and sweat of the slaves added to the body heat of so many officials crammed into the confined space had turned the vaulted chamber into a hot, humid hell-hole.

  “Dai Tenoheika Banzai. Long Live the Emperor,” cried out the Major as he finished his speech. It was 11:57 a.m.

  The assembled engineers toasted the Emperor’s health with a few drops of sake that the guards had carried in their backpacks especially for this occasion. The exhausted prisoners, not understanding, simply shuffled their feet.

  Major Okobudo’s orders had been clear. Assemble all those involved. At midday precisely, all were to die and their souls to forever stand guard over the empty cave.

  The thin Major stood below the shaft; at his feet were a wooden case of artillery shells and a tin box. Inside the box was the serene smiling face of a stone Buddha and a roll of parchment. These items were coming with him; his passport to freedom. He looked down at his watch. It was only moments until midday. Suddenly there was a noise from above and all eyes swiveled upward. The gantry was slowly descending. Although the Major was indeed going to step onto it to leave, he had not commanded it to come down yet. Furious, he turned around, ready to order the immediate execution of whomever had dared not wait for his order. A solitary figure stood on the platform. The Major recognized him instantly. Sixty-year-old General Yamashita was a short compact man, bull-necked with a closely shaved head. He was wearing a simple khaki uniform but on his feet were black riding boots set off with solid gold spurs. He would present them a few years later as a gift to his American defense attorney after being sentenced to death for war crimes… and would take his secrets to the grave.

  The General raised his arm and the platform halted forty feet above those assembled. He looked down on the crowd, his left arm still raised. After a short pause he gently waved as if giving a sort of benediction, his cold gaze finally resting on Major Okobudo.

  In a moment of terror, the Major realized it was a sign of farewell. The General’s order was going to be carried out to the letter. Everyone involved must die. The Major watched the platform slowly rise, and a familiar figure reached out to help the General step off the platform and hand him a gas mask.

  “Tan,” whispered the Major incredulously, recognizing his own bodyguard, someone he had believed utterly loyal to him.

  Tan heaved over the parapet the dead bodies of the four guards Major Okobudo had left on the surface to operate the winch and take him safely away once the shooting had started.

  Moments later cyanide canisters rained down. The General’s own hand-picked men peered down through their gas masks at the panicked workers, now screaming in terror.

  Major Ito Okobudo fell to his knees in despair and saw the large stone Buddha head. In the commotion it had been kicked over by one of the soldiers desperate to escape his fate. It had rolled out of the box and the stone ringlets glowed in the disappearing crescent of light from above, as the large rock rolled into place with a final crash, obliterating the sunshine like an eclipse. Ignoring the panic-stricken cries and writhing of those around him, the Major grasped the stone bust tightly for a moment, trying somehow to hold onto it and his life. His hand twitched and fell to the floor. Silence returned to the cave once more.

  * * *

  Days later a cluster of black and purple flowers began to grow outside the cave walls; on the other side rotted the bodies of the dead.

  Part I

  THE SCREENPLAY

  1

  VENICE BEACH, LOS ANGELES

  PRESENT DAY

  The End

  © Sam Wood 2020

  * * *

  Sam cradled his newly completed screenplay in both hands, savoring the moment. FALL OUT was a hit waiting in the wings, and he knew it. A script about greed, a secret fortune, broken friendships, betrayal, and murder. But success would come later. First, it was going to be read by a specific target audience. Who would realize that FALL OUT was a road map to their past? Would the guilty see the clues and be flushed out?

  Despite all his years in LA, Sam still had the weather-beaten face of a man born and raised in the Australian outback. He looked down at five freshly bound copies laid out on the desk in front of him, each with the name of a recipient in bold type at the top and a quote from French philosopher Honoré de Balzac directly beneath. He thought for a moment, smiled wickedly then picked up the phone. He was disappointed when he had to settle for leaving a voice message. “Bet that comes as a bolt out of the blue. Well my old mate, the game is up.”

  Whistling softly, still savoring the drama he was setting in motion, he placed each screenplay inside its own manila envelope and attached the address labels.

  The remains of a Bundaberg Rum and Coke gently fizzed in a silver pint mug next to his laptop. Although it was only 11:00 a.m., he had been writing all night and a healthy slug of booze had always oiled his creative gears. Sam took a last mouthful to polish it off, then sunk back in his chair, the heels of his palms rubbing his tired eyes.

  Getting up slowly and gathering the five scripts, he ambled out of the sparsely furnished room that he used as an office and went downstairs.

  Apart from a cleaning lady, who ghosted in and out three times a week and tried to avoid her employer when he was working, he lived alone. His ex-wife, Jax, now lived happily up the coast in the rain of Seattle.

  Sam pulled back the glass door to his deck. A Frisbee arced above his view of Venice Beach and he breathed in the aroma of Jody Maroni’s Sausage Kingdom a few yards away. That smell pulled him back to meat pies and the girls at Bondi Beach when he was a young struggling writer in Sydney.

  It’s not the girls you nailed that matter, he thought to himself, it’s the ones that got away that haunt you forever…

  “Brunch and a delivery service for these,” he murmured breaking the memories and venturing out onto the boardwalk.

  * * *

  A few miles away the assassin pedaled his bike down the ribbon of concrete locals called ‘The Strand’. It snaked for 22 miles along the shoreline from Pacific Palisades, through Venice Beach, continuing all the way along the coast past Los Angeles International Airport to the Redondo Beach Pier. Dusted by sand, this ribbon of concrete hugged the shore and was x place to skateboard, rollerblade, jog or cycle as well as show off your torso. The only real race was how quickly you could pick up a fellow rider or runner.

  He was Asian, slightly built, his well-toned body weighing less than 150 pounds and barely 5'4" tall. He was zipped into black Lycra cycle clothing, wearing full rather than open fingered gloves and wrap-around dark sunglasses. With an iPhone clipped to his belt and earphones screwed in under his helmet, he looked just like any one of the riders that crisscrossed the city. Despite being superbly fit, he was in his late sixties, and no one would ever consider him life threatening. That was why he was so good. His targets never expected such a small man to be so lethal.