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
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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
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Bibliography
Praise for the author
About the Author
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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.