Gabriel's Horn. Alex Archer
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bit of work with props before, but never on a motion picture of this magnitude.
Kill Me Deadly was a new spy romp that was part James Bond and part Jason Bourne. The hero even carried the same J.B. initials—Jet Bard.
Annja hadn’t quite understood the plot because a lot of the details were still under wraps. She was of the impression some of them were still being worked out, which was causing extra stress on the set.
Three cars occupied the middle of the street. Two of them were overturned. All of them were black from where they’d been burned. The stuntman was supposed to hit the upright car, catch on fire and turn into a human comet streaking across the sky.
When Annja had heard about the stunt and had received an invitation from Barney to attend, she’d thought about gracefully declining. Then she’d found she couldn’t stay away.
Now her stomach knotted in anticipation. She’d gotten to know the young daredevil who was about to become a human fireball. He was a nice guy and she didn’t like the idea that something bad might happen to him.
“Okay,” Barney said as he stepped back to rejoin her. His gaze remained on the street while he adjusted his headset. “I’m going to need you to stay quiet for a moment, Annja.”
“Sure.” Annja gazed down the street anxiously.
Camera operators lined the street from various points of view. All of them remained out of each other’s line of sight. The crews had worked on the setup for hours. Before that, they’d measured and mapped the distances on a model of the street and the cars.
According to the computer programs Barney and the other stunt people had run, everything would go fine. To Annja, it was a lot like exploring a dig site she’d read about. Even though she knew the background and the general layout, there were far too many surprises involved to guarantee everything was safe. Some of the early Egyptian-tomb explorers had quickly discovered that.
“On your go,” Barney said softly. He held up an electronic control box in both hands. “I’m with you.” He flicked a switch.
Immediately a half-dozen fires flamed to life within the pile of wrecked cars. They burned cheerily and black smoke twisted on the breeze.
“We’ve got fire in the hole, Roy,” Barney declared.
The throb of the motorcycle’s engine rumbled into Annja’s ears. She watched with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Roy Fein was one of the top stuntmen in the game. Barney had said that a number of times over the past few days. She didn’t know if he’d been trying to reassure her or himself.
“Steady,” Barney said. “Okay, you’re on track. Now increase your speed to seventy-eight miles per hour.”
The exact speed had been a big concern, Annja knew. Too much and the impact angle would be wrong and the motorcycle might flip end over end. Too little and Roy would fall short of the air bag that waited at the other end of the jump.
The motorcycle roared into view. Roy Fein, dressed in dark blue racing leathers and a matching helmet, had raced around the corner. A car followed only inches behind him.
“You’re on,” Barney said. “Hit the Volkswagen and I’m going to light you up.”
At that moment, the pursuit car slowed and slewed sideways. Actors inside the vehicle leaned out the windows and fired weapons.
“I got you, kid. I got you.” Barney’s voice was soft and reassuring. “Get that fire-suppression unit ready.”
The motorcycle rider popped a slight wheelie just before he hit the Volkswagen. Effortlessly, the motorcycle climbed the specially altered vehicle.
“Now,” Barney said. His finger flipped one of the switches on the electronics box.
Immediately, the motorcycle and rider were enveloped in flames. But something was wrong. Instead of arcing gracefully across the distance, the motorcycle went awry.
“Kick loose, kid!” Barney yelled. “Lose the bike!” He dropped the electronics box and ran toward the street.
Roy pushed free of the motorcycle and spread-eagled in the air like Superman. But he wasn’t flying—he was falling. Flames twisted and whipped around his body. He threw his arms out and tried to adjust his fall as gravity took over and brought him back toward the pavement.
Annja ran after Barney, though she didn’t know what she was going to do. There was no way she could help Roy. But she couldn’t just stand there, either.
The motorcycle spun crazily, nowhere near the trajectory it was supposed to maintain to get near the air bag designed to break Roy’s fall. Then it blew up.
The force slammed Annja to the ground. She tucked into a roll and came to her feet instinctively. Slightly disoriented, she glanced up to see where the flaming pieces of the motorcycle were coming down. She saw Barney was on his side. His face was twisted in agony as he reached toward a bloody gash soaking his shirt.
Annja went toward him. She yelled for help, but couldn’t hear her own voice. She tried again. Her ears felt numb, then she realized she was deaf.
She dropped beside Barney and surveyed the wound. An irregular furrow ran along his ribs. She tried to tell him that he was going to be all right but knew that he couldn’t hear her, either. She yanked his shirt from his pants and rolled the tails up to his wound, then leaned on the folds to put pressure on the wound in his side.
One of the other stunt coordinators joined Annja and dropped to his knees. His mouth was moving. She knew he was shouting something. He was young, tall and gangly, and he was in shock.
Annja grabbed one of his hands and directed him to take hold of the makeshift pressure bandage she’d created. For a moment he froze. With authority, Annja caught his face in her palms. She met his eyes with hers and struggled to remember his name.
“Tony,” she said. “It’s Tony, right?” She couldn’t hear herself.
“I can’t hear you,” he said.
Annja read his lips. “It’s okay,” she told him. “Your hearing will come back.” She hoped that was true.
Sirens, muted and faraway sounding, reached her and gave her hope that her hearing hadn’t been permanently destroyed.
Tony nodded, but he didn’t look any less scared.
“He’s hurt,” Annja told Tony. “Hold the pressure on the wound. Like this.” She guided his hands.
“Okay,” he said. “I got it.”
“I’m going to look for a first-aid kit,” Annja shouted.
Tony nodded and held on to the rolled-up shirt.
Annja got up. Her legs were shaky. She felt her phone vibrate in her pants pocket. Still on the move, she took the phone out and glanced at the number. She’d been expecting a call from Garin Braden, but the call was from New York. It was from Doug Morrell, her producer on Chasing History’s Monsters.
She switched the phone off and returned it to her pocket. With her hearing compromised, the last thing she needed was a phone call.
Burning debris from the motorcycle littered the immediate vicinity. Annja looked for Roy Fein’s body, knowing that he might not have survived the fall and the flames. Fire-suppression teams worked the air bag’s surface. White flame-retardant foam coated the bag and made it slippery.
Some of Annja’s tension drained away when she realized Roy had made it to the air bag. Then she saw him moving. The distinctive motorcycle leathers bore scorch marks and charring, but he was standing on his own two feet.
All along the street, the set teams hustled to the site. Even with all the wreckage they’d seen and helped produce for the movies, the shooting teams weren’t prepared for the damage they saw now.
Without warning, another detonation occurred and the three stunt