The trial of Ruan Van Zijl, known professionally as Ron Van Zeal, could only be described as a media circus. Before his wife’s death and his subsequent arrest for the murder of a random couple from Oxnard, he barely registered as a celebrity at all; enjoying a degree of anonymity, despite his modestly successful television career. The breathless reporting of his tragic loss and details of the murder, from the discovery of the brutalized bodies to his dramatic acquittal, propelled him to a level of fame that he’d neither imagined nor wanted.

  The first reports of his wife’s accident had been relegated to the back pages of trashy tabloid magazines. She’d been on a hard ride in the mountains north of Malibu, training for the Bayshore Triathlon, when she lost control of her bike, falling down a steep hillside into the trees along Piuma Road. The tragic story took on a life of its own on social media, first as genuine messages of condolence from Ruan’s followers, then as fodder for conspiracy theorists and trolls.

  Photos of the accident scene soon emerged, leaked by an anonymous police whistleblower, showing evidence of a coverup. Yellow scuff marks on Lenora’s bike and some injuries on her left leg proved inconsistent with the official story. Time-stamped photos taken by security gate cameras of the luxury estates dotting the sparsely populated road revealed a yellow Lamborghini Urus taking longer than usual to descend the hill. They also revealed fresh damage to the front fascia when it reached Malibu Canyon Road.

  As if the yellow Urus wasn’t unique enough on its own, internet researchers known only by their whimsical user names reported that one had recently undergone bodywork repairs consistent with the damage shown in the grainy photos. It belonged to musician and producer Ray Kamakawiwo’ole. A well-known Hawaiian sovereignty activist, he’d risen to prominence bringing native and other marginalized voices to the mainstream. Poor Ray couldn’t fathom how he became the target of a sustained barrage of online threats and abuse.

  Soon, the mainstream media latched onto the popularity of the manufactured mystery surrounding Lenora Van Zijl’s death. Daily television news updates followed the developments as the nation fixated once more on the fate of a pretty white blonde. It didn’t hurt that most of the available photos and footage from her competitions featured her in tight spandex or a skimpy swimsuit.

  Despite investigators’ insistence they had no evidence linking Ray Kamakawiwo’ole to Lenora’s death, the cable news channels included the suspicions against him in their extensive coverage, and a growing number of people suspected a coverup. Among them, Ruan, desperately searching for meaning in his loss.

  When reports surfaced police were investigating the discovery of two bodies at Ray Kamakawiwo’ole’s Oxnard home, the media conducted their own ad hoc trial, finding Ruan guilty of murder long before the judge issued an arrest warrant. When the arrest finally came, the cameras were waiting, and his perp walk headlined global news coverage.

  The frenzy only intensified as the televised trial garnered ratings a hundred times greater than the Survival Stories series ever managed. Dozens of online celebrity watchers live-blogged about every gruesome detail of the crime scene and each new piece of evidence. Sentiment shifted inexplicably toward Ray and his wife being innocent victims instead of heartless killers who’d gotten what they deserved.

  Every day after court adjourned, reporters stood on the steps of the courthouse, regurgitating the damning evidence that would lead to likely conviction. On the cable news shows, perfectly coifed anchors convened panels of paid experts to discuss how Ruan’s background made him a perfect killer, and how the jury would certainly find him guilty.

  Trial watchers were incredulous when the defense presented evidence they said corroborated his alibi beyond reasonable doubt. Proof, they claimed, that Ruan was hundreds of miles away at the time of the murders. The jury agreed.

  He left the courthouse innocent in the eyes of the law, but guilty in the court of public opinion. Surely he had orchestrated the plot, opined the experts and online amateurs alike, even if he didn’t carry it out himself. As a result, the media hounded him wherever he went.

  The call from Richard months later came as a welcome distraction for Ruan. It offered an opportunity for some much-needed income and, more importantly, a chance to get him out of his self-imposed home imprisonment. That they’d whisked him away in the early morning hours, evading the ever-present reporters, was a bonus.

  A private jet took him from Hollywood Burbank Airport to Wheeler Army Airfield on O’ahu, where a waiting helicopter carried him on the last leg of the journey to the temporary office and living quarters at the Beta site.

  ***

  “I have to admit this isn’t what I had in mind when I chose my outfit,” said Ruan. “I feel a bit overdressed.”

  “What were you expecting?” asked Richard.

  “I thought a man like Anton Kamaras would have a nicer facility.”

  “He does. But you won’t see it. Besides, that suit has seen better days—and so have you.”

  Ruan examined his wrinkled suit, rubbing at an unidentifiable stain on his sleeve.

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  “Yeah. And I guess we wouldn’t want to tarnish his reputation.”

  “You’re an innocent man, Mr. Van Zijl. How could you possibly tarnish his reputation?”

  “According to a jury of my peers, at least. And I suppose I have you to thank for that?”

  “Your lawyer requested the geotag data from your Hitz-It app, and we were happy to comply.”

  “There’s that,” said Ruan. “But after you called me, I did a little digging into that gas station outside of Henderson.”

  “The one with the high-resolution video of you filling your car.”

  “It turns out,” he continued, “the company handling their security surveillance manages everything using Hitz-It.com cloud services.”

  “That is an interesting coincidence.”

  “A coincidence for which I was grateful—at first.”

  “At first?”

  “And then I got to thinking that if you could fake my alibi, then maybe you could have faked a few other things, too. You want to hear another interesting coincidence?”

  Richard raised an eyebrow.

  “It turns out the security cameras that caught that fancy, yellow SUV on Piuma road also use the Hitz-It cloud data services.”

  “As do over three-quarters of all commercial and residential security providers,” replied Richard. “Is there a specific question here?”

  Ruan narrowed his eyes, staring at the physicist.

  “Did you have my wife killed?”

  “Jesus Christ! We had nothing to do with that.”

  Though prepared to fake indignance as needed, his reaction to the startling question was genuine. Ruan had been among hundreds of potential candidates identified by the algorithms, but the circumstances of his wife’s death were nothing more than a fortunate coincidence. With the unrelated discovery of the Hawaiian activist needing a timely car repair, the AI reacted like a slot machine lining up a row of bright red cherries, and decided Ruan was their man.

  “Maybe not,” replied Ruan. “But there’s sure-as-shit something fishy going on here, because we both know I was nowhere near Henderson that night.”

  “We did you a favor.”

  “And why the fuck did I need a favor in the first place?” he demanded, slamming a fist on the desk. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  “There’s no need to be confrontational. You’re here for an opportunity.”

  Richard’s hand edged toward the top drawer.

  “Yeah. An opportunity to snap your fucking pencil neck.”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” said Richard.

  He slid open the drawer and produced a gun, holding it as casually as he could manage. Ruan snorted and rolled his eyes.

  “You’re holding that thing like it’s going to bite you. Besides, no matter which one of us ends up dead, it’s a win for me.”

  “Is that what Lenora would want?”

  “Leave her out of this,” he spat.

  “Tell me, Ruan, how did a mercenary like you end up with a woman like her, anyway?”

  “Not a mercenary. A private security contractor working for legitimate governments in actions sanctioned by the United Nations.”

  Despite the tension, Richard couldn’t stop himself from smiling at the obviously rehearsed response.

  “My apologies. I’m sure you’re proud of what you’ve done. Did you tell her what you got up to in these sanctioned actions of yours?”

  “No.”

  “I doubt she’d have been with you if you had.”

  “She wasn’t like me. But I was trying to be more like her. To be a better person.”

  “Until you gutted a man’s wife right in front of him, you mean?”

  “Don’t let my appearance fool you. I’ll have you by the throat before you can fire that thing. I know what you did to me.”

  Richard struggled to keep his hands steady. Though the AI called Ruan a broken man, unlikely to snap, it wasn’t sitting across a desk from him.

  “I did you a favor. I’m the good guy here,” he said.

  Ruan snorted again.

  “I wonder if Kamakawi—or whatever the fuck his name was—would agree.”

  “He and his wife dug their own graves when they fled the scene.”

  “There was no evidence of that. All bullshit—just like my alibi.”

  “You believe there wasn’t a coverup? That a rich, connected asshole didn’t use his influence to whitewash the whole thing?”

  Give him permission to accept the lie. That’s all he had to do. He held his breath as the mercenary studied him for several seconds.

  “If it were anyone else lying dead in that gorge, he probably would have gotten away with it, too,” added Richard. “He fucked with the wrong guy, and paid the price.”

  Ruan let out a breath.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Secure and defend an objective—some property—for Mr. Kamaras.”

  “Why me?”

  “He’s a fan of your work, and he’d like to help you out of your current circumstances.”

  “Well, isn’t that charitable? I assume the pay is good?”

  “That’s where we run into a bit of difficulty, I’m afraid.”

  “You expect me to believe you’re on a budget?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just that money won’t you much good where we’d be sending you.”

  “Not much of a negotiator, are you?”

  “Let me try again. How would you like to go where nobody knows about your past, and you can escape any kind of scrutiny for the rest of your life? We’ll give you complete, autonomous reign over your own private paradise.”

  “Okay,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “What’s the catch?”

  “There’s no coming back. It’s a one-way ticket.”

  “And how do I get paid if money has no value?”

  “What we offer has no price.”

  “Spell it out,” demanded Ruan.

  “You’ll vanish. Disappear without a trace and become a legend—like D. B. Cooper.”

  “You’re still not selling this.”

  “There’s more. We’ll use social media to make sure the truth about your wife’s death comes out. The whole world will learn how the system failed you, forcing you to take matters into your own hands. Maybe you’ll even get a movie about your life and disappearance. I like Leonardo DiCaprio for the starring role.”

  “His accent is shit,” said Ruan. “And I’m better looking—on a good day.”

  “So we have a deal? Aside from DiCaprio, of course.”

  Ruan locked eyes with him.

  “How do I know I can trust you to uphold your end of the deal?”

  “Your disappearance starts today. There’s no record of your trip here, and no witnesses we don’t control. You’ve got a month to see the impact of our operation to rehabilitate your image before you’re deployed.”

  The former soldier sighed and slid down in his chair.

  “Okay. Tell me more about this mission.”