True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(45)

Up in their hideout on the hill, Margo grinned at Ian. “That was great.”

He grinned back at her. “Now you know why my books are bestsellers. I can plot.”

But writing it didn’t compare to the exhilaration of actually doing it. The gleeful expression on Margo’s face told him that she enjoyed the visceral experience as much as he did even though she hadn’t pulled the trigger. It just proved what everybody in Hollywood already knew: everybody loves an explosion.

Ian and Margo rose from their hiding place and made their way carefully down through the rocks to the ground, where Ronnie stood over the two men with his AK-47 aimed at their backs.

“Be still, boys,” Ronnie said. “One twitch of my finger and you’re both vulture chow.”

Ian and Margo removed zip ties from their pockets and they each took a man, first binding their wrists, then rolling them over onto their backs. The two men, dirt sticking to their sweaty faces, scowled furiously at their captors.

“It could be worse,” Margo told the two men. “We could have shot you out of the sky.”

Ian got the feeling that she would have been okay with that, too.

He and Margo opened the men’s jumpsuits and searched their pockets, retrieving wallets, key fobs, and photo IDs. Margo stood up and flipped through the wallet that she’d found.

“This one is Edwin Pessel.” Margo nodded at the man at her feet. “He’s a security specialist for Blackthorn Global Security in Las Vegas.”

That didn’t make sense to Ian. What did Blackthorn have to do with the CIA?

Ian opened the other man’s wallet and found another Blackthorn ID. “This one is Stuart Bowers. He also works at Blackthorn.”

“Of course they do,” Ronnie said.

Ian put his foot on Bowers’ chest to keep him down and looked at Ronnie. “Why ‘of course’?”

“Because Blackthorn is the SS of the New World Order. It’s full of ex-spies, ex-politicians, war criminals, disgraced scientists, and professional psychopaths. Their job is to terrorize the populace so that they are so scared that they will gladly give up their freedoms in exchange for the false promise of safety.”

“And you think these guys do that by flying jets into buildings,” Margo said.

“That’s one way,” Ronnie said. “The Kennedy, King, and Elvis assassinations, Watergate, AIDS, Botox, crop circles, the Ebola epidemic, opioid addiction, and genetically engineered fruit are just some of their greatest hits.”

“You left out artificial sweeteners,” Margo said.

“Because that goes without saying,” Ronnie said.

Blackthorn was a plot twist that Ian didn’t see coming. It changed his perspective about everything that had happened since Bob first knocked on his door. It also gave him hope. “What if it’s Blackthorn, not the CIA, that crashed the plane and is trying to kill us?”

“So what?” Ronnie said. “They’re both puppets of the New World Order.”

“I don’t see how that makes things any better for us, either,” Margo said.

“It’s a game changer. I’ve met the man in charge of this conspiracy but I don’t know his name or anything about him.” Ian looked down at Bowers, who glowered at him from under his foot. “Now we have a way to find out.”



Ronnie and Margo worked fast. She helped him bring up all the weapons, ammo, and other supplies that they needed from the bunker while Ian stood guard with the AK-47 over Pessel and Bowers, who remained bound and on their backs in the dirt. Ronnie dismantled the bunker’s surveillance system with a sledgehammer. Then he and Margo gathered up anything inside that could be used as a weapon or a tool, piled it all into the vault, and locked it up. When Ronnie and Margo came back to the surface, Ian told Pessel and Bowers to get to their feet and ordered them down the stairs.

Ian, Margo, and Ronnie gathered around the hatch and looked down at the two Blackthorn operatives, who now appeared more fearful than angry.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Ian said. “We’re going to park the tractor on the hatch and leave, trapping you in that bunker. The good news is, after you break those zip ties, you can survive down there for years.”

“Assuming you like freeze-dried beef stroganoff,” Margo said. “And don’t kill each other fighting over the sex doll.”

“But first,” Ian said, “you’re going to tell us how to get into Blackthorn’s building in Las Vegas, access their computers, and find photos of their senior employees without getting caught.”

“Why the fuck would we do that?” Pessel asked, practically spitting out the words.

“Because if we get captured or killed, nobody will ever know you’re down there,” Ian said. “You’ll be buried alive for years.”

“When the food runs out, one of you will murder the other for the meat,” Ronnie said. “But that’ll only buy you a few more weeks of solitary confinement, thinking about the savage thing you’ve done and knowing you’re going to starve anyway, dying in wretched agony while you desperately suck the last speck of marrow from another man’s bones.”

“What a horrible way to die,” Margo said. “I can’t imagine what it would be like.”

But Pessel and Bowers could. They told Ian everything he wanted to know.