THE BOAT IS ROCKING, ROCKING slightly in the wake of a cruise ship that lumbered past filled with three thousand peons off to spend a drunken week trying to forget their crummy, meaningless lives. Nylan chuckles. People are so pathetic. He picks up the bottle of Roederer Cristal—off the teak table, handmade in Antwerp, that sits on the deck of the yacht Universe, handmade in the Lürssen shipyard in Bremen—and pours himself another glass. The boat, which cost $143 million to build, is only a toy. An amusement, a divertissement, a plush little ha-ha. Fun, yes, but he’s after much bigger game. And he has it in his sights. He doesn’t wear jewelry, but if he did, they’d all be on their knees waiting to kiss the ring and grant him three wishes—unless he wanted six: presidents, prime ministers, movie stars, popes, titans of the brave new world. Kiss the ring. Kiss my ass. Kiss of death.
Nylan looks out at the glittering Hudson, up at the glittering Manhattan skyline. All hail! GNN has roared into the black, defying expectations. Just two years ago he founded the network from scratch and now it’s in the stratosphere, the highest-rated cable news network. He’s on the cover of Fortune and too many other magazines and websites to count, he’s being begged to join consortiums developing ski resorts in the Andes and building artificial islands in the Red Sea, he’s preparing a TED Talk, publishers are clamoring for a book, Donald Trump—that bloated, orange-faced freak—wants to be his BFF. He could go on. And on—he’s surfing the crest of the biggest swell in history. But he won’t go on. Because tonight is about humility. Nylan looks up to the glowing night sky, to the planets and stars, and knows he’s just a speck, just a wink of a blink in the ceaseless tide of eternity. How could he be anything but humble?
And here come Fred Wilmot and Dave Mullen walking down the dock! This night is about them. He loves them. No, he does. Really. They’re his true friends. His soul mates. His partners. His puppets.
The two men walk across the ramp and make their way up to the aft deck. Nylan hands them each a glass of Roederer.
“To an epic night,” he toasts. They clink and sip and smile, the anticipation among them palpable, pulsing, tumescent.
“How about a little amuse-bouche to start the festivities?” Dave Mullen asks in his deeply hip drawl. In spite of his laid-back manner, he looks drawn, anxious around the edges. He takes out a small silver box, presses a button on the side, and the lid pops open—it’s filled with sparkly white powder.
“That looks delicious,” Nylan says. Dave hands him a silver straw and he dips down and snorts and a sweet shot of ecstasy shoots through him.
But something’s wrong; Fred is looking so serious. “Frederick—why the long face?” Nylan asks.
“We have a little problem. It’s blonde and very inquisitive.”
“She’s a temporary irritation, not a problem,” Nylan scoffs.
“A new poll came out today. She’s now the second-most-admired woman in America after the First Lady.”
“So what? She’s just about outlived her usefulness at this point.”
Outlived her usefulness. Nylan loves that phrase. It has so many implications, it promises so much. Death. Death is such a beautiful thing. The finality. The removal. The power.
“That’s just the thing, Nylan, I’m not sure she has outlived her usefulness. Her effect on ratings and social media is instantaneous. Commercial time on her show is presold for four months at 600K for thirty seconds. The money is gushing in. It’s what sent us into the black. But it feels like a house of cards—if we lose her, it could all come tumbling down. We need her.”
Nylan hates the idea of needing anybody. All Nylan has ever needed is Nylan. Fred can be such a wuss sometimes. But Nylan is no fool, he’s not about to shoot the messenger. “So she’s as inquisitive as ever?”
“I’ve detected an unknown presence,” Mullen says. Then he takes a snort and then two more. His eyes are darting around. “I don’t like unknown presences. They mess with my head.”
Nylan starts to pace. He can feel anger rising in his veins. And a begrudging respect for the white-trash blonde. He underestimated her. But, seriously, who does she think she’s playing with? She has no idea.
“I have the goods on her,” Nylan says.
“I know you do, Nylan, but if we destroy her reputation, where does that leave us?”
Nylan pays Wilmot a lot of money to ask these tough questions. But that doesn’t mean he likes to hear them. And he can’t believe that boozy little trailer-trash blonde has backed him into this corner. It’s time to turn on the cunning tap and let it flow.
Think.
He does need her. For now. Until he can replace her. With another star. He has to make that happen. Soon. Very soon. That’s really all he needs. Once he has another girl—and he’ll find one—Erica Sparks will suffer a tragic and unfortunate death. There are so many creative ways to kill a person. Maybe a drive-by shooting as she walks to work—a single bullet to the brain. Fired by some pathetic soon-to-die lackey.
Think of the publicity her death will bring. The network will go into collective mourning, broadcast her funeral live, set up a foundation in her name that provides journalism scholarships. And then, tears still flowing, the next GNN superstar will be introduced on a wave of sympathy and goodwill.
Nylan takes another snort. What a beautiful plan, stunning in its simplicity.
But it has to happen soon. Mullen is jittery. And Mullen never gets jittery. It’s time to send Erica Sparks out in a blaze of glory. One last story that transcends even Kay Barrish’s death. That cements her place in history. But what? What? Nylan’s wheels start racing faster, faster, faster.
He takes another snort, Dave and Fred follow. “Hey, cheer up, baby boys, Daddy’s got this one. Everything is under control. Now let’s have some fun!” Nylan goes over to a console on the wall and presses a button. Bruno Mars comes on the speakers and Nylan does a little dance. It’s a tingly New York night—
And here come the girls. Down on the dock, three of them, long-legged, young and beautiful with long hair and short skirts and smooth skin and perfect bodies. One black, one Asian, one blonde—just what Nylan ordered. And Nylan owns them. He owns them. And he loves owning them. Fred arranged it, he’s good at things like that. Fred has contacts, contacts that reach right down, right down into the sweet underbelly of pleasure and pain—and pull out . . . beautiful girls like these.
And now they’re boarding and now they’re in the main cabin and now they’re snorting and sipping and now Nylan takes the blonde’s hand and leads her down, down into his suite and locks the door behind them and takes her beautiful, perfect face in his hands.
“I’m so happy to see you . . .,” he purrs. He leans in and kisses her oh-so-gently on her lovely lips. “. . . Erica.” And then he hauls back and slaps her hard, really hard, and tears fill her eyes and a little trail of blood trickles down from the corner of her mouth. She’s a good girl. And the suite is soundproofed. No one will hear her screams.