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"We can't simply begin every episode with somebody trying to kill me," Nigel Rowe told his assistant, Tesanee, pressing the phone between his head and shoulder as he applied sunscreen to every millimeter of his ghastly pale British complexion.
Not far away, his bodyguard, Devi Alexander, had already finished her preparations, though her darker skin tone gave her at least some defense against sunburn, if not the other evils of exposed skin. So far, the new hire worked out well, in spite of her prohibitions against anything he generally enjoyed, visiting markets, talking with strangers...doing his job. A tall, athletic former Marine, Devi possessed striking features shaped by her Indian and European heritage, and just the right balance of power and grace to have saved his neck a few times already.
"It's exciting, though, Nigel," Tesanee said. "I've done a little testing, and the audience wants more!"
More death-defying feats, more narrow escapes, more of Nigel looking terrified. "The program's meant to be travel adventure, not an action film."
"Nigel, this footage is gold. You clocking the guy with a camera while he's trying to drown you? Brilliant. The mutual views of your camera and Mike's during the shooting. It's really clear how frightened you are, then you're fighting to save him—Mike is back, by the way. Convalescing at home."
"I'm not a hero," Nigel insisted. "I'd prefer if you don't make it appear so. As for Mike, send him a fruit bouquet, the one with the chocolate—assuming he's allowed to eat chocolate." It had been what, eight days since the shooting? How long could chocolate be reasonably withheld before it became cruel and unusual?
Devi stalked into his view, tapping her wrist as if she wore a watch.
Nigel furrowed his brow at her. "Yes, yes," he said, acknowledging her prompt.
Halfway around the world, Tesanee said, "Wonderful! I'll get started right away."
"No!" Nigel cried, but the line had gone dead, likely on purpose. Tesanee should know very well his wishes about his own presentation, regardless of the ratings. He jabbed the redial and held the phone to his ear with lotion-slick fingers. It didn't even ring. No connection.
Devi scanned the plateau where they had parked hoping for signal. It had worked, for a time. Their Jeep sat in the shade of an ancient ironwood cluster. Behind, the high desert of the Baja peninsula rose in jagged lines of canyons dotted with cactus and spiky, alien cireo plants. In front, the road wound down through miles of white and pink salt flats toward the rugged, gentrifying harbor town of Guerrero Negro with the broad, blue gleam of the Pacific on the horizon not far away.
Devi's mirror-shaded glance fell on him. "Ready?"
"She insists on using the footage, and now I can't raise her at all." He tapped out a message. Perchance a text could fly where his voice could not.
"I've seen it," Devi said. "It's pretty compelling."
"I should've deleted it from the cloud." He stalked back toward the vehicle, his ankle giving the occasional twinge to register its indignation at being required to support him after the adventures of a few days prior. Probably lucky he could stand at all. No, not luck: Devi's intervention.
She shook her head and climbed in the driver's seat. "I don't get it, but I don't have to."
Nigel used the handle to hitch up into his own seat. "Carry on, then. Tide and turtles wait for no man."
The engine rumbled to life. "Neither does that." She called his attention to the clouds massing on that same horizon. Tropical Storm Susan, likely to make landfall that night.
Their guide, the man with the turtle, insisted they'd be fine for boating this morning, so long as they returned to shore before the storm hit. Likely the stop for the call had been a poor choice, given the oncoming storm, but he did have a schedule to maintain, and a number of people trying to help him do so, people whose meals and mortgages depended on him. The more fools they... In that light, yes, they should make the most of the moments when people were trying to kill him. Lord willing, it wouldn't happen so often they could count on the extra advertising income those fresh eyeballs could bring to his channel.
Nigel absently rubbed his finger over the little sheathed knife that hung from a thong beneath his shirt. New habit that. He ought to stop doing it.
He tapped out another message, rescinding his prior order. If his intent were to exploit his own absurdities for the entertainment, and income, of others, then he'd best release his qualms about sensational bits like somebody trying to drown him in a swimming pool or blow his brains out to beat him to a hidden Jesuit mission. Lord, he could hardly wait to see what happened next!