Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
The red collar dug into the back of his neck, and the cheap fabric scratched across his shoulders every time he moved. The matching ball cap with the smiling cartoon pizza slice on the front made the whole outfit that much worse.
The two insulated food carriers—stamped with the logo for Blvd Pizza Express—sitting between them appeared legitimate enough from the outside. The smell of garlic butter and melted cheese also helped sell the illusion.
Two pizzas sat on top of Green’s bag. Underneath them were his boots, holster, shoulder rig, jacket, magazines, and sidearm.
Ruxs carried the same setup, except his bag had salad bowls and breadsticks covering his weaponry and clothes.
Hollywood Boulevard was teeming with life, and Green was taking in the sites as they approached the massive Studio 8 gates on foot.
Tour buses rolled past while guides yelled exaggerated celebrity stories into their microphones.
It was almost noon and already fans were crowding the barricades. Cameras were held high, flashes sparking every few seconds despite there being no celebrities in sight.
The giant silver-and-black Studio 8 sign stretched overhead like the entrance to a royal kingdom.
Green assessed everything—main gate coverage, guard posture, reaction to approach attempts, weak spots, camera placement.
The security guards near the entrance were talking more than watching. One kept checking his phone. Another moved as if he was exhausted. Two more weren’t even facing the crowd only a few feet away.
“You ready?” Ruxs muttered.
Green grunted.
One of the guards stepped forward first. “Delivery?”
“Yeah,” Ruxs answered, sounding mildly annoyed as he read the fake receipt. “Crew order for Stage 12, effects support.”
Green stayed quiet, letting Ruxs perform.
“We normally leave deliveries at the service entrance,” the guard said.
“Yeah, well,” Ruxs sighed dramatically, “Tiffany in catering and that little intern guy, Micah, insisted we hand deliver everything ourselves because somebody screwed up the vegan orders last week and now everybody’s traumatized.”
Green almost smiled.
Free had hacked most of the crew’s social media accounts in under seven minutes last night so they could get some real names.
Tiffany had posted last week about the meals the crew ordered from some place that took over two hours to deliver, and Micah bitched about the lack of vegan options at fast food places.
“We ain’t gonna be responsible for bad reviews and get fired. I can’t afford that shit,” Ruxs added. “I got a past due car payment.”
The guards exchanged looks.
Green watched their uncertainty carefully.
None of them seemed to know the procedure well enough to challenge the story.
That was the dangerous part.
Ruxs shifted one bag down and unzipped it enough to reveal the steaming pizza boxes.
“Hell,” Green added casually, “take a slice if y’all want. Best pizza in the city. We deliver to half the celebrities in Malibu and the Hills.”
A younger guard leaned forward checking their contents. “For real?”
“Last week we dropped off six pies to some actress with three tigers living in her backyard,” Ruxs laughed.
“What?” The young guard gaped. “Man, I don’t get these damn celebrities.”
The guards laughed, getting way too relaxed.
The more serious one held his hand out. “You got IDs?”
Green handed over the fake credentials, but the guy barely glanced at them. He didn’t scan or verify anything or take time to compare the photos.
Eight security personnel standing at one of the biggest studio lots in California, and not one of them thought to pat down two strangers carrying oversized bags onto the property.
What the hell?
“All right,” the guard finally said. “Go ahead.”
The gate opened.
Green and Ruxs walked through.
After clearing the checkpoint, they rounded a row of production trailers and stopped to observe who was around.
No one.
Ruxs shook his head. “That was embarrassingly easy.”
Green glanced toward the gate. “Didn’t even pat us down.”
“Didn’t wand us neither.”
Green tapped the communications icon on his watch. “Post one breeched.”
There was no static or crackle in their high-tech comms pieces.
God’s deep voice answered. “That gate should’ve failed both of you before you hit the sidewalk. Proceed to post two.”
Green could hear his lieutenant’s disgust.
He and Ruxs dumped the delivery bags and changed clothes, happy to get rid of the fake uniforms.
They were back in their boots, graphic T-shirts, and holstered weapons under their jackets.
Green noticed a passersby glance at them, with a hint of suspicion— because unlike the pizza delivery boys, now they actually looked dangerous—but no one stopped them.
Four minutes passed before Tech’s voice came through the comms.
“We’re in.”
Green leaned beside the cab of a big rig while crew hurried around them, going about their jobs.
“How?”
Tech answered, smugness pouring through every word.
“I told them we’re contracted IT support from Silverline Systems Integration—I thought it sounded legit enough—and said were responding to a critical firmware failure in the DMX synchronization network connected to the atmospheric pyro sequencing system Wes and Law are using for scene forty-two.”
Green stared ahead blankly.
“What the fuck did that mean?”
“Nothing at all. I just said a lot of big words,” Tech laughed. “They let us right in.”