CHAPTER ONE
Adam Strong sat in the backseat of his Bentley looking over the morning Trade papers. A good-looking man in his mid-fifties, Adam exuded wealth and dignity, but it was his charismatic charm which always drew the people in. On the third page of the Daily Variety Adam saw an article that caught his eye. As he read his face turned white.
Shit... we're fucked, he said in a shocked but resolved tone.
His driver, Black, a muscular black man also in his mid-fifties looked into the rearview mirror. What?
We're fucked, said Adam, this time louder and more agitated. We just lost thirty million dollars...
Black looked at the road then back at Adam. You're kidding, right, Boss?
This time Adam let the newspaper fall to his lap and stared out the window and Black saw the familiar depression start to take over Adam's face. He'd seen it before in Vietnam when he was a spotter for Adam whose job it was to kill enemy snipers. After he killed a sniper, he always went to look at the body, to make sure he was dead... and the depression always followed. And then there was his other job in the war, the job nobody talked about, the unthinkable. The job the press and the military covered up with the term MIA, or POW -- but Adam and Black knew different. He got that same look, that feeling of depression over having to live a lie for these many years, pretending he wasn't the cause, the facilitator of the unthinkable.
This time it was different. The loss of thirty million dollars meant he would have to close the studio he was entrusted to preserve. Entrusted by his late father Daniel Strong who had left him the largest independently-owned motion picture studio in Hollywood. This was Adam's third week on the job and it was starting out bad... very bad. If he couldn't find another thirty million by Friday, he'd have to let 1200 people go who depended on him for their livelihood.
The Bentley cruised along the Santa Monica Freeway heading east toward Hollywood. It was early, only 7 a.m., and already Adams day was turning into a nightmare. What else could go wrong he wondered as he looked out the window.
Adam picked up the paper again. Remember that German bank my dad had that deal with before he passed away?
Black looked through the rearview mirror at Adam. Yeah, I remember, didn't you tell me that deal was set?
Adam shook his head in disbelief as he continued to scan the article. I can't believe it... the largest media conglomerate in Germany just filed for Bankruptcy to the tune of one billion dollars. Our bank had outstanding loans with the company along with five other banks and theyve decided they're not going to let it fold - so theyre going to put more money into it. They owed 400 million dollars to three major studios and a dozen independent producers here and around the world; we're never gonna see that money, Adam said, disgusted.
This ain't Kansas ...Toto, said Black with a smile.
Adam looked at Black. You got that right, partner... you definitely got that right. Adam threw down the Variety and stared out the window at the Hollywood sign in the distance. It both welcomed him and mocked him at the same time.
The Bentley turned off the freeway, crossed Sunset Boulevard and cruised along the streets of Hollywood until it approached the familiar arches of Empire Studios. The car pulled up to the entrance where the security guard waved them through. This was Adams third week on the job as the President and CEO of the Studio. A job he never wanted in an industry he had no respect for. Adam had been a military man - and after the war he became a full-fledged junkie and alcoholic. The war had taken its toll on him and the many veterans who returned, were shattered and broken. He had been wounded and received his nations highest honor, the Congressional Medal of Honor and the Purple Heart. In the militarys eyes, he was a hero; in his eyes he was a murderer. If it weren't for Black, Adam would have been dead a long time ago.
When Adam's platoon was wiped out in a VC raid, Adam was shot in the back. Black carried him on his back for twenty-five miles through rice paddies, jungle and treacherous countryside, to a medivac area where Adam was airlifted out of the war. Black stayed for another two weeks until he was wounded and sent home.
When Adam came home and recovered he became a heroin junkie and alcoholic. He had given up on life and felt that life had given up on him. The medals and accolades meant nothing to him. He couldn't get the nightmares of the faces of the men he had killed out of his mind. He finally hit rock bottom and decided he was going to live the rest of his life under a freeway overpass with the other nameless men who had served their country but had lost their souls.
Several years later, Black, who had become a policeman in Los Angeles and worked his way up to Detective was investigating the death of a homeless man and saw Adam living in a cardboard box. Black at first didn't recognize him. All he saw was another faceless bum living in filth and squalor, until he noticed the man had the Medal of Honor hanging around his neck. Black approached him but didn't recognize him through the beard and the filth. But Adam recognized Black and started to cry. It was at that moment when Black picked him up and saved his life again. He got him cleaned up, into rehab and to a therapist. It took two years to get Adam to the point where he could look at himself in the mirror without crying and going into a fit of depression. The nightmares still lingered but Adam could deal with that on a good day. But this Monday was not a good day and little did Adam know that this Monday was just the beginning of the worst two weeks of his life.
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