Before nine o'clock in the morning, the Santa Monica Pier was already bathed in a brilliant, warm sunlight. As the temperature began to climb, mobile carts laden with ice-cold sodas trundled along the boardwalk. Bottles and cans of Coca-Cola were neatly lined up in glass-fronted freezers, glittering like jewels and drawing the attention of tourists and local entertainers alike.
At the old dock area, a throng of reporters, armed with cameras and video equipment, began to congregate. The news had spread like wildfire through the media that Martin, a famed celebrity, would be shooting a commercial for Cartier's men's watches here. This announcement had not only attracted entertainment paparazzi but also a swarm of fans and tourists, turning the usually peaceful tourist spot into a bustling hub of activity. Amidst this, numerous mobile vendors found an opportune moment to set up their stalls.
Huggins, the director of the advertising crew, peered through his viewfinder, surveying the scene before him. He remarked, "This weather is perfect for shooting," but his tone was tinged with concern. The presence of so many reporters and paparazzi, drawn by Martin's star power, was becoming a hindrance. He instructed his assistant, "Please coordinate with the media. Let them know I'll allocate time for photos and interviews. We need their cooperation."
The assistant nodded, promptly gathering a team to manage the situation.
Meanwhile, Blanco, an executive at Cartier, emerged from Martin's makeup trailer after a brief meeting. His quick exit was to make way for two more high-profile guests: Nicholson and Leonardo.
Martin, dressed casually, greeted them with a puzzled look. "What brings you two here?"
Nicholson flashed his signature mischievous grin. "Heard Cartier's gifting you some watches. Thought we'd swing by, maybe snag a couple for ourselves."
Leonardo chimed in, half-joking, "Yeah, Jack and I are feeling left out without watch sponsorships. Time to score some freebies!"
Martin, aware of Cartier's prior arrangement with his agent Thomas, played along. "Sure, two each. One for each hand. You'll be the talk of the town wearing them like that!"
Leonardo pointed at Martin, feigning indignation. "You just want to see us make a spectacle of ourselves, don't you?"
Laughing, Martin quipped, "Who knows, with watches on both hands, you might just sprint a hundred meters in twenty seconds!"
Their banter was cut short by the sight of two men dressed as clowns approaching the parking lot high above the docks.
Dressed in bright red shirts, they appeared to be members of the eccentric 'Cult of the Coke God'. In a Ford van with a rear opening door, Victor and another man, each concealed an AR semi-automatic rifle within bags disguised as tennis bags. They carefully checked the magazines and other parts, placing the rifles beside the door. Each then drew a pistol, inspecting it meticulously.
The bearded man, one of the clowns, muttered to himself, "This is overkill. I could do this alone."
Victor, ever serious, replied sharply, "No nonsense. Follow the plan and commands."
The bearded man clenched and unclenched his fist, feeling a surge of strength and determination. He had seen videos of Hollywood stars like Martin Davis, but he knew their on-screen bravado was no match for his real-world experience.
Victor, addressing the blonde man, reiterated their mission. "Remember, the objective is to incapacitate, not kill. The boss wants them alive."
The bearded man nodded, his loyalty to Victor's command evident. "You can count on us."
Turning to the driver, Victor instructed, "Open the rear door. You're on lookout."
The driver acknowledged, "I'll keep watch from here."
As Victor holstered his pistol, he added, "Our primary target is Martin. He'll be with Bruce, his manager and bodyguard. I'll handle them."
Understanding their roles, the team prepared for action.
Victor made a final call to their boss. "We're ready to move."
On the other end, Boris, standing near the dock's guardrail with a travel bag, gave the go-ahead. "The crew's setting up barriers. Begin."
With that, Victor ordered, "Go!"
The van's engine hummed to life, pulling onto the road leading to the dock area. The scenic pier was to one side, a mountainous wall on the other.
As they approached, Victor's eyes were fixed on a distant trailer. He saw four figures disembarking, three young, one older. The leader among them was unmistakably Martin Davis, their target.
Victor issued a curt command, "Pass," his voice steady but filled with an underlying tension.
The driver gently pressed the accelerator, and the Ford van, disguised as a nondescript delivery vehicle, smoothly navigated past several mobile units parked along the roadside. It moved with a calm, unhurried air, blending seamlessly into the scene.
As the vehicle drew closer to the yellow barriers set up by the crew, the bustling atmosphere of the pier was palpable. Fans and reporters, clustered in the tour area several meters away, buzzed with anticipation, their eyes scanning for glimpses of the stars.
The driver brought the van to a stop. Victor, with a practiced ease, opened the door, stepping out into the vibrant chaos of the pier. "Here we go," he announced.
The bearded and blonde clowns emerged from the rear of the van, their costumes adding to the festive atmosphere. Almost immediately, a crew member approached them, his tone firm but polite. "You can't park here. Please move your vehicle."
Victor, with a disarming smile, played the part of an enthusiastic fan. "We're just here to get Martin's autograph. We'll be quick and out of your way."
The staff member, slightly reassured by their apparent fandom, not an uncommon sight today, hesitated. However, he stood his ground. "No parking here, I'm afraid."
As Martin began to sign autographs nearby, the bearded man's impatience grew. He quickened his pace, eager to get closer. "Just a signature, and we'll be on our way," he insisted.
But as the staff member moved to block him, the bearded man suddenly surged forward, knocking the crew member to the ground before sprinting towards Martin.
The blonde followed, though he lagged a few meters behind, his movements deliberate, calculating.
Victor, sensing the escalating tension, hurried after them, his hand surreptitiously reaching under his clothes.
Martin, in the midst of interacting with fans and media, felt the shift in the atmosphere. Turning, he noticed the two clowns charging towards him, followed by a middle-aged man, and a crew member struggling to rise from the ground. His instincts kicked in – overzealous fans could be unpredictable.
The bearded Joker, out of breath but determined, called out, "Martin, wait! Can you sign for us?"
Martin hesitated, stopping in his tracks.
Behind him, Bruce, always vigilant, subtly moved closer, his hand inching towards the gun at his waist.
The distance closed rapidly, now only twenty meters. The bearded man, closing in on Martin, dropped his pen and poster, revealing a short-bladed dagger hidden between them. His intentions were clear: incapacitate, then control.
Martin's eyes widened at the sight of the dagger. "Bruce!" he shouted, his voice a mix of warning and alarm.
As the bearded man lunged with the dagger, Martin's training kicked in. His reaction was swift, his right hand shooting out to grip the bearded man's wrist in a vice-like hold, immobilizing him.
Before the bearded man could react, Martin's right foot lashed out, striking his attacker's leg with a force that echoed like a cracking egg.
A scream tore from the bearded man's throat, his grip loosening on the dagger, which clattered to the stone pavement.
In rapid succession, Martin delivered a series of calculated blows, a punch to the throat, silencing the bearded man's cries, followed by a brutal strike to the nose and eye.
The bearded man crumpled to the ground, his injuries evident in the trail of blood and the anguished expression on his face.
Martin, without missing a beat, turned his attention to the blonde man, who was now advancing with handcuffs. Their bodies collided with a resounding thud, both men grappling for dominance on the ground.
In the heat of the confrontation, Martin's instincts took over. With no regard for elegance in this moment of survival, he lunged at the blonde assailant with a primal ferocity. His mouth opened wide, biting down on the man's neck, while his fingers clawed desperately at his eyes. Martin's knees drove upwards with brutal force.
In battles like these, aesthetics were irrelevant; it was raw, unfiltered survival.
Martin's reactions were a blur of speed and power, overwhelming the blonde who struggled to defend himself against the relentless assault.
Simultaneously, Victor's hand darted towards his coat, drawing a gun with swift precision. But Bruce, ever vigilant, was faster. The sound of gunfire – Bang! Bang! – echoed across the pier, piercing the cacophony of the crowd.
Victor's body jerked as bullets found their mark. He stumbled, a look of disbelief on his face as blood blossomed on his chest and abdomen. He collapsed to the ground, his strength ebbing away.
Nicholson and Leonardo stood frozen, their expressions a mixture of shock and confusion. The surreal turn of events left them unable to process what was unfolding.
The crowd, largely Martin's fans, initially mistook the chaos for a film shoot, holding their breath in rapt attention, not wanting to disrupt what they believed was a scene in action.
The media, too, were momentarily fooled. However, their seasoned instincts soon kicked in. Cameras and camcorders whirred to life, capturing every moment of the unfolding drama with unerring accuracy.
Bruce, without a moment's hesitation, turned his gun towards the Ford van where the attackers had emerged from. At the van's rear, the driver, sensing danger, reached for the AR rifle mounted beside him.
But it was too late. More gunshots rang out – Bang! Bang! – and the driver felt a sudden, debilitating loss of strength, his body collapsing against the side of the vehicle.
Meanwhile, the blonde attacker, caught in Martin's fierce grip, let out a scream laced with curses. Martin's fingers had struck one of his eyes, and his relentless knee strikes to the abdomen left the man disoriented and in agony.
As Bruce fired his gun, Martin, still grappling with the blonde, heard the distinct sound of gunfire and his adversary's string of curses. Breaking free, Martin grabbed the blonde's hair and yanked his head up.
Despite his pain, the blonde snarled back in broken English, "You're dead!"
With a swift motion, Martin slammed the man's head against the pavement. The impact was sickening, blood splattering as the man's head connected with the hard surface.
Martin yelled out, "Bruce, it's the Russians!" He couldn't decipher the blonde's exact words, but the accent was unmistakable.
Bruce shouted back, "Find cover!" His voice was urgent, commanding.
Martin, seizing a pistol from one of the fallen men, didn't forget his fellow celebrities. "Leo, Jack, take cover!" he called out, urging them to safety.
Realizing that he might be the primary target, Martin shouted to the others, "Get back! Run away from me!"
His mind was racing, his thoughts on the safety of those around him even in the midst of chaos. As he prepared to face whatever came next, his training and instincts fully engaged, Martin knew the danger was far from over.