The Dead Chip Syndicate

Chapter One

唔熟唔食

“You always cheat the ones closest to you.”

– Chinese proverb

Through a dark bank of swirling grey clouds, the flickering lights of Manila’s Ninoy Aquino Airport came into view, giving Anthony Wilson some respite after a turbulent flight from Hong Kong. The sight did little to ease his mind because he knew it was the only airport in the world named after someone murdered on its tarmac and he feared a similar fate awaited him there too.

Crackling bolts of lightning flash-whitened the cabin. Anthony glanced at the flight attendants strapped into their jump seats. Their wide eyes, raised eyebrows, and flared nostrils were classic signs of fear. The body and mind identifying outside threats, preparing for a “fight or flight” response. That concept of “fight or flight” was useless on an actual flight flitted through Anthony's mind. In any other situation, he would laugh at his wit, but the panic etched on the flight attendant’s faces along with the trembling fingers covering their mouths meant this flight could be in real trouble. These women were too scared to remember their most important professional obligation – show no fear.

Holding the phone steady against the shuddering of the plane, Anthony focused on the e-mail that had just pinged in with the flight’s descent into mobile range: “Mr. Wilson, wherever you are, you need to get to a police station immediately. Several men hired to kill you have been arrested in Zhuhai.”

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking, from the flight deck. Traffic control has just informed us that the runway is clear for landing, and we should be on the ground in about ten minutes. And, by the way, we’re the last plane in, so the skies behind us are empty, at least of planes,” said the captain in a deep, calming voice over the P.A.

Raindrops pelted the plexiglass so hard they seemed like bullets being fired from a machine gun. As if to remind him how precarious his situation was, the plane shuddered again. And the lights flickered out.

The mumbled prayers and breathless Our Fathers around the cabin seemed to increase in volume and intensity, but it was probably just a heightening of Anthony's other senses to counteract the sudden lack of vision. Fight or flight preparation shifting into overdrive?

Being irreligious himself, Anthony didn’t fear judgment from above but rather a mortal threat from below. He struggled to make sense of the phone call. Although his situation had nothing to do with morality or religion, it echoed the story of the Bible’s first slaying. Fratricide driven by rage and ending in coldhearted betrayal.

As Anthony sat through the white-knuckle ride, he tried to figure out who could be responsible for this. When the wheels skidded on the wet runway, the cabin broke into raucous applause as well as relieved and congratulatory laughter. Anthony smiled in relief for a split second, then concentrated on revenge.

The time for making sense of his business partner’s erratic and irrational behavior was over. He needed a plan to ensure not only his safety but perhaps his very survival. It was one thing to sacrifice a life to become a martyr forever etched into a country’s history and lore, as Senator Ninoy Aquino had done on that scorching Manila tarmac so many decades before; something entirely different to be lured into a trap by a greedy and sociopathic business partner. A man who also happened to be your twin.

Chapter Two

Once he cleared customs, Anthony called Detective Fonseca, who answered in his usual laconic tone: “You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Wilson. Someone hired a hitman to kill you. That hitman hired a second hitman at half his price, who hired a third hitman at half his price, who then hired a fourth hitman. He felt so slighted by the lowball offer, he reported them all to the police.”

Anthony felt his cheeks warming as sweat dotted his brow. “But who ordered the hit?”

“You tell me.”

“I have no idea.”

“Maybe a business partner you pissed off? Say, Cash?”

“Of all the people I know, he’s the least likely. You’re suffering from confirmation bias, detective.”

“In law enforcement, we call it ‘incarceration bias.’”

“Look, I have to go.”

“We can offer you protection.”

Anthony hesitated. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Where are you?”

“Not in Macau.”

“Obviously. You just stepped off a plane in Manila.”

“Not quite. On final approach – a very rocky final approach, though, so that's how we hope this ends. But if you knew where I was, why'd you ask?”
“A moral man doesn’t lie to the police.”

“It’s called being protective, detective. Not sure who I can trust at this point. Many view that badge you carry around with you as a license to steal, not something to respect.”

“If that’s so, I’ve been doing something wrong my entire career.”

“Look at that, I just gave you a brilliant idea for a side hustle, literally.”

“When do you plan on returning to Macau, Mr. Wilson?” Detective Fonseca said, his tone turning more direct.

“Maybe never. Having a few contracts taken out on your life tends to take the fun out of that black sand beach place.”

“Wouldn’t blame you if you stayed away. Actually, I’d advise it. Make my life a whole lot easier.”

“I’ll keep that in mind while I’m trying to stay alive, detective.”

“Joke less, Mr. Wilson, the tentacles of these triad operators reach all over the world. Manila’s like a second home to them, especially with all the casinos opening up there catering to the flush Chinese gambler.”

“It’s more frightening in the Philippines,” Anthony said, riffing off the Philippine Tourism Board’s spritely tagline – ‘It’s more fun in the Philippines’ – that he’d seen plastered all over the airport on his previous trips. Maybe a return to America was in order? Back to sanity. Although America had seemingly gone off the political deep end since the election of Trump, so maybe nowhere was safe these days?

“We can never outrun our destiny, Mr. Wilson. Don’t forget that.”

Anthony shook his head at the philosopher-detective’s trite and clichéd words.

“I can put a notice out on you. Have you picked up for questioning.”

“Please don’t. You know I’d be free within an hour, but with my wallet considerably lighter. And you know how we Americans hate having our freedoms infringed upon.”

“As do we Macanites, but, trust me, you get used to it.”

“Never. Look, I’m as much in the dark about all of this as you are, but trust me, I’ll fly under the radar. Call me if the Zhuhai police beat a confession out of any of these men.”

“China’s got cameras all over the place, so maybe somewhere in those facial recognition databases, they might’ve captured a meeting between the hitman and this person who wants you dead.”

“Maybe the panoptic surveillance state is good for something, after all?”

“If you can think of anyone who might want you dead, please let us know.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“You just better hope there’s not a fifth – hitman that is.”

Anthony hung up. He had put on a brave face for the detective but now the reality hit him hard: someone wanted him dead. Wiped off the face of the earth. It was a horrific realization, about as painful as they come, especially since the clues pointed to only one person. This turn of events probably had a lot more to do with the millions of dollars sailing towards a Cebu rendezvous on a boat aptly named The Gambler.

Anthony npulled out the ArgoTrack GPS tracker, connected it to his phone’s mobile hotspot, then checked the location of The Gambler. Latitude 11.3244° N, Longitude 123.8941° E: a few miles off Kinatarkan Island. But that was odd. The boat hadn’t moved in eight hours. Were Cyrus and Jada sheltering from a storm? That made no sense as Typhoon Deria was still 18 hours away and heading much farther north, towards Japan. The weather was clear in The Gambler’s area, according to the forecast. Had they been attacked by pirates? That made no sense either as the waters around Cebu were pretty safe. Maybe someone along the way had gotten wind of the millions in loot sailing towards a Cebu rendezvous in a small yacht with two lightly armed individuals?

Anthony put away the ArgoTrack and headed to the gate for his domestic flight to Cebu. He had a few hours to kill, so he jumped on his computer to check emails. However, he had trouble focusing. Instead of work, he ruminated on buying a gun. Guns were legal and plentiful in the Philippines but could only be purchased by locals. Foreigners couldn’t acquire them legally, but for the right price, anything could be bought in the Philippines. Murder went for $20 a pop in Manila thanks to Duterte’s extra-judicial dragnet against drug dealers and their users. Cheap murders meant cheap guns. What luck his attempted murderer hadn’t tried to hire someone in Manila to commit the capital crime against Anthony. Murder was cheap here; you couldn’t profit by outsourcing it. What comfort.

Chapter Three

Anthony caught his flight to Cebu. L.A. might have its magic hour, but Cebu had a mystical one. As the flight descended towards Mactan-Cebu airport, Anthony watched the hallucinogenic mix of bright cadmium reds, brilliant orange hues, and cool cobalt blues battled it out for dominance in a war of fading attrition in the dying twilight. Charcoal darkness threatened to soon sweep all the beauty away. Small silhouettes of black skirted over waves of shimmering blue; fishing boats and Bangkas returning from their daily trawls.

Once he landed, he took a cab to Ammo Nation, where a generous one-thousand-dollar tip, or “consideration” as they call it in the Philippines, got him a Colt M45A1 Marine Pistol, with a filed-off serial number. The gun was tucked in his backpack, wrapped in a towel to minimize the weapon’s telltale ‘L’ shape. The weight, however, was impossible to ignore. Along with the feeling of invincibility, comes a foreboding sense of inevitability. Any argument is won at the barrel of a gun, but the victory is often short-lived as most people soon discover the consequences of settling scores with a bullet are some of the heftiest prices society exacts.

After purchasing the gun, Anthony loitered around the Cebu marina, sweat beading across his brow from the blistering sun. Several fishermen unloaded their double outrigger Bangka boats, oblivious to the squawking seagulls divebombing for scraps around them. The birds’ shrieks added to a cacophony of disquieting sounds; engines throttling down as trawlers eased into assigned slips; sails flapping about in the blustery wind; sweaty, thin-as-a-rail fishermen yelling at each other in singsong Tagalog as they unloaded their daily catch. In the nearby seafood market, auction bidders shouted their offers in metronomic fashion while studying their competitors with stony eyes.

Anthony mentally calculated each fishing crew on the dock. He tried to figure out who would be the least nosy, the small groups of fishermen unloading their double outrigger Bangka boats or the charterers with their sleek schooners. Always on the lookout for sucker tourists, those charterers would probably pepper Anthony with a slew of questions he’d refuse to answer, which would draw unwanted attention.

Anthony chose the crew of a brightly colored blue and white Bangka that had an all-seeing eye on the bow that was a clone of the U.S dollar’s Eye of Providence. These fishermen were probably direct descendants of the merchants and sailors who had plied their trade in these waters for centuries and their discretion was probably cheap and easily bought.

Anthony approached a group of short, skinny men, whose weathered skin was dark from years of toiling in the scorching Philippine sun. These men would know the surrounding Cebu waters better than any tourist flytrap schooner. The captain’s green eyes radiated out from his taunt-tanned skin and his sunken cheekbones stenciled his face in a way that would leave New York City modeling agents drooling.

When Anthony struck up a quick conversation about the day’s catch with the captain, he got vague answers. At that point, he decided to be direct and asked if the boat was available for hire. The captain shook his head and pointed at the charcoal black clouds swirling in the distant east, threatening rain.

“Typhoon’s coming,” the captain said.

Point taken. Anthony acknowledged the climatic threat with a nod, then pulled out the ArgoTrak and showed off the coordinates for The Gambler.

The captain rubbed his chin, shook his head slightly.

Anthony countered with five crisp hundred dollars bills.

The money vanished as quickly as a buzzing fly gets snatched out of the air by a chameleon’s hungry tongue. The captain’s curling smile revealed a picket fence of yellowing teeth that lacked a few slats. There goes that modeling contract.

“Five o’clock, we come back, with or without your friend,” the captain said in a strident tone that left no room for negotiation.

Anthony nodded acceptance of the terms. “Brother.”

The captain jumped aboard. Anthony followed, explaining that his brother had rented a boat and probably got lost in the waterways around Cebu. The crew nodded sagely as the captain kicked the boat into high gear while smiling broadly. This was probably the easiest five hundred he'd make all year.

The trawler’s diesel engine sputtered to life. Thick plumes of black smoke belched out of the engine’s exhaust and wafted across the rickety jetty, dissipating quickly in the humid breeze. The fishermen jabbered away in Tagalog while the captain navigated the ship into the busy channel.

Anthony assumed they were discussing how to celebrate tonight after this perfectly timed haul. He didn’t care that he’d overpaid for the boat. He was on course to find a yacht filled with millions of dollars aboard. What he was going to do once he got there, he had no idea, but the weight of the gun in his backpack reminded him this was no typical Sunday afternoon cruise. But, then again, maybe he was about to solve that pesky third act problem?

During the ride, Anthony dangled his legs over the bow, letting the splashing waves kiss his ankles, trying to ignore the sputtering engine behind him. For the first time, he noticed the incredible beauty surrounding him. An ocean of turquoise stretching across a calm horizon, interspersed with explosions of iridescent aquamarines, above a seabed dotted by coral reefs of white. Banks of deep green seagrass drifted in the languid tide like lazy tentacles reaching up to the sky. It was as if some knowing hand had thrown a festival of dazzling Diwali colors across the crystal-clear waters of Kinatarkan Reef and the pigments had drifted down into the undulating depths, dissolving across the salty waters in a million hues of intermingling yellows, greens, and blues.

When looking for material to adapt, Anthony had found a few good novels that focused on twins, but real-life stories of twins killing twins was rare. Statistically speaking, it was far less likely to occur than killings amongst siblings or other relations, even when ratios were taken into account. Wael Ali supposedly strangled his twin, Wasel, although jurors failed to unanimously agree he was responsible. Shawn Wachter stabbed his twin, Shane, to death. After weighing the evidence, the prosecutors agreed it self-defense, dropping the murder charges. Jeff Henry shot his twin, Greg, with a 12-gauge shotgun after a drunken argument. Wealthy heir, Timothy Nicholson, killed his twin brother supposedly in self-defense, but the jury didn’t agree, finding him guilty of first-degree murder. Trenton Henry was shot to death by his twin, Brenton, who later surrendered to the police and was convicted.

For the men, it was the standard fare of jealousy, accidents during drunken arguments, and inheritance chasing. For the fairer sex, however, things got a little strange. Anastasia Duval died in a mysterious car crash when her twin sister, Alexandria, deliberately drove off a cliff in Hawaii. The sisters were seen fighting before their SUV careened off the road and crashed onto rocks 200 feet below. She, too, was cleared and got off scot-free.

The Duval twins, however, were nothing compared to the “silent twins,” June and Jennifer Gibbons. Although of Barbados descent, the girls grew up in England, communicating mostly through a speeded-up version of Bajan Creole.

After being gifted a pair of diaries, June and Jennifer developed a passion for creative writing. They wrote a novel about young, attractive Americans committing grisly crimes. Their work about a young teenager seduced by his high school teacher, The Pepsi-Cola Addict, was self-published and is still available on Amazon.com. However, the silent twins grew bored with fiction and longed for firsthand world experience, a desire Anthony could relate to. When the girls were in their late teens, they experimented with drugs and alcohol. Petty larceny led to arson. The twins were soon caught and convicted, then sent to a maximum-security hospital for the criminally insane.

The twins spent twelve years at Broadmoor prison. While there, the two decided one had to die in order for the other to go free, so Jennifer agreed to be the martyr. When the twins were transferred to a lower-security prison in Wales, doctors found Jennifer unresponsive. She had drifted off to sleep during the ride and never woke up, dying of a sudden inflammation of the heart, a death that still defies explanation today.

Jennifer was just 29 years old when she died. Her twin was released shortly thereafter and has since lived a normal life. Once two became one, June suddenly found her tongue. and started speaking to everyone as if she had been doing it her whole life.