Chapter 6: Stir-fry the squid

“California billionaire, founder, and chairman of Ackerman Pictures, Mr. Buddy Ackerman's health worsened last year.” Freddy was on the verge of collapse, enduring severe pain as he spilled the beans. “I heard from higher-ups during the crew’s preparations that he was planning an organ transplant.”

Hawk said coldly, “Keep going.”

Freddy dared not slack off. “All companies under the Ackerman family started conducting comprehensive medical examinations under the guise of welfare or charity since the beginning of the year. But Hh blood type is rare, and matching for organ transplants is even harder. You just happen to be a match.”

Freddy gasped a few breaths and quickly excused himself, “I was just following orders. I had no choice. Otherwise, I’d lose my job, and without income, my house, car, and wife would all be gone.”

Hawk stared at him, “Get to the point.”

Freddy tried a different approach, “It was Bro Derek and Bellock Bernam who forced me. If I didn’t do it, they’d fire me!”

Hawk knew Bro Derek was the crew’s producer, so he asked, “Who is Bellock Bernam?”

Freddy replied, “He’s also Jewish like Bro and me, currently serving as the chairman of the Ackerman Charity Foundation.”

Hawk wasn’t surprised; charity foundations and organ donations have always been closely linked in America. He asked, “Where are those two?”

“Bellock already flew back to Los Angeles,” Freddy clung to a sliver of hope. “When I left the set, Bro had mobilized all the crew’s security. Can you kill someone under the protection of over a dozen people? If I lose contact, he’ll soon return to Los Angeles.”

“Los Angeles!” Hawk nodded slightly.

Returning to the set was too risky. A billionaire's Hollywood crew filming in Provo could easily influence the local police and city hall. Plus, Hawk's current out-of-shape body wasn’t in peak condition. Hawk had planned to go to Los Angeles anyway, and now his destination was set.

Freddy pleaded again, “Seriously, they forced me. I have no grudge against you…”

Hawk put away his knife and pulled out a Glock.

Freddy screamed, “You swore to God you’d spare me!”

Hawk didn’t say another word and shot Freddy in the head, then gathered the spoils and headed to where he had parked.

On the hillside, the scent of blood attracted more coyotes. Once the dangerous humans left, they began to approach one by one.

Hawk loaded everything into the pickup truck, then thoroughly searched the Mercedes, finding Freddy's wallet with quite a bit of cash inside.

He took the cash, discarded the rest, and found a green jerry can of gasoline in the trunk.

Just in time, the pickup was running low on fuel. Hawk filled up, checked all his spoils, and even disassembled both Glocks to ensure there were no trackers.

As for the Mercedes, Hawk recalled David mentioning that the crew rented ten of them, likely all equipped with GPS.

Hawk turned the pickup around.

Down the hillside, the coyotes were beginning their bloody feast.

Hawk rejoined the highway but didn’t head to Provo, opting to continue north instead.

Snow began to fall, covering any lingering traces.

At one point, near Utah Lake, where the surroundings were desolate, Hawk stopped the car. He took out a plastic bag and packed the wiped-down revolver, the Glock he’d fired, and his blood-stained jacket, adding some rocks and sealing the bag shut. He climbed the steep lakeside cliff and tossed it into the deep waters.

He continued north, reaching the small town of Highland before nightfall. Snow was lighter here, and after circling the city, Hawk parked on the outskirts of a Black neighborhood.

Nearby was a car dismantling yard run by Black owners.

Hawk collected his belongings, wiped away his tracks, and left on foot.

Given their reputation, the Black owners would surely help “handle” the car.

As soon as the snow stopped, a few of them had their eyes on the pickup truck. After several observations, they pried open the door. But the truck was too old to sell without major refurbishing, which would cost too much to justify.

They agreed to strip it for parts.

By then, Hawk had already hitched a ride, arriving in Midway late at night. He went into a small supermarket on the outskirts, buying an assortment of items, including a coat and food.

With heavy snow and few people around, he found an old, unlit house, scoped it out, and once certain it was empty, climbed over the wall, opened the back door, and rested inside for the night.

After nearly twelve hours on the move, Hawk was exhausted.

At dawn, a howling sound jolted Hawk awake. He quickly sat up on the sofa, gun in hand, aimed toward the noise.

In the dim light, he saw it was just the wind outside.

Hawk couldn’t sleep any longer. He checked the house, found nothing unusual, washed up briefly, and sat at the vanity.

He picked up a razor and shaving foam, cleaned off his facial hair, then used clippers and scissors to cut his messy hair into a short buzz cut, matching the hairstyle on the Hawk Osmond driver's license he had found in the cabin.

Next, he trimmed his eyebrows, mixed some hair dye, and dyed both his hair and brows to match the dark color in the ID photo.

Without the scruffy brown hair and beard, and with slightly adjusted eyebrows and expressions, he looked like a different person.

“Hello, I’m Hawk Osmond,” Hawk practiced adjusting his tone, aiming for the Wyoming accent he’d heard in his previous life. “My name is Hawk Osmond, from Wyoming.”

On the road, you create your own identity.

Thinking of the Jews who wanted him dead, Hawk put on a pair of large, clear-frame glasses and adopted a calm, refined demeanor. “My favorite dish is stir-fried squid.”

The man in the mirror was no longer disheveled; he looked simple and unremarkable.

Hawk pinched his face and patted his slightly protruding belly. He needed to lose weight and change his physique.

He pocketed the driver’s license from the vanity, took out one belonging to Downing Ward, cut it into pieces, and, along with his trimmed hair, placed it in a tin biscuit box. He burned everything to ash and flushed it down the toilet.

After eating a sandwich and some sausages he had bought last night, Hawk pulled out a map and decided to spend the next few days constantly changing his appearance and location while losing weight, slimming his face, and practicing the Wyoming accent.

He would head to Los Angeles with a new appearance, identity, and persona.

But to do all that, he needed cash.

Hawk checked his wallet, pulling out all his money. Besides the original $17, he had gained from Freddy and the others, now totaling $472.

This amount wasn’t enough to make stir-fried squid.

Especially when the main dish was four giant squids.

Twenty-four hours into his new life, making money was still a top priority.

Hawk stared at the map, contemplating how to earn cash.

It would be best if it could help build the “Hawk Osmond” persona.

Hawk’s gaze fell on nearby Park City. David had mentioned yesterday that the Sundance Film Festival was about to begin.

Having worked in online reputation management in his past life, Hawk knew about the Sundance Film Festival—one of North America's largest independent film festivals, drawing massive crowds of media and moviegoers each year.

Thousands of outsiders flood in, making it easy to blend in.

With so many speculators around, finding opportunities would be easier.

After recalling some ways to make money at the festival, Hawk decided to head there.

He carefully erased his traces and left.