Victor removes his dive gear and boards the boat. He moves silently across the berber carpet toward the wheelhouse where the empty captain’s chair faces a helm station adorned with switches, gauges, and radar screens.
The British flag twists in the wind above the starboard gunwale. A generator hums. VICTOR pulls a DIVE KNIFE from his ankle sheath and descends the STAIRCASE to —
THE MAIN SALON
An L-shaped leather sectional engulfs a lacquered cherry settee near the galley. He enters —
THE AFT CABIN
He finds an empty double berth with a small television mounted above a hanging locker. His actions are precise, deliberate as he leaves the cabin and moves stealthily toward —
THE OWNER’s STATEROOM
A bearded man is sprawled face down, naked beside a large-breasted woman. A diamond tennis bracelet glitters on the night stand by a Rolex watch and an empty bottle of Dom Perignon floating in a silver ice bucket.
The woman opens her eyes to glimpse the shadow of the knife-wielding intruder. Before she can scream, Victor makes a sweeping incision across her trachea through her jugular vein.
Confused by his wife’s thrashing movements, the bearded man awakens as Victor slices the knife below the man’s chin. The man cups his hand to his throat. Blood rushes between his fingers.
Victor wraps the bodies in the bed sheets and carries them one by one to —
THE UPPER DECK
He ties the victims’
ankles to a diver’s weight belt and shoves the bodies overboard.
AT THE HELM STATION
He raises the anchor, starts the engines, and SETS A COURSE FOR MEXICO ON THE GPS DISPLAY. He eases the throttles forward and gradually brings the sleek, polished yacht on plane.
INT. HOME OF STEVE AND LESLIE CHAMBERS – DAY
Seated behind a laptop computer on his desk, 44-year-old Navy Diver STEVE CHAMBERS stares out a bedroom window in his Ashburn, Virginia home, watching snowflakes blanket his neighbor’s yard. A cloud of condensation from dual exhaust pipes swirls above the temporary tags on his neighbor’s yellow Mustang GT.
INSERT – STEVE GLANCES AT HIS LAPTOP SCREEN
The laptop screen shows an Internet site for an on-line travel agency.
BACK TO SCENE
Steve rummages through the closet. Navy uniforms hang from a wooden dowel rod. A stack of dive magazines rests above a gun safe. HE HEARS The front door OPEN from the foyer downstairs, followed by the THUMP THUMP THUMP of footsteps on the staircase.
A bedroom door SLAMS SHUT. Natalie Merchant music blares inside the bedroom of Steve’s 16-year-old stepdaughter SARAH. The phone rings.
I’ll get it.
Steve takes a dive magazine and drops it on his desk.
Steve enters the —
He knocks on Sarah’s door.
Sarah! Turn it down!
He waits outside the bedroom for several seconds, staring at the Britney Spears poster.
INT. SARAH’s BEDROOM – DAY
Sarah, a petite brunette with braces and an angel face, rolls her eyes and adjusts the volume on her boom box. She keeps the phone to her ear and unlocks the door.
All right all right. Don’t go
postal on me.
(to the phone)
Steve points to a pair of wireless headphones on the dresser by a high school tennis trophy and an eight-by-ten photo of the varsity gymnastics team.
Are your headphones broken?
They hurt my ears.
How would you know?
(speaking into the phone)
I’ll call you back.
Steve checks his watch.
Did school get out early again?
No – I cut class to spend quality
time with you.
Steve smirks at the sarcastic comment.
Did you bring the trash cans in?
Mom said I didn’t have to.
Steve points to a pack of Marlboros partially hidden behind a box of pink facial tissue.
Those aren’t mine.
Steve removes the tissue box and takes the cigarettes.
Then how did they get here?
Don’t let your mom catch
She won’t if you don’t tell her.
Steve shakes his head and closes the door behind him.
EXT. I-495 WASHINGTON CAPITAL BELTWAY – DAY
A blonde hair, blue-eyed LESLIE CHAMBERS sits in gridlock traffic behind the slushy windshield of her late model Camry. A winter storm pounds the ten mile stretch of cars.
Burning flares lead
up to a Virginia State Police cruiser with flashing lights. An officer in foul weather gear directs
Leslie around a fender-bender.
INT. LESLIE’s MOVING CAMRY – DAY
Leslie rummages through her purse. She keeps one hand on the wheel. A SEA OF BRAKE LIGHTS covers the four-lane highway.
She dumps the contents on the passenger seat. Tic-Tacs, loose change, pens, sunglasses, napkins, a gold hoop earring, and a folded vacation brochure topple out. She checks the glove compartment and finds an empty pack of smokes with a sticky note attached.
INSERT – LESLIE READS THE STICKY NOTE
Nice try. You’ll thank me later.
BACK TO SCENE
Leslie shakes her head in disgust. She stuffs her wallet in her purse and unfolds the glossy vacation brochure.
INSERT – LESLIE READS THE VACATION BROCHURE
The brochure advertises Cozumel, Mexico with pictures of bikini models on a white powder beach. A caption reads, “Come to Mexico, Where the Land of Enchantment Awaits You.”
BACK TO SCENE
Leslie folds the brochure and slides it in her purse.
INT. CHAMBERS’ HOME – NIGHT
A smoke detector beeps as Steve scrambles up the BASEMENT STEPS and enters —
THE SMOKEY KITCHEN
He grabs an oven mitt and opens the oven door. Smoke blasts his face. He swats the air with the food-stained mitt. Inside the oven, the charred remains of a frozen dinner sizzle and pop inside a pan.
He dumps the pan in the sink and turns the water on. Steam rises with the smoke.
Sarah enters the kitchen wearing baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. She fans the air.
Steve activates the hood fan.
When’s Mom coming home?
I don’t know. She hasn’t called yet.
Can we order Papa John’s?
But you just incinerated
Steve takes a can of tomato soup from the pantry.
We’ll do soup and sandwiches.
I had soup for lunch.
Steve grinds the can opener with sharp twists of his wrist. The lid falls in the soup.
I thought you had homework
Sarah takes a plastic ladle from the utensil drawer.
Don’t forget to add water
I know what I’m doing.
I couldn’t tell from the smoke.
Sarah points to the back burner growing red hot beside an empty saucepan.
Sarah twirls her hair.
Katy got a new Mustang for
The bus is free.
We’re not living in the 90s
anymore. The cool kids don’t
take the bus to school.
Do the cool kids pay for gas?
The garage door closes with a motorized hum. Leslie enters the kitchen and drops her purse on the counter. She sniffs the air.
Is something burning?
Steve points to the brochure in Leslie’s hand.
Where’d you find that?
Leslie glances at the smoldering clump of blackened food in the kitchen sink.
I’ll show you later. Let’s order
pizza. I’m starved.
100 MILES SOUTH OF KEY LARGO
INT. MAIN SALON, VIKING FISHING TRAWLER – DAY
A short, stout DAMON RODRIGUEZ sits behind an L-shaped table. Acne scars cover his face. His hair is disheveled. He holds five playing cards in his callused right hand. Across from him, a young Latino with long hair and a thin mustache points to the deck of cards. The men are bored; their faces long.
Damon pours himself a shot of Jose Cuervo and squints at the sunlight seeping through a porthole.
Draw or pass?
Damon coughs – a wet, raspy cough that brings up phlegm.
Damon swaps three cards from the deck. He downs his shot as the wrinkle-faced SKIPPER enters the salon. Clad in overalls and rubber boots, the Skipper takes the bottle of tequila and screws the cap on.
The storm is coming. We
should raise the nets.
The Skipper slams the bottle on the table, bouncing the ashtray. Tequila spills from Damon’s shot glass.
The game just started.
The game is over.