Ransom

by pollyannapurejoy

Summary:

It's the first time visiting this country for Green Day on their latest worldwide tour, but with the nation in the midst of a civil war, they find themselves in serious peril

Notes:

This is my first time sharing my Green Day works on here. I thought I'd test the waters with this little adventure story and see if it's everyone's cup of tea. Please let me know if you'd like to see more like this. Thanks for reading!

“You’ve been ‘invited’ to perform for the Prime Minister,” Bill Schneider told the bandmates, using finger quotes, reading from the invitation. “It’s a private event at his mansion tonight.”

“What does ‘invited’ mean?” asked Mike, mimicking Bill’s movement.

It was their night off in a country they had never been to before and the guys in Green Day had hoped to explore the capital city. Despite the reports of a civil war brewing in the far off jungles, the downtown had seemed pretty calm and exotic and they didn’t know if they’d ever be back. Their appearance in this country was enough of a novelty that it attracted a lot of media attention, keeping them busy pretty much nonstop since their arrival. The consensus was pretty clear, after a whole day of press interviews none of them wanted to spend their one free evening playing for politicians like a bunch of circus monkeys.

“Strongly invited,” Bill explained.

“Let the Prime Minister buy a ticket for the show tomorrow like everyone else,” said Billie Joe.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” said Bill.

“Why not?” Mike asked, “What can he do?”

“Let’s just say this country isn’t exactly a democracy,” Bill replied, “it would be a huge insult to refuse.”

“How huge?” asked Tre.

“Like The Beatles in the Philippines huge,” answered Bill, recalling the event in 1966 when the Fab Four were violently driven out of the country for failing to meet with President Marcos and his wife at a palace reception. The tour manager didn’t need to elaborate further. They were all familiar with their music history.

“Great,” sighed Billie.

After the band meeting, Billie asked Adrienne to tag along. He hated VIP events, they triggered his anxiety. There was no way he was gonna suffer through this alone.

“I don’t know,” said Adrienne, after texting Brit and Sarah about it, “The other wives aren’t going, they’re gonna stay here with the kids and watch a movie. I was hoping for a quiet night in.”

“It’s gonna be so awkward, Adie. I don’t know how to talk to politicians. You’re so much better at this than me. I need you there. Pleeease,” Billie pleaded with puppy eyes.

“Fine, I’ll go,” she relented. She could never say no to him. “They need to do more for wildlife protection in this country, maybe I can take the opportunity to talk to some government officials about their problem with poachers.”

“There. See? Wildlife. Perfect,” he agreed, relieved.

“Uh-huh,” she replied, dubious, “You still owe me.”

In the end they decided to give as many people the night off as they could and settled on a minimum compliment of the three of them plus Jason, Adrienne and Bill Schneider doing double duty as road manager and equipment tech.

“We’ll politely fulfill our obligation, play a few songs, have a photo op and then bounce,” said Mike to the others in the hotel lobby as they waited for the limo.

“And maybe we’ll still have time to check out the local music scene in town after,” said Tre.

“Promise me and it’s a deal,” said Billie, “Okay let’s do this.”

 

~*~

The language barrier meant conversation was blessedly minimal without a translator present. They smiled, shook a lot of hands and signed records. Adrienne chatted with one of the minister’s wives who shared an interest in animal welfare. Butlered trays of food and drinks were passed around, but the guys were kept too busy to partake in much. Billie couldn’t wait to get done and hit the clubs.

Finally, the time came for them to play a promised set of three songs for the Prime Minister’s cabinet and elite guests and they gathered to be introduced. Watching the politician puff out his chest proudly as he spoke, Billie had the strangest sensation he was being presented like a prized trophy, a stuffed stag’s head on a wall. The band retreated to their instruments set up at one end of the opulent and cavernous living room.

The set was going well, the Prime Minister seemed pleased, as did the thirty or so other people present. They went right into their last song and got a few bars in when the power cut out and the room was plunged into darkness.

Band and guests froze. Billie stood at his mic, confused for a minute, and waited. Blackouts seemed like they were fairly common in this country. Then the moonlit windows were suddenly flooded with shadows. Seconds later the room was criss-crossed with thin red beams of light. Laser scopes filled the space from every direction.

“This is no blackout,” Jason muttered from behind Billie.

“What is tha…” Billie began, mesmerized, when his words were cut short by the ear splitting crack of automatic weapon fire. He shouted and jumped back against Tre’s drums.

A rifle had been discharged at the ceiling, causing plaster to rain down on the guests and chaos to ensue. Over the sounds of frightened screams, they heard a loud command in an unfamiliar language followed by English.

“Down! On the floor!”

The shadows moved rapidly as people scrambled for cover. Some dropped down where they stood, others tried to run, only to be blocked by other shadows. The room was encircled with them, and they all had weapons.

Billie put his guitar down by his feet and began frantically searching from his spot, looking for Adrienne, who had been watching from the audience, slightly off to the side. It was just too dark to tell the shadows apart. He took a few steps from the makeshift stage to get a better look and stopped short, looking down.

Five laser scopes were aimed directly at his chest.

He stared down at the points of light, dumbstruck, his brain unable to compute with so much that was unfamiliar happening all at once.

Bill Schneider came up behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him out of his stupor.

“Billie, get down!” Bill commanded him.

The others were already on the floor. Billie resisted, uncomprehending, still searching.

“Adrienne!” he called out, pulling away, “Where’s Adrienne? I can’t see her!”

Bill pleaded with his friend to take cover as they struggled. Finally tackling him bodily, Schneider pinned his friend beneath him as the beams swept over their heads.

“She's fine, just wait, or do you wanna get shot?” Bill asked him.

Billie relented, taking his place prone alongside his bandmates.

Once the room quieted down to little more than muffled sounds of cries and distress, their assailants identified themselves as some liberation army, demanding to see the Prime Minister. Their host identified himself by standing and was taken from the room by several of the gunmen. Other militants remained to guard the rest of them.

“Is this a hostage thing? Are we hostages?” whispered Billie.

“If it is, let's just hope they don’t know who we are,” said Mike next to him.

“If it’s money they want, I don’t fucking care. I’d pay them to get us all out of here,” Billie said.

“That might complicate things,” answered Mike, “I say we wait for this to play out, let the authorities deal with it.”

“Yeah because that always works out well,” Billie sulked.

“Don’t tell them any…Aah!” Mike’s warning was cut off with a cry when one of the gunmen hit him hard in the shoulder with the butt of his rifle.

“No talking!” he ordered.

Billie looked silently at Mike in sympathy as his friend rubbed his bruised shoulder. The sudden violence caused him to wonder again where Adrienne was and if she was okay, but he didn’t dare call out this time. He was helpless to do anything about it.

~*~

The gunmen went around the room collecting everyone’s phones in a sack. Then they were literally left in the dark overnight. The plan for a quick getaway and after hours clubbing faded as the night passed. Despite his fear Billie couldn’t help but doze off for short periods after so many hours of no stimulation. Each time it happened he would jolt awake disoriented, thinking he had passed out on the floor of his hotel room until reality seeped back in. No such luck, he realized, hoping to wake up from a dream, only to find the shadows of their captors looming.

When the sun rose they got their first look around. Billie spotted Adrienne across the room about twenty feet away. He stared at her, willing her to raise her head up until she sensed him and their eyes locked. Checking for the guards, they saw them preoccupied on the other side of the room. Slowly she began to crawl closer, reaching out to her husband until their hands touched. Billie gave her a look full of regret for insisting she come along.

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed to her quietly.

She simply squeezed his fingers in response.

A short time later the room began to be cleared of unnecessary hostages. One by one people were pointed to and told to leave with their hands on their heads. The Prime Minister had not been seen since the initial attack when he was taken to another part of the palace. He could be dead for all they knew.

The large room was nearly empty of guests and the band members looked expectantly at their captors, hoping they’d be next. Then one of the assailants looked at the group lying around the instruments and equipment for the first time more closely and hesitated. He whispered to his comrade. They called over what appeared to be a commander and the group had a huddle like players on the pitching mound, complete with glances in their direction.

“Uh oh, gang” whispered Mike. “I think we’ve been clocked.”

Billie turned his head to face Schneider, “Dude, you said by coming here we’d avoid an international incident.”

“Yeah,” Bill sighed, “Guess I had that backwards. My bad.”

Their suspicions were confirmed when the thinning of the herd was complete and their group was the only one remaining.

“Don’t we get to go too?” Tre asked the guard nearest him.

The man pointed with his gun and replied in broken heavily accented English, “Green Day. You stay.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Tre frowned, “Nice rhyme by the way.”

Billie rolled his eyes at the drummer. “Really?”

Tre just shrugged.

~*~

The six of them were moved to the center of the vast living room. They stiffly helped each other up with an assortment of groans and were made to sit on the persian rug guarded by three armed captors in unmarked military fatigues. Through observation they eventually learned their names were Baz, Costa and Han. They were escorted one at a time by Baz to use the bathroom. Trays of leftover party food were collected by Costa and placed on the floor between them. They hungrily picked at the scraps until the platters were empty. Nothing more was offered to them.

Billie sat next to Adrienne on the floor, their backs against a couch they were prohibited from sitting on. He longed for his guitar abandoned across the room but didn’t dare ask if he could have it.

“Our wives must be worried sick,” said Jason softly. “Do you think it’s made the news? I mean, someone’s gotta be working on freeing us right?”

“Sure,” said Bill, reassuring. He was still feeling a bit guilty about insisting they accept this “invitation”, even though no one blamed him; there was no way he could have known. “The Prime Minister is here. It’s him they want. The US Embassy has to be on it. We must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all.”

The thought was what kept them going, that this was all a mistake -- someone had to have learned what had happened by now and was helping them. They were supposed to be playing a show that night at the National Sports Complex, and their absence was sure to be news. There were promoters, their crew, agent and manager. They couldn’t disappear without a trace. Billie thought of the thousands of disappointed fans. Not too many major touring bands came to this country and he was starting to understand why. When the local promoter had invited them, Billie decided it would be a cool adventure. He turned out to be right in the worst way.

Day became night and then day again. There was not much to do but play improvised word games and do push up challenges to keep them from losing their minds, all under the curious and watchful eyes of their guards, who kept vigil but told them nothing.

~*~

Days later, when they should have been long gone from this godforsaken country, they were still captive. Billie pictured the rest of their tour dates falling away one by one. If the tour had been cancelled, he wondered, were the rest of our families and tourmates back home in the states by now, or were they keeping vigil somewhere nearby? Did they even know they were alive? He wished he could get a message to them to reassure them somehow.

Yesterday Costa had given them some old bananas, a loaf of bread and some cheese from the kitchen, a cruel joke barely enough for six people. Billie suspected they were keeping most of the provisions for themselves. They were given water too but less food each day until today when supplies ran out altogether and real hunger set in for the first time. At least it was easy to conserve their energy because there wasn’t much to do.

Billie felt so achy and tired from sleeping on the floor night after night that at first he thought that combined with slight dehydration was the reason he felt like shit. Then he realized it wasn’t the reason. He hadn’t had a drink or any of his other usual substances including his anti-anxiety meds in almost a week. He didn’t feel scared at that particular moment but his hands were still shaking and his stomach was doing somersaults. Adrienne reached over to grasp his hands tightly in her own, warm in contrast to his.

“Are you okay?” she asked him.

He nodded. “I wouldn’t mind a drink, not gonna lie.”

“I think we all could,” she agreed.

“Yeah, except…” he started, then swallowed down a wave of nausea.

His stomach lurched. He put a hand to his mouth and instinctively got up and bolted for the bathroom without thinking to ask permission like they were told to do. Alarmed at his quick movement, Han, the guard in his path, reached out and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him back roughly. Billie was spun around to face the guard, causing him to lose control and puke on the man’s boots. They were both frozen in momentary shock, looking down.

“Whoops,” said Billie.

The guard erupted in blind fury, responding with a powerful fist to Billie’s face that went right through him, sending him sprawling. His wife and friends sat up in alarm, shouting protests. The other guards pointed their guns at the group, ordering quiet with little effect.

The insulted Han stood over Billie curled up on the floor. He kicked him in the side repeatedly with a soiled boot, shouting something Billie couldn’t understand but didn't need to, no doubt some colorful curse words in his native language. He was too busy trying to protect his ribs.

“Stop!” screamed Adrienne on her knees, rising up as much as she dared, heedless of the guns. She turned to Costa, the guard nearest her. “Make him stop!”

Costa allowed Han to vent his rage for several more agonizing seconds until he calmly approached, gently pulling his comrade away with some quiet platitudes, no doubt reminding him of their hostages’ value. Billie stayed in place in a tight ball, arms over his head.

Adrienne looked over imploringly to Mike who turned to Baz, the remaining guard standing watch over their group. The bass player waited for his assent to move.

“Can I? Just…” Mike started, motioning with his hands to where Billie lay still.

When he wasn’t stopped he crossed the room to his friend. Mike crouched down.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said quietly in Billie’s ear, grasping him gently to turn him, “Can you get up?”

Billie inhaled sharply and tensed at the touch at first but when he heard his friend’s voice he relaxed slightly and lowered his arms. He had a look of shock on his face but nodded. A puffy bruise rose under his eye and his nose was bleeding heavily. He kept one arm tight around his ribs as Mike helped him to his feet and led him stumbling back across the room. His friend lowered him back to the floor next to Adrienne. Blood from Billie’s nose ran down his chin. She took a pile of cocktail napkins from the coffee table to stem the bleeding, tilting his head back against the couch. He winced and closed his eyes, looking pale and slightly feverish.

“He’s sick,” Adrienne said to Baz, “Can he have some water?”

The guard was unmoved. “Not sick,” he said laughing, miming a drinking motion with his hand, “Drugs. Rock and Roll.”

The commotion had alerted their commander into the room a short while later who, spying an injured hostage, promptly pulled the guilty guard aside for an angry dressing down. He allowed Billie and Adrienne to be escorted together to the bathroom by Baz to get cleaned up. Billie's side was sore and bruised and he struggled to stand. Adrienne helped him.

Baz stood in the open doorway to the bathroom as Adrienne cleaned her husband’s face and shirt with a towel while Billie leaned against the sink. His face and side were throbbing despite her gentle touch but he knew he wasn’t likely to be offered any painkillers so he was just gonna have to suck it up. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine he was somewhere else.

When he opened them again he looked over Adrienne’s shoulder and saw the guard standing just outside the door openly checking out his wife with a filthy leer.

He stepped in front of her, blocking the guard’s view, commanding all his strength, “Hey! You look at her again like that and I’ll fucking kill you!”

Adrienne pulled Billie back to the sink as Baz responded with an amused look and turned away, unimpressed with the singer’s threat.

“Billie don’t,” she warned him, “it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he told her, frustrated on the verge of tears ready to let loose, “None of this is okay, Adie. In what universe is any of this okay?”

She put her arms around him to calm him. “I don’t want you getting hurt again. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sorry,” he muttered into her hair, holding her close, breathing in her scent. “I’m sorry I made you come here.”

“I’m not,” she replied. The alternative was waiting on the outside without a word, fearing for his life and the lives of their friends, worrying herself sick. “I came for you. Nothing has changed that.”

 

~*~

 

The next day Simon, an Austrian International Red Cross representative, arrived with food, bottled water and small bags of toothbrushes, soap and essentials. They accepted the offerings gratefully but with slight misgivings. They feared it meant they were in for a long ordeal, but at least it also meant they might begin to get information.

“Why does it feel like we’re settling in for the long term?” asked Jason, poking through his bag.

“Because we are,” said Tre.

They now had an intermediary which meant they could request things they needed and get messages out to their families who they learn have been following their story around the clock desperate to know their situation. This was no small mercy; they were all worried about what their friends and family were going through, at times even more than they worried about themselves. Whether this was brave or stupid on their part they didn’t know.

As it was his job to make sure that the hostages were not being mistreated, Simon took note of Billie’s black eye with interest and asked how he got it. Billie lifted his shirt and also showed off his bruised ribs. Simon kept detailed notes for the negotiators and told them he would speak to their captors to try and prevent any further assaults. It was the most assurance he could provide. He next handed out sandwiches and fruit in brown bags like they were at summer camp. They pounced on them. It was something but still not enough. He promised more the next visit.

“Next visit?” asked Billie. “When are we getting out of here? Doesn’t this country want their Prime Minister back?”

Simon hesitated. Adrienne sensed something was off. He had that look Billie got when he didn’t want to tell her where he’d been.

“What aren’t you telling us?” asked Adrienne.

The aid worker sighed, checked for the guards and spoke in low tones, “The Prime Minister is fine. He was released the night you were captured.”

They stared at him.

“I don’t understand,” said Billie. “Are you saying it’s us they were after? A fucking rock band?”

“An American rock band,” sighed Mike, closing his eyes, comprehension dawning. “He was in on it. Goddammit the party was a trap.”

“What?!” cried Billie.

“I’m afraid he is correct,” Simon confirmed. “The US has refused to provide the government with weapons to fight its war against the rebels. Now they have bargaining chips. These men are not from the liberation army, they are the Prime Minister’s own guards. They are seeking fighter planes and missiles in return for your safe release.”

“Fuck,” said Billie. “We’re gonna die.”

The others knew he was not exaggerating. In a flash they had gone from being honored guests caught up in something by mistake to political pawns, lessening their odds of survival considerably.

“Well... we help other countries fight wars all the time. They’ll do it right? To get us out of here?” asked Tre.

“The policy of the United States government is to not negotiate with terrorists, even ones that run countries. I am told options are being explored for an end to the situation, both diplomatic and otherwise.” Simon explained, as though he were reading from a script. “I’m afraid I have no power over negotiations. That is how you say, ‘above my pay grade’. I am very sorry.”

“‘Both diplomatic and otherwise’? What exactly does ‘otherwise’ mean?” asked Tre.

“Just hope for a diplomatic solution,” He responded, grimly.

“How long could that take?” asked Bill.

“I’m sorry, I do not know,” Simon rose to leave. “I will bring food and more information if I can. Next time.”

The hope they first felt at a visit from the Red Cross began to fade. They were all silent for a long time after Simon left while they absorbed the new information. They were the targets all along, not collateral damage, and their collective freedom carried a very high price, one their own country might not be willing to pay. If their captors grew desperate enough to force the issue, things could get very uncomfortable for them real quick. What if these assholes decided to start cutting off fingers?, thought Billie. The food the rep had brought suddenly didn’t sit well in their stomachs.

More than anything else that was possible in that moment, Billie longed for his guitar. It was his go to when he felt anxious or sad. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone over a week without playing. It might have been way back during his first week of rehab. His still intact fingers were tingling just looking at the forlorn Gibson on the floor next to the drumkit where he left it another lifetime ago. With renewed strength and a “fuck it” attitude he seized the opening to ask for it back. He pointed and mimed a strumming motion at Costa.

“Can I have my guitar?” he asked.

The guard looked at him.

“Please?” Billie added, adopting his most pitiful look, complete with a vivid purple bruise beneath a wide green eye.

Costa conferred with the other two guards. They consented and Costa brought it over to him. Billie smiled gratefully and took the instrument like an infant, cradling it in his lap. Tuning it up, he played it unplugged, sitting cross legged on the floor. He allowed himself to get lost in the melodies, to the point where he could almost forget where he was. He closed his eyes, let out a slow cleansing breath, strummed an intro and sang -- Take away the sensation inside… bittersweet migraine in my head... It soothed his frayed nerves like cream on a burn. All was still and calm. The guards watched intrigued. When he strummed the last chord the room was as quiet as a church.

“Guitar diplomacy,” joked Jason.

 

~*~

 

Billie was awakened the next morning painfully with a sharp jab to the back. He opened his eyes. It was barely dawn, the sun was rising. The three guards were poking Mike and Tre too with the muzzles of their weapons. His friends looked as drowsy and confused as he was.

“You, you and you. Up!” Han commanded.

“What for?” asked Tre, wary.

The guards pointed their weapons at Bill, Jason and Adrienne who had all been awakened by the commands. The threat was implicit and self explanatory.

“You! Up!” He ordered them again louder.

“Okay, okay!” said Billie, arms raised.

The three staggered to their feet. One by one their wrists were bound tightly behind their backs with zip ties. The others became alarmed and shouted out all at once for an explanation but none was offered.

“No! Wait! What are you doing?!” asked Adrienne.

“What’s going on?” cried Jason.

“Hey! Where are you taking them?” demanded Bill.

Ignoring their companions, the guards marched the three out the back exit to the walled courtyard behind the house. The back of the house was solid limestone. They were positioned in a line and turned to face the wall.

Billie felt his body start to disobey his brain. He’d seen this part in movies. His friends were shouting, and so were the guards, ordering them to stay in place. He was drowning in chaos, a noisy crescendo at the end of the world. He wanted to run, it made no sense but he had to, he couldn’t stay there. He backed away from the wall like it was a rooftop ledge but was roughly pushed back in place repeatedly. He couldn’t do what they were telling him to. He called out for his friends, who were likewise struggling, bargaining and shouting to be let go.

Billie’s heart felt like it was going to explode in his chest. He turned his head to see Mike. His friend had stopped protesting and now his eyes were closed, head bowed, lips moving. He thought of Mike’s kids. A hand grabbed the back of his head and turned him back to face the wall. He called out for Tre.

He heard the clicking sound of rifles being raised and loaded. Someone was counting. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his whole body and felt like screaming. And then…

Nothing. Guns came up, guns came down. Tre stole a glance over his shoulder and noticed while two had guns raised one seemed to be taking video and photos of the scene with his phone. Tre braced himself for what he assumed was their public execution. Then the guns were lowered.

The event was being staged, he realized.

They stood for several more agonizing minutes. Was this just a prelude? Were they awaiting instructions? Finally one of the guards came up behind them and cut the ties off their wrists. Without a word they each took a captive by the arm and led him back inside.

Billie’s legs turned to water the moment he was freed and he slumped to the ground, forgetting how to breathe. He heard Mike call out to him from some far off place, but his brain was shutting down, disassociating. Han hauled him up and practically dragged him back with the others inside to where his equally terrified wife and friends were sitting closely together and waiting.

“What happened?” asked Adrienne, desperately.

Mike and Tre sat. As soon as he was released Billie collapsed to the floor into Adrienne’s arms, struggling for breath and unable to speak. He sobbed on her shoulder, clinging on to her tightly in full on panic mode. Before they asked any more questions Jason came over and placed a hand on his friend’s back while Adrienne held him, speaking softly in a soothing voice.

“Slow breaths,” he instructed. “Easy. That’s it. You’re okay.”

He kept his hand there until he felt Billie’s breathing slow. Only then did his friends explain.

“It was a firing squad,” Tre said, stunned. “We thought they were gonna…” he swallowed, “but they just took pictures.”

“Photoshoot from hell,” murmured Mike, lying back against a chair with his eyes closed.

“Oh my God,” said Adrienne, Billie still tearful in her arms.

“I guess somebody wants to prove they mean business,” said Jason, grimly.

“This must be what negotiating looks like,” noted Bill.

“Is that why I feel like a chess piece?” asked Tre, angrily.

Billie didn’t regain the ability to speak for several more minutes. When he did it gave Adrienne chills.

“That was fucking nightmare fuel,” he said, wiping his eyes. Drained and exhausted, he fell back to the floor.

 

~*~

 

Billie was quiet and withdrawn after the incident in the courtyard. The others gave him his space as he retreated with his guitar to a corner, where he filled the room with music every day, playing whatever he was feeling, exorcising his demons.

He joined the group only to collect scraps of food and what little information they could get from Simon when he came to check on them. Mike gave the rep the lists they drew up of supplies they needed. It was mostly a wishlist because few of the items were ever fulfilled but the barest necessities.

They told Simon about what had happened in the courtyard. He was sympathetic but not surprised. The Prime Minister was not known for his patience and it was growing thin.

In Billie’s absence, Baz had been giving Adrienne increasingly uncomfortable attention at every opportunity -- lewd remarks, open stares, accidental brush ups that were not so accidental. It looked like the guard was starting to get ideas, and it would only be a matter of time before he acted on them. When he at last began to come back to himself, Billie felt responsible for not being in the right headspace to keep a closer eye on things.

Baz had Adrienne cornered in the hallway one day when Billie appeared. She stood up against the wall, chin up with a defiant expression, refusing to show fear. The guard stood inches from her, twisting one of her dreadlocks between his fingers. Both were silent but appeared to be communicating with their eyes.

Billie did a quick calculation. She had said she could take care of herself and he believed her — he had seen her kick enough asses over the years — so he tensed and resisted the chivalrous but slightly sexist impulse to punch the guy with the semi automatic rifle. But he wanted to. He really, really wanted to.

“Is there a problem here?” Billie asked her, throwing a meaningful glance at the guard, hands curled into fists at his sides.

“No problem,” Adrienne answered through a clenched jaw, taking Billie’s hand and squeezing tightly.

Baz stepped back and the two retreated to the living room. The tension around them elicited questioning looks from their companions but they kept the incident to themselves.

Billie promised her he wouldn’t do anything stupid but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do everything he could to get her out of there if possible. It was the band they wanted after all, not her. She didn’t need to be here, risking herself for his sake. He was determined to keep her safe.

The longer this went on they knew the smaller their hopes of ever seeing freedom were. The incident in the courtyard made that danger clear and present. Billie felt that every day that went by without a deal was a day closer to the time when they had simply outlived their usefulness and could be taken out and shot for real, not just for the cameras. Besides the additional danger to Adrienne of sexual assault, there were too many ways to die here, from the intentional to the botched rescue operation. All the more reason to get her out of here, he reasoned.

The next time Simon paid them a visit, Billie caught him privately on his way out.

“Hey Simon, if you talk to them, can you ask them to let my wife go?” Billie asked him, “I can pay them if it helps.”

The rep shook his head, “Remember I am not authorized to negotiate. I can only make humanitarian requests on behalf of hostages.”

“Then for humanitarian reasons can you get her out of here?” he tried. “She’s the only woman here and the way some of these guards are acting is making me nervous, if you get my meaning. She’s not safe.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, none of you are safe,” he replied, but then softened his tone. “But I understand. I’ll see what I can do.”

~*~

 

When he returned two days later Billie asked him again.

“So what happened, did you talk to them? What’d they say?” Billie asked.

“I’m sorry, the answer was no,” the rep said.

“What, why?” Billie asked.

“He did not say, but I believe it is because with your wife here he can better control your behavior, demand your obedience,” he explained. “Again, I’m sorry.”

“Dammit,” Billie turned away disappointed.

So there was a reason she was here after all. Billie thought back to when they were first captured, combining it with what Simon had told him. That very first day, when the guards had looked at their group and decided they should stay, they had thought it was because they had only just been recognized as Green Day, and therefore valuable hostages. But that didn’t make sense now. They were the targets — they knew who they were from the beginning. So the discussion must have had a different purpose. They were deciding whether to keep Adrienne, Bill and Jason as well. Obviously the conclusion they came to was that they would have some strategic value as leverage, and that was still true, so they were not inclined to let them go now.

On his way back to the living room Billie was approached by Costa who had been listening to his conversation with the Red Cross rep.

“Baz. He wants your wife. He will take her. I know this. He has told me. He is…” he beat his fists on his chest in a boastful gesture.

“Bragging about it. I know, man. What am I supposed to do?” asked Billie.

“Teach him,” said Costa.

“What?”

Costa made a strumming motion with his hands. “Guitar. Teach him. It will be… eh....” searching for the word.

“A distraction?” asked Billie. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “He watch her. He also watch you play. There is something when he watch you… Give him this in place of the other.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. It would give them both something to do to keep from going crazy.

“Why are you doing this?” asked Billie, “Helping us, I mean?”

Costa shrugged, “I like music. And I do not like Baz.”

“Fair enough,” Billie smiled. “Thanks.”

Billie took the idea to Mike and Tre, finally sharing his concerns about Baz.

“If we can distract one, why not all three?” reasoned Tre. “Let’s teach all of them. We can make a band like we used to. Give them something else to do besides torture us.”

“I’ll give Baz the guitar since he seems so interested,” Billie suggested. He remembered Han as the one that kicked his ass their first week. “Han should play the drums. He’s got the hands for it. Let him take his frustrations out that way,” he said and Tre agreed.

“Then I guess I’ll give Costa the bass,” said Mike.

As it was his idea, Costa was the first willing student. Seeing him with the bass in his hands made the others a bit envious and soon they wanted to learn too. Since they had little else to do, the guys were happy to spend hours each day teaching the guards basic chords and rhythms and watching them practice. Their students were surprisingly patient, it was like they were set free from their roles as tormentors and given permission to be something else, maybe for the first time in their lives.

The teacher student relationship changed the dynamic completely. It earned them a level of respect they didn’t have as mere prisoners. Costa was eager and practiced hard. Tre and Han turned out to have a similar wicked sense of humor and even managed to share a few laughs. Baz was seriously applying himself and was a fast learner.

“Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” Billie marveled as Baz strummed each new chord he taught him.

“Once,” he replied as he looked down, fingering the next chord. “My father...he play...beautiful. Gone now.”

The guard seemed embarrassed to be sharing something so personal. Billie wanted him to know it was okay.

“Yeah,” said Billie. “My dad was a musician too.”

Baz glanced up quickly and looked away. It felt strange. Without the bravado he was surprisingly sensitive. Billie wondered how people who were probably not so different could end up in such different circumstances. In any other country Baz might just be another kid in the pit at a Green Day show, or playing in a band.

 

~*~

 

As a distraction it had proven very effective, but only for so long. One day reality caught up to them. It happened while Costa was playing the bass lines he had been practicing for Mike. It was a surreal moment to hear the guard say the words while he was performing for Mike’s praise at the same time.

“We have received orders,” he began in a low voice while he plucked away at the notes, “One of you will be executed next week.”

Mike grabbed the neck of the instrument to stop him playing.

“What did you say?” said Mike, alarmed

Costa looked around nervous and spoke in hushed tones. “I should not be saying this. If others knew I say this...”

“Tell me what you know, Costa. Please,” Mike pleaded.

“They will choose the first to die,” he explained. “One a week for six weeks. Final demands.”

“Who?” Mike asked. “Who dies next week?”

“I do not know,” he answered. “This is truth.”

Their musical interlude was over. Real life was seeping in and time was running out like blood from an open wound. Mike’s thoughts raced.

“Can you help us escape?” He asked.

“No, no,” Costa insisted, waving his hands, “No escape. They find out and we are punished. Our families. I cannot. No escape.”

Mike sighed, disappointed. Costa seemed as scared as they were. For the first time Mike wondered if in some way they were all really prisoners here.

“Okay then why?” Mike asked, “Why bother telling us?”

“To prepare,” said Costa, placing a surprisingly gentle hand on Mike’s chest. “In here. Prepare yourselves.”

Mike was shocked. It actually seemed like he cared and felt bad about the situation, even though he would likely be the one that would carry the order out. The conflict barely registered on the young man’s face as he resumed plucking at the notes on his bass with a shrug and only slight embarrassment.

From a student to an executioner, Mike thought. This was turning out to be quite a week.

He decided he would share this information with Billie and Tre but no one else for now. No reason to give them all nightmares when there was nothing they could do about it.

“So I guess they’re not gonna start with fingers,” said Billie, darkly, voicing what until now had been his greatest fear.

“Not when there are six of us, no,” said Mike. “Plenty of expendables.”

Billie didn’t know if it was better to be first or last. The longer you survived the greater the chance of rescue, but on the other hand that meant you had to remain to witness the closest people in your life die one by one, and then had to live with that… or not. He decided he didn’t favor either option. No one was going to die if they could help it.

The three agreed that they should try to get this information to Simon. If there was any chance at all of rescue, now was the time, and he was the only one who could get a message out to those who might be in a position to help them.

They usually passed notes to the Red Cross rep at the end of each visit that contained a list of personal items and requests. At first the guards checked them before Simon was permitted to leave but after several weeks they had gotten sloppy and stopped bothering. The group suspected the guards were barely literate in English and really stopped just pretending to check because the notes meant nothing to them.

This note would be different. The words were broken down in a column to resemble their usual list in case the guards did check it but their meaning would only be apparent to anyone who could read it. To protect Costa, they had to be as secretive as possible.

“Here’s some stuff we need for next week,” Mike told the rep in his usual manner, sliding the note across the table.

Simon glanced at it quickly and immediately knew it was not a list. He placed it directly in his shirt pocket.

“I will see to it,” he replied.

 

~*~

In the meantime they had to continue on as if nothing had changed. The three accomplished this with varying degrees of success depending on the day. Billie had the hardest time, wanting to shower his wife with affection but not so much as to make her suspicious as to why. For his part instead, he resolved to no longer spend whatever time they may have had remaining locked away in his own head.

From a professional standpoint, the three agreed they better hurry up and schedule their students’ first and likely only recital. At their first full band practice that day the group, that by a show of hands they had decided to name Ransom, were told they would perform for their audience of six tomorrow. Baz and Han were skeptical and nervous, but the reason for the sudden performance couldn’t be explained. To protect Costa’s secret, the guys in Green Day assured them they were ready and would be great.

“You can’t fail. We’re literally a captive audience,” joked Tre, causing everyone to groan.

The day arrived. They had started them all on Operation Ivy’s Knowledge and when they blew through that so easily they taught them to play Blitzkrieg Bop and I Fought the Law as well. A three song set, ironically mirroring the trio of Green Day songs they themselves had played in that very spot weeks prior. As if to mark the occasion, the six hostages were allowed to seat themselves on the furniture for the first time to watch the performance. The sofa and chairs felt too soft after the hard floors they had sat and slept on for weeks and they squirmed to get comfortable. In exchange for their instruments, the guards’ rifles were placed in the stands nearby, still within arms reach if needed but forgotten for the time being by everyone like some kind of temporary cease fire.

Then the soldiers-turned-musicians played their hearts out. Han counted them off with his sticks the way Tre had taught him to, Baz and Costa played guitar and bass and sang the lyrics they memorized phonetically. Billie was right in guessing Han would take to the drums. He looked ecstatic and free, hitting the skins and cymbals with reckless abandon. Tre smiled and nodded along, watching closely like a proud papa. Billie and Mike grinned at each other too, pretty pleased with themselves despite the dark clouds they knew were on the horizon for them all. It felt good just to have done something productive. They had even thrown in a few harmonies for Baz and Costa to learn and they weren’t half bad.

They were making a joyful noise. The band laughed and fumbled their way through a few minor mistakes while the audience encouraged them to keep going and clapped along. The music accomplished what music always had the power to do -- to unite and make everyone forget their troubles for just a short time, and to believe that anything was possible. The debut of Ransom was a success.

The group took their bows at the end and their audience cheered for an encore. The guards looked at each other and agreed to play the last number again since it was all they knew. No one really wanted the show to end. The drummer began the count.

Then the doors and windows exploded.

Suddenly the count of soldiers in the room multiplied sevenfold. Over the sounds of splintering wood and shattered glass came the thrum of heavy boots and voices shouting orders. Again came the cries of “Get down! On the floor!” from all around them, and the sight of camo and the waving of heavy weaponry. The mirror universe was serving up a healthy dose of deja vu.

But this time it wasn’t directed at them.

The six of them swiveled around and then dove to the floor as one, covering their heads, huddled together. They kept coming, pouring in through the ruptured openings of the palace. It sounded like dozens of troops, the entire building was under siege. Gunfire echoed from the stairs, and from rooms above and adjacent. Billie smelled smoke, inhaled and coughed. With one arm tight around Adrienne, he chanced a look at the stage.

One by one in quick succession their students fell, taken down by rapid staccato gunfire. When the attack began they had tried to reach for their weapons but fumbled removing their instruments and the delay had cost them. Their surprise at the ambush resulted in Costa, Baz and Han lying dead around a blood soaked drum kit, wide eyed with shocked looks on their faces, bodies riddled with bullets. Billie stared in horror, wide eyed himself despite the smoke stinging his eyes. He never saw such a tragic sight.

They were happy, he thought in protest, his mind fighting against the reality surrounding him -- he, Mike and Tre had taught them to play and it made them happy. Goddammit. He started to cry. He was so caught up in his thoughts and the wrongness of the slaughter that he failed to comprehend that this was their rescue in progress — their long awaited salvation. It didn’t feel as good as he thought it would. He was still staring through burning tears when three soldiers in helmets and heavy combat gear crouched in front of them.

“Is anyone injured?” one of them asked.

In his confusion Billie almost pointed out the bodies behind them but then his head cleared just enough to realize the soldier was referring only to them. They all looked at each other and then shook their heads, stunned.

“We’re US Marines,” the soldier explained while shouts and gunfire still echoed from some distance away. The soldier radioed to someone declaring that the room was secured and the hostages all accounted for.

“Come with us,” he said, reaching for them, “we’ll get you out.”

 

~*~

Later Billie couldn’t recall the helicopter that took them to a US military base in a neighboring friendly country. He was still numb, with images of guitars, drums and young men drenched in blood holding his mind captive even as his body made its escape.

They were given checkups, food and beds at the base. Most of their time there was spent detached and silent. The atmosphere was that of a monastery. They would pass each other in the halls with only glancing looks, respectful of each other’s trauma. Even Adrienne and Billie hardly spoke to one another.

After three days of rest and recuperation special counselors and intelligence officers began to meet with each of them several times for debriefings. This was when the real work began. There they were made to recount their ordeals for the first time in as much detail as they could manage. The process was nearly as harrowing as the experience itself. Each of them broke down in tears in turn, exiting the rooms drained as if from a confessional, one in which no absolution was given. Although Billie was back on his meds he began having panic attacks at the mere sight of the debriefing room door, dreading each session. The mock firing squad was the most difficult experience to recall. He would have preferred to leave it out entirely but for the fact that the officer had heard about it from the others and finally asked Billie outright to give his version of events.

“Attempts at diplomacy failed weeks ago,” explained a Lieutenant named Carter at Billie’s final debriefing, “After that we started planning a rescue op and were just waiting for the opportunity that posed the lowest risks to the hostages. You gave us that opportunity when you started giving your guards music lessons.”

Billie had only been half listening up to this point but at these words he snapped into focus.

The officer continued, “When we received your message about the impending executions, we knew it was our time to act.”

The decision to teach them to play sealed the fates of their captors. A brutal snapshot image of bloodied bodies over instruments flashed in his vision again. He didn’t think he could ever scrub his memory clean.

We did this, Billie thought with horror.

 

~*~

 

Two weeks later

Warner Music offices, Los Angeles, CA
Green Day press conference

Partial transcript

Billie Joe: (continuing to read from a prepared statement)... We’d like to thank the United States Marine Corps Special Forces for our rescue. We missed playing for our fans and hope that the nation’s troubles can be resolved soon and that we can one day return in peacetime to play for you all. We’ll be donating the profits from this tour to provide relief for the refugees, the victims of this conflict and their families.

Press agent: We’ll take questions now.

Q: Has this experience made you more cautious about traveling to certain countries in the future?

Mike: We took it as an opportunity to experience a new culture and to play for our fans, wherever they may be. We still want to do that any chance we get. So the answer is no.

Q: How did your families cope during this ordeal, having to go so long without word of your circumstances?

Tre: They worked with the US Embassy to find out anything they could and even started a campaign to put pressure on the government to set us free. They stayed strong and were there for us every step of the way. They were amazing. Knowing they were out there helped us keep fighting too.

Q: Billie Joe, you were the only one whose wife was there with you. Was that a comfort or a concern?

Billie: (pause) Both.

Q: How threatened did you feel on a daily basis by your captors? Did the terrorists…

Billie: (interrupting) Musicians.

Q: I’m sorry what?

Billie: The 'terrorists' as you called them. They were also musicians. I don’t know, I just want you to know that. Yeah of course we felt threatened. It was their job to guard us and to keep us scared. They did their jobs. But they weren’t given a whole lot of choice either, ya know? They loved music, they were young, they had names, and they had families too. They were dealt a shitty hand, that’s all... and… the whole thing just sucks. They didn’t deserve to die.

The press conference ends abruptly as Billie gets up to leave and the rest follow.