FADE IN:



INT. FIRST NATIONAL BANK & TRUST - DECEMBER 2001 - DAY

A massive marble and brass edifice to financial security.

CHARLES HUNTER (58), rugged in a well tailored suit,
enters with NATALIE HUNTER (35), stocky and withdrawn;
STEPHEN HUNTER (13), strapping European features: blond
hair, blue eyes; and DIANA HUNTER (13), delicate Eurasian
features: jet-black hair, almond-shaped eyes, pug nose.

Charles hesitates before the gates to a metal detector. 

SAM, a security guard, approaches, smiling warmly.

SAM
Brought the twins today.

Stephen and Diana wave, polishing air in perfect sync.

CHARLES
New toys?

SAM
Nine-eleven, you understand. Carrying?

Charles draws a gold-plated .357 Magnum with ivory grips
from a shoulder holster, displays it to Sam. The pistol
is engraved with an intricate serpent design. 

CHARLES
Never leave home without it. 

Sam raises his hands, denying any involvement.

SAM
I'd let you pass, Mr. Hunter, but it'd
make a hell of a racket if I did.

CHARLES
I'm already running late.

Charles checks the gold Rolex on his wrist. 

DIANA
I don't need to go in. Slip it to me on
the low-low. I'll wait out here for you.

Charles grimaces, breaks open the cylinder, empties the
cartridges into his palm, hands the pistol to Diana. He
starts to pocket the cartridges.

Sam cocks his head, raises a disapproving eyebrow.

Charles drops the cartridges into Diana's palm.

CHARLES
Promise me you won't shoot anybody. 

Diana wrinkles her brow, feigning hesitance.

SAM
She'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on her.

Diana holds the .357 next to Sam's .32 Police Special.

DIANA
Mine's bigger.

SAM
Mine's loaded.

Diana stows the pistol in her knapsack, settles down with
a book on a bench in the foyer.



TRUST DEPARTMENT

Charles and Stephen sign a thick legal document, as
Natalie and a TRUST OFFICER look on.



FOYER

Diana snaps her book shut, shoves it in her knapsack. 

Three masked GUNMEN burst in, armed with assault rifles. 

GUNMAN #2, beefy, Liverpool accent, pistol whips Sam,
secures his hands with zip ties, grabs his pistol. GUNMAN
#1 and GUNMAN #2 proceed to the lobby. The metal detector
BEEPS as they pass. 

GUNMAN #2 
Hit the floor and stay down. 

GUNMAN #1, slender, Cockney accent, tosses canvas sacks
to the TELLERS.

GUNMAN #1
Cash in the sacks. Bait money's fine, but
no dye packs. If anybody slips us a dye
pack, our friends will kill each of you,
your mothers and your dogs.

TELLER #1 fills a sack with currency as customers cower. 

GUNMAN #1 (CONT'D)
Toss your dye packs forward. I want at
least three from each of you. 

Teller #2 tosses a currency bundle to Gunman #1, who
flips through the bills to find the detonator charge.

GUNMAN #1 (CONT'D)
Let's see two more from your station.



FOYER

Diana inches open the zipper on her knapsack.

Gunman #3 shoots a look at her.

The .357 and cartridges lay in the open sack on her lap.
Diana pulls out a tissue and BLOWS her nose.

Gunman #3 glances at the doorway, turns to the lobby. 



LOBBY

The elevator PINGS. Gunman #2 spins around.

The doors open on Charles, Stephen and Natalie.

Gunman #2 raises his rifle.

Charles pushes Stephen away, reaches for his holster.

Gunman #2 fires. 

A BURST of automatic fire tears into Charles and Stephen.

Gunman #1 grabs Gunman #2 by the collar.

GUNMAN #1
Flaming poofter! Now it's murder one.

Gunman #1 grabs the bags, tosses one to Gunman #3.



FOYER

Gunman #3 moves to the door, scans the street outside.

Diana fumbles with the pistol and cartridges in her
knapsack.

Gunman #1 hurries out, points his rifle at Diana.

The knapsack slips off her lap. Her lip trembling, she
raises her hands in surrender, holding the pistol.

A cartridge falls from the open cylinder to the floor.

Gunman #1 takes the pistol from Diana.

GUNMAN #1
Nice piece, kid, but little girls
shouldn't play with guns.

DIANA
I'm not a kid and that's not a gun. For
your information, guns have smooth bores.

GUNMAN #1
Young ladies shouldn't play with pistols.

Gunman #1 slips the .357 into his pocket, hurries away.

DIANA
My dad will find you ... 



ELEVATOR

Natalie looks on dispassionately as Stephen, bleeding
profusely, clutches Charles's limp arm.

STEPHEN
Don't leave me, dad. I'm cold.

Stephen closes his eyes in death.

Diana runs toward the elevator in anguished disbelief.



INT. SIMPLE SIMON KARAOKE - WAREHOUSE - PRESENT

Warehouse and office employees in jeans and T-shirts
climb twelve-foot tall shelves to count and tag cartons
and stacks of DVDs, CDs and VHS tapes. 

A PERKY BLONDE on a rollaway stepladder, tugs a dusty
carton on the top shelf. It tears apart, spilling VHS
tapes onto a chunky STENOGRAPHER holding a clipboard. 

PERKY BLONDE
Ooops! Sorry. 

Perky Blonde tries to reassemble the torn carton. A
shower of dark pellets cascade onto the Stenographer.

PERKY BLONDE (CONT'D)
Eeeewwwe! Rat turds. 

Perky Blonde scurries down the ladder, cringing with
exaggerated disgust as a BURLY WAREHOUSEMAN LAUGHS.

RAYMOND SANTO (36), dark hair, dark eyes, guarded
expression, examines dusty tags taped to a sagging
mountain of dilapidated cartons in the far corner.

He lifts a tag, finds several yellowed tags underneath.

SIMON, short, stout and swarthy, chomping a burned-out
cigar butt between yellowed teeth, waddles over.

SIMON
You don't have to count those. The
numbers are the same as last year.

Raymond looks up from the inventory tags.

RAYMOND
And the year before. You haven't sold any
for at least five years.

SIMON
Yeah, well, VHS and audio cassettes
aren't moving like they used to.

RAYMOND
These aren't moving at all. You should
scrap them out and take the write-off. 

SIMON
Let's see the numbers before we decide if
we can afford to take the hit. 

RAYMOND
I've done the analysis. A million dollars
in obsolete inventory we can't sell. 

SIMON
Just value the damn inventory and leave
the operating decisions to me.

RAYMOND
That's easy. This crap is worthless. 

SIMON
Try this analysis on for size. If we
scrap them, we get two hundred thou from
the IRS, but we have to pay back five
hundred thou to the bank. Where's the
other three hundred thou coming from?

RAYMOND
I have to sign off on the valuation. My
integrity's on the line here. 

SIMON
Who do your work for, me or the bank?

RAYMOND
You aren't paying me to compromise my
professional ethics ...

Simon flings Raymond's clipboard across the floor,
narrowly missing Perky Blonde, who snaps her head.

SIMON 
Get your sanctimonious ass out of my
sight. If you won't sign off, I'll find
somebody who will. You're fired.



EXT. SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS - MORNING

A mule deer BUCK stands by a stream, sniffing the air.

Well-worn hiking boots slip silently through the brush.

The Buck lowers his head, laps water from the stream.

A backpack glides past an oak tree.

The Buck ambles along the stream.

A girl's tanned and toned leg in khaki shorts swings over
a fallen branch, freezes in mid-air.

A PACIFIC RATTLESNAKE slithers into the brush.

The hiking boot steps gingerly where the snake had lain.

An army boot stops along the path. Thick legs in
camouflage pants kneel. Deer tracks. Two overlapping
prints resembling inverted hearts split down the center. 

A second pair, partly obliterated by a hiking boot.

The camouflage trousers straighten, follow the tracks.

The Buck leaves the stream, heads for the trees.

DIANA HUNTER (16), reaches the stream as the Buck slips
between the trees. Her Eurasian features are exotic, yet
wholesome. She carries a wicked assault rifle mounted
with tactical sniper scope and noise suppressor. 

Diana moistens her fingertip and holds it to the breeze.
With a glance to the spot where the Buck disappeared, she
moves silently downstream, keeping to the rocks. 

ZACHARY (45), a huge guy in full camouflage gear and face
paint, holding a camouflaged compound bow, kneels by the
stream, picks up a pellet of deer scat. 

Crushing the pellet between thick fingers, he moves on.

Diana runs past tall pines, her steps BARELY AUDIBLE. 

The Buck grazes on a hillock, slightly above Diana.

Diana steadies herself against a thick trunk, aims. The
rifle fires with a barely audible POP.

An arrow whizzes past as the Buck slumps to his knees.

The arrow imbeds in the tree, inches from Diana's face.

Diana jerks away, sweeps the horizon with her scope.
Zachary comes into view, climbing to the fallen Buck.

Diana slings her rifle, wriggles the arrow from the tree.

Zachary kneels to examine the Buck, looks up at Diana.

DIANA
Looking for this?

Diana flings the arrow; it imbeds next to his foot.

ZACHARY
Careful!

DIANA
You're one to lecture, shooting without a
clear view behind your target.

ZACHARY
If you hadn't stolen my buck, the arrow
would have gone exactly where I aimed it.

DIANA
Like your name's tattooed on his butt?

ZACHARY
I stalked this beaut for two days, your
tracks only showed up this morning.

DIANA
Doesn't take me two days. But take the
deer. Hate to take food from your table. 

ZACHARY
Is that all you can see, a couple of
venison steaks for your next barbecue?
Look at that rack, sixteen points. 

DIANA
I eat what I kill, but that doesn't
include the antlers. Bon appetit. 

Diana walks away.

ZACHARY
I hunt the trophy, not the meat.

DIANA
You've got your trophy. 
(sotto voce)
After you mount it, go mount yourself. 



INT. FIRST NATIONAL BANK & TRUST - LOAN DEPARTMENT - DAY

CARL WINTER (60) leafs through financial statements,
shaking his head in disapproval. 

He returns the report to a marbled file folder, closes
the cover with a grim expression, carefully centers it on
the blotter of his antique mahogany desk. 

His carefully manicured fingertips drum on the binder.

Natalie Hunter (now 38) files a brightly painted nail,
looks up, surprised. 

NATALIE
Oh. Ready for me to sign?

Winter scratches his forehead, purses his lips solemnly.

Natalie regards him with a puzzled expression. 

WINTER
I'm sorry, Ms. Hunter. We cannot renew
your line of credit.

NATALIE
Don't be ridiculous. Like Charles used to
say, Hunter Firearms has banked here
since before the war ... the Civil War. 

WINTER
It is our hope you will continue to bank
with us for another century, but for the
moment you are seriously overextended. 

NATALIE
Our credit has always been Triple-A. 

WINTER
Hunter was always debt-free. In three
short years, you've exhausted your credit
lines, but you haven't built the
business. Where's the money gone?

Natalie stammers, hesitant, then takes the offensive.

NATALIE
We spent a lot to develop nonlethal
weapons, one of Diana's pet schemes, but
it didn't pan out. When I realized what
was happening, I pulled the plug, so she
can't drain our resources any longer.

Winter takes out a fountain pen, opens the folder.

WINTER
How much did you invest in new product
development?

Natalie falters.

NATALIE
I'd have to ask my bookkeeper. 

Winter grimaces, closes the folder, caps his pen.

WINTER
It's not like the old days. I have new
bosses in Chicago and Philadelphia who
care about nothing but the numbers. 

NATALIE
You're telling me I can't have the money?

Winter leans forward, speaks distinctly.

WINTER
Your loans are due in ten days.

NATALIE
I come here because we need two million
and you expect me to repay twelve?

Winter scowls, peeks inside the binder, presses his lips.

WINTER
It's not that serious. I'd be comfortable
with perhaps four million ... so you'd
only need to repay eight. 

NATALIE
You've seen our account ... 

Winter shakes his head sadly.

WINTER
Yes, I'm afraid I have.

NATALIE
If you just give me the two million, I
know I can turn things around ... 

Winter stares back, impassive, unflinching.

Natalie's composure crumbles.

WINTER
I can buy you some time, IF you bring in
a professional controller, a numbers guy. 



INT. UPSCALE COCKTAIL LOUNGE - EVENING

Raymond contemplates a glass of wine, somber, reflective.

MORRIS (50s), impeccably dressed, slides into the next
stool, signals the BARTENDER. 

MORRIS
How many does this make? 

Raymond shrugs.

RAYMOND
It's only my first. 

The Bartender serves Morris a martini. 

MORRIS
How many times have you gotten yourself
fired since leaving the firm?

RAYMOND
Five? Six? I never could count for shit. 

Morris takes a crisp hundred-dollar bill from an
alligator wallet, lays it on the bar. 

MORRIS
You're top of your class with numbers,
lousy with people. 

RAYMOND
Should I lie to the bank so some crook
can borrow money on worthless collateral?

MORRIS
Think some little old lady will bake you
cookies for sacrificing your career to
defend her penny saver account?

RAYMOND
Can't argue with fresh baked cookies.

MORRIS 
I got a call from Carl Winter at First
National. One of his clients is in urgent
need of a top numbers cruncher.

Raymond shrugs.

RAYMOND
What is it now? An idiot or a crook?

MORRIS
Two damsels in distress. 

RAYMOND
My red cape's at the cleaner's.

MORRIS
Ever hunt quail? Pheasant?

RAYMOND
Guy at the grocery shop does it for me.

MORRIS
Hunter Firearms. President was murdered
three years ago, shot with one of his own
assault rifles. Ownership passed to his
two daughters. The younger girl, sixteen,
is illegitimate. They don't get along.

RAYMOND 
You know how I feel about guns.

MORRIS
How do you feel about unemployment? I've
bent over backwards to help you because I
believe in you ... and I like you. 

RAYMOND
You owe me ... for Amdex Consolidated.

Morris downs his martini, grimaces.

MORRIS
We all owe you. But each time you get
fired, the firm gets a black eye for
recommending you. We've already lost two
clients, including Simple Simon Karaoke.
Ninety thousand a year in audit fees.

RAYMOND
I didn't know.

MORRIS
Winter persuaded Hunter to bring you on
as a consultant for two weeks at two
thousand a day. If you find a way to keep
the company out of bankruptcy, you can
write your own ticket.

RAYMOND
Slash overhead. Force all the old timers
into early retirement. Move production to
Mexico.

MORRIS 
Talk to Hunter. For your sake, I hope it
works out. If it doesn't, I don't want to
hear about it.

Morris walks away, leaving his change. Raymond picks out
a twenty, signals the bartender for another drink.



EXT. DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES - EVENING - 1998- FLASHBACK 

A marble and glass edifice reflects the setting sun in
darkened windows. Lights glow from top floor offices. 



INT. AMDEX CONSOLIDATED 

A spacious, but empty reception area, modern furnishings,
tastefully appointed with abstract paintings and
sculpture, business publications carefully arranged on
tables by comfortable chairs. 

A series of Japanese watercolors along a darkened hallway
lead to an executive office. Massive desk. Antique
furniture. Large interior windows overlook 



BOILERROOM - POV OFFICE

Raymond watches hundreds of TELEMARKETERS work at tiny
cubicles, reading sales pitches from computer screens
into their headsets. 

TELEMARKETER #1
Derivatives enable you to leverage your
investment ...

TELEMARKETER #2
Of course it's risky, but where else can
you earn a five hundred or even thousand
percent return in a few months? 



EXECUTIVE OFFICE

Raymond shakes his head, picks up a newspaper.

RAYMOND
Where else can you lose your entire
investment in a few days?



CONFERENCE ROOM

Raymond hands Morris THE WALL STREET JOURNAL. 

RAYMOND
Christ, what a clusterfuck.

MORRIS
That's no way to talk about our client.

RAYMOND
Them too, but I meant Russia. Yeltsin
finally devalued the rouble.

MORRIS
That's got to hurt.

RAYMOND
Didn't know you cared about the hard
working Russian peasants.

MORRIS
The peasants will survive, they always
do. I meant Amdex. They've invested a lot
in emerging markets, like Russia. 

Morris points vaguely at the end of the conference table. 

MORRIS (CONT'D)
Hand me that aged receivables report.

Raymond turns, rummages, turns back, puzzled.

RAYMOND
I don't see it. 

Morris sits frozen, his finger outstretched, clutches a
hand to his chest, slumps forward, falls to the floor.

RAYMOND (CONT'D)
Christ, Morris!

Raymond rolls Morris onto his back, tears his tie away,
presses a finger to his neck. 

He reaches onto the table, grabs a speaker for the
conference phone, drags the phone across the table.

Raymond attempts CPR with one hand, tugging at the cord
with the other. The speaker phone breaks loose from its
wall cord, slides over the edge of the table. 

Raymond catches it before it lands on Morris's face,
hurls it aside. Fumbles with his cell phone. No signal.

Raymond presses on Morris's chest six times, gives him
artificial respiration, races to the window, pounds on
the Plexiglas.

RAYMOND (CONT'D)
Somebody please. Call nine-one-one.