The Making of 'The Condemned' Page #2

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where he blew up a clinic for retards

and handicapped people, killing dozens.

Women, children, blah, blah.

Do it right now. Get it to Bella.

I don't know who you are,

and I don't care.

But I don't play games.

You don't have to win...

but everybody plays.

Come on.

Hey, boss.

How about something to eat?

Oh, yeah. Husband and wife.

Lovers.

You know, you can stick together,

fight as a team...

but the fact of the matter is, only one

of you will get off the island alive.

Easy. Easy.

Easy.

Hope you can run your feet

as fast as you run your mouth.

Easy, Rosa.

Let's get out of here.

Okay. Listen up, gang.

On your ankle you all have a rig...

packed with 20 ounces

of plastic explosive.

Twenty ounces.

That's enough

to incinerate you, your dog...

and the small house you may be

residing in at the time.

In exactly 30 hours from now...

that plastic explosive

will do what it does best.

You want that rig

removed from your ankle...

simply be the sole survivor

in 30 hours from now.

There are two other ways

to detonate an ankle rig.

One:

You see that red pull tab?

Yank on that,

and after a 10-second delay...

boom.

Two:

Tamper with the rig, you mess with

the wires, you try and pick the lock...

instantly, without delay...

boom.

It's a very simple game.

Kill...

or die.

Choppers are coming.

Cons are on the way. We ready? Goldy?

What, are you kidding me?

Absolutely not.

- Bella?

- Yeah. I was born ready.

- Eddie?

- Good to go.

Bella, give me some

old-school rock and roll.

Goldy, our satellite gonna hold up?

Hey, no.

Bella, cue the music.

Eddie.

Take us live to the Web.

And each of you- dead.

Bite this.

Hey, gringo!

I'll look after your wife!

Okay. Give me 182-B.

That's genius, Goldy.

I tell you, man.

You're the best.

Say that again.

I'll be waiting for

your ass in the bush!

It's going to be a festa!

Breakfast, lunch and dinner!

Okay. You're up. Let's go.

Open up! Open your mouth!

I said open your mouth!

Put that in your mouth!

Get out of here.

- Oops.

- Oops?

That's no "oops."

That's a fuckup times 10.

Give me this.

Hey, idiots. Watch where

you're tossing these guys.

I got a f***ing show to put on.

Open up.

Open your mouth.

Come on.

Open your f***in' mouth.

- Goddamn it!

- He never saw that coming.

You dumb son of a b*tch!

Eddie, talk to me.

We got 'em all in a nice little cluster

on the south end of the island.

- Good.

- It's only a matter of time.

- Breck.

- Action. We got action.

Get me in there.

Bella, give me some music.

All right. What have we got?

We're on 23, 24, 31... all good angles.

We're on 23 now.

This is hard-f***ing-core, man!

That's gotta hurt.

She's pulled it.

She's pulled it.

Sweet!

- That's what I'm talking about, people.

- Nice. Very nice.

Go to 112.

Right! Oh, bam! Five million!

- Listen up. People. Breck.

- What?

Five million users

have just logged on to the site.

Okay. Well, that's a start.

That's a start?

Well, what are you after?

You know how many households

watch the Super Bowl?

- Yeah, like 40 million.

- Right. That's what I'm after.

- Well, that's impossible.

- Yeah, really?

You wait till the blogs and chat rooms...

start hyping the fact that this

right-wing dirtbag just got wasted live...

by a hot African chick

with a nice rack.

Trust me, Goldy.

The Internet... it's wildfire.

Good work.

You trackin' me?

Are you following me?

No, ese.

Partner, you can move on

or things are gonna get a little rough.

Easy, ese.

I'm looking for my wife.

That's all I want.

My Rosa.

Gringo, try this.

This sh*t is f***ed up.

Now that's what I'm talkin' about.

- What's your coverage here?

- Cluster-cam set.

Got three additional cameras

in this location.

Let's spice it up then, huh?

Slice and dice.

Yeah. I'm slicing and dicing.

Do I tell you how to do your job?

Thanks.

Calm down, homey.

Get down.

- Nice.

- I love this Japanese dude.

Come on. Who's your money on?

Who do you like?

Guys, could you please go back to your space,

'cause this is kind of like my space.

Come on, nigga.

Motherf***er!

Lovely day, don't you think?

No, you settle down, son.

Bit lively this morning,

ain't we, tiger?

I saw you fight the spade.

Pretty ballsy for

a little geezer, isn't ya?

The way I see it...

you and me clear some of this scum up

on the island.

Together. A team.

Alliance. You and me.

You understand?

You want these?

They look better on you.

Hold on right there, big man.

Slow down.

Just slow down.

If you stay down,

we don't have a problem.

We have a big f***in' problem.

Hey, Breck.

Something's going down.

I got two cons right on top

of each other.

It's Conrad and the big dude.

Goldy, what are you, blind?

- What?

- Get this screen up on the live feed.

- Okay. I got it right here.

- Music, Bella. Music.

Now, Bella.

Okay. We're on 202 now.

Zoom in.

Hold on a minute!

- Hey, Breck.

- Yeah.

Twelve million.

We just hit 12 million subscribers

online right now.

Hey. You hear that, Goldy?

Twelve million.

Yeah. Well, 12 million

still isn't 40 million.

- Still ain't no Super Bowl.

- Not yet.

Bella, Eddie, replay that fall in super slo-mo

until we get something better.

Ian Breckel. Where is he?

What do we know?

He could be streaming the data

to a server from almost anywhere.

I've contacted Interpol.

They're collecting information

from agencies all over the world.

The island is somewhere

in the South Pacific.

I got World War II historians

and regional experts...

examining the images from the Web site.

Between Indonesia and New Guinea

there are, like, 2,000 tiny islands.

Needle in a haystack.

Ten prisoners in this thing.

Two of them are American.

One is Kreston Mackie.

African-American.

He escaped incarceration... 2002.

Ironically, two years later,

ends up on death row in Malaysia.

- What about the other guy?

- I can't find a thing.

It's like he doesn't exist.

I just got a tip on the hotline

about the American, Jack Conrad.

Shoot.

The guy who recognized him on the Internet

says they went to high school together...

only he says

his real name's Jack Riley.

US Army, retired.

Until a year ago, he was living in Texas.

Then he disappeared.

Vanished.

Family, friends...

no one's heard from him since.

He had a girlfriend

named Sarah Cavanaugh.

Divorced, two kids,

works as a waitress.

Gimme the ball!

- Got ya.

- Let go of me!

- No, you!

- Mikey.

Off your brother.

- You two get yourselves cleaned up.

- Hey, come back here!

Dinner in 30.

Hello?

Sarah Cavanaugh?

Yes.

This is Special Agent Wilkins

of the FBI.

I need to ask you a few questions

about Jack Riley.

Hey. You're early.

Mike, can I get on your computer?

- Sure.

- You got high-speed, right?

- Why? What is it?

- It's Jack.

Come on. Come on.

- What's goin' on?

- It's loading.

What do you see? Come on.

What is it?

They want my credit card.

- Okay.

- What you got?

Jack.

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