Bang!
The gunshot would echo through the isolated corridors of the Beer Hall Inn in exactly forty-eight hours. But for now, silence reigned over the volcanic Hawaiian coast, broken only by the distant rumble of earth and sea.
A man collapsed, his life's blood seeping into the wooden floorboards as crimson as the wine that had once graced these very halls. Above him stood the killer, lips twisted in a grotesque smile of triumph.
"You thought you could expose my work?" the murderer laughed, voice dripping with malevolent satisfaction. "You fool! Knowledge belongs to those bold enough to seize it!"
Bang! Bang!
Two more shots rang out, ensuring silence would reign eternal over this cursed sanctuary of secrets.
48 Hours Prior
May 26th, 3:47 PM
Adolf Richter's hands trembled as he reread the letter for the dozenth time. The yellowed paper felt fragile between his fingers, like his carefully constructed new life might crumble at any moment.
"My dear students, I have discovered something extraordinary during my research sabbatical. Join me at the coordinates enclosed for a reunion that will change everything."
Fifteen years. Fifteen years since he'd last seen Professor Morrison's familiar handwriting, and now this impossible invitation had found him in his Swiss exile. The attached photograph showed six faces from their old chemistry class—five students surrounding their beloved mentor, all young and stupidly optimistic about the future.
If only they'd known what darkness awaited.
Adolf's phone buzzed. Deutsche Bank again. He'd been dodging their calls for three days now, ever since whispers of "embezzlement investigation" had started circulating. His fake Swiss identity had held up for three years, but how much longer before they connected him to the missing research funds?
"Come alone, and tell no one of this invitation. Time is of the essence. —Your devoted mentor, J.M."
Maybe Jack Morrison could help him disappear again. Maybe this "extraordinary discovery" was worth the risk.
The taxi driver honked impatiently outside his apartment. Adolf grabbed his emergency go-bag—the one he'd kept packed since fleeing Germany—and headed for the airport.
Beer Hall Inn, 8:30 PM
The inn perched on the volcanic shoreline like a monument to isolation. No neighbors for miles, no cell towers, just black rock and endless ocean. Perfect for a man running from his past.
"Welcome, Mr. Richter." The elderly innkeeper's smile seemed practiced. "You're the second to arrive. The others should be here within the hour."
Others? The letter had made it sound like a private meeting. Adolf's paranoia spiked—old habits from three years of hiding.
"Professor Morrison?" he asked casually.
"Hasn't arrived yet, sir. Your room is Whiskey—top of the stairs, second door."
The Whiskey room was absurdly luxurious for such a remote location. Hundred and fifty square meters of polished wood and leather, with eight bottles of various whiskeys arranged like shrine offerings. The bed's fabric actually smelled faintly of bourbon, as if the entire room had been soaked in alcohol.
Through his window, Adolf watched a second taxi approach. A tall, lean figure emerged—unmistakably Scandinavian posture, methodical movements. Jim Larsen. The Norwegian engineer who used to solve differential equations for fun and carry three different notebooks.
Twenty minutes later, a third arrival: Jean-Pierre Dubois, still broad-shouldered and quick-moving like the firefighter he'd become. His voice carried clearly through the thin walls as he argued with the taxi driver in rapid French.
Adolf's chest tightened. If Jim and Jean-Pierre were here, that meant...
Car doors slammed. Two more arrivals together. Adolf peered through his curtains and felt his blood turn to ice water.
Peterson Matthew and Peter Hoffman. The coffee-allergic accountant and the nervous lab assistant. Both of them had been in the chemistry lab the night of the accident. The night that had started Adolf's long slide toward disgrace and exile.
All five of us, Adolf realized. Everyone who was there that night fifteen years ago.
This wasn't a reunion. This was something else entirely.
10:15 PM - The Dining Hall
"Well, this is awkward." Peterson Matthew pushed his glasses up nervously, eyeing the coffee service with obvious longing. "Anyone else feeling like we're in some kind of mystery novel?"
Peter Hoffman giggled—that same high-pitched nervous laugh from their university days. "At least the rooms are nice! Mine's Martini-themed. Very... alcoholic."
"Tequila room," Jean-Pierre announced, dropping into a chair with characteristic drama. "The bottles are authentic Mexican, très expensive. Our host has good taste, whoever he is."
"Whoever he is?" Adolf kept his voice carefully neutral. "You mean Professor Morrison."
Jim looked up from the notebook where he'd been sketching room layouts. "Probability indicates Morrison selected this location for maximum isolation. No cellular signals, single access road, nearest neighbor approximately twelve kilometers distant." He paused. "Ideal for confidential discussions."
Or ideal for making people disappear, Adolf thought but didn't say.
"So where is the old man?" Jean-Pierre stretched like a cat. "I flew sixteen hours to get here. The least Jack could do is show up on time."
"Maybe he's conducting some kind of experiment," Peter suggested, wringing his hands. "You know how he was about dramatic reveals. Remember the time he made us solve that chemical puzzle before he'd explain the periodic table?"
Adolf remembered. He also remembered what had happened later that same semester, in the lab, after hours. The accident that wasn't quite an accident. The cover-up that had cost him everything.
"Did anyone else notice something odd about their invitation?" Peterson asked suddenly.
The room went quiet.
"Odd how?" Jim's pen hovered over his notebook.
Peterson pulled out his letter, handling it like evidence. "The handwriting. It's definitely Professor Morrison's, but... different somehow. Shaker. Like he was writing under stress."
Adolf's paranoia crystallized into certainty. "Let me see that."
They gathered around Peterson's letter, comparing it to their own copies. The signature was definitely Morrison's—the distinctive 'J' with its elaborate flourish, the way he always dotted his 'i's. But Peterson was right. The letters seemed more hurried, less controlled than the Morrison they remembered.
"Stress-induced handwriting variation," Jim noted clinically. "Indicates either advanced age, medical condition, or external pressure during composition."
"Or someone forced him to write these," Jean-Pierre said grimly.
The sulfurous wind rattled the windows, and somewhere in the distance, the volcanic earth rumbled like a sleeping giant turning over in its dreams.
Adolf felt the familiar weight of dread settling in his stomach. He'd spent three years running from his past, but it seemed the past had finally caught up with him.
All of them. Here. Together. In the middle of nowhere.
"Gentlemen," he said quietly, "I think we need to consider the possibility that Professor Morrison didn't invite us here at all."
The clock on the mantel chimed 10:30 PM. In less than ten hours, one of them would be dead.