Take Down Page #2

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your guts overboard in the Persian Gulf...

- ...sir.

- How are you?

Who's the girl?

Rachel Hennie.

She's handling systems and comms.

Stig Hennie's daughter. Are you serious?

Trust me... she's a natural.

When it comes to the tough stuff,

she takes it in her stride.

Just a bunch of kids, right?

Sure you wanna go down that route?

Do whatever allows us to walk away clean.

It's business as usual, mate. I didn't

find God while you were doing time.

I'm glad to hear it.

So, who's paying for all this, then?

Let's just say someone with lots to lose.

When do we move?

When I get the call.

Rule five, Mr. Hartmann.

It's now 15 minutes after seven.

Sorry, I... fell asleep.

- I'm still on U.S. time.

- You're so full of sh*t.

Miss Tilton, please.

A little exercise should help

with that jetlag, Hartmann.

Are you serious?

None of your classmates

eat until you're done.

Outside.

Outside!

Right. Three reps, up and back.

Double time.

Ah-ah-ah...

one on each shoulder.

Off you pop.

Move it!

Come on, Hartmann. Get a move on.

And again.

Come on, you can do it.

Good.

Now you can take those ropes to

the storeroom next to the main building.

The sooner you're done,

the sooner we dine.

First impressions last, Mr. Hartmann.

Right.

Now that's over with...

Introductions, please.

I am James Thornton. Lexington, Kentucky.

Keiko Oshimoto. Tokyo, Japan.

Paloma Nava. Sao Paolo, Brazil.

Amy Tilton, Boston.

And the Hamptons,

where I was recently left for dead

by this cowardly piece of sh*t

who ran away.

I didn't run away.

I... I was out of it, okay?

- I hit my head. I...

- You left me. That's what happened.

That is not a good look, mate.

Leaving a damsel in distress

- ...while you take off like road runner.

- What do you know about me?

Oh, man. Relax.

I'm just messing with you.

I'm... I'm sure you had your reasons.

Yeah. Like being a f***ing p*ssy.

Alright, enough!

All of you.

I have a question for you.

What... common thread

do you think you all share?

I have nothing in common

with these people.

My threads are made of silk.

It doesn't matter what your panties

are made of, Your highness.

You're all spoiled. Emotionally neglected.

Seeking mindless stimulation through

technology, booze, drugs, sex, cars, cash.

You will only discover who you really are

if we take those things away.

But what... what if this is

who we really are? I mean...

Is this what you choose, Thornton?

To be the kind of man that drives his car

through the front window of a Starbucks

and puts an innocent child in hospital

'cause you're too busy texting

to watch where you're going.

Is that what's going to define who you are?

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