by A. M. Hooper
“Care to enlighten me?” I said, my mother's stubbornness coming out in my voice. He rolled his eyes.
“Okay, here's the deal. You roll with my plan for the next two hours until we get somewhere safe. Then I'll explain everything.” He raised his eyebrows, asking for my cooperation.
“Do you promise not to kill anyone?” I asked, folding my arms. I hadn't seen him kill anyone yet, but his reputation preceded him. He looked into my eyes, his face expressionless.
“Get on the bike,” he ordered, swinging his leg over the seat. I picked up my backpack that he had been carrying and slung it over my back. I sat behind him and held onto the seat.
“You might want to hold onto my waist, sweetheart. You're in for a wild ride.” I placed my hands tentatively around his waist, unwilling to allow myself any pleasure in it. I held my head away from his as he sparked some wires and gassed the engine. We lurched forward and the back tire squealed. The bike roared to life, speeding across the parking lot. I grasped his waist tighter and we pulled out onto the road.
“Where are we going?” I shouted.
“Don't worry about it,” he replied. “Just hang on!” He pushed the throttle and we moved even faster. We flew past cars at a rapid pace with the wind blowing in my face.
“Aren't we supposed to be wearing helmets on this thing?” I shouted over the noise of the motor.
“I didn't think you'd want me to steal those too. My mistake,” he shouted back. I could picture the left corner of his mouth twitching upward. Something whizzed by my head, and the motorcycle swerved to the right. I clutched tighter to Cephas’ waist, feeling the individual muscles in his abdomen flex as he leaned forward, pushing the throttle harder. Somebody was shooting at us! The bike jumped onto the sidewalk, veering in between a few people. This was ridiculous!
The motor drowned out all of the noise of the busy street we turned onto. We returned to the road, weaving in and out of traffic until we turned sharply into another parking lot. The bike slowed and we pulled behind a building. We got off of the bike and Cephas beckoned for me to follow. I stood from the bike and paused a moment, trying to regain my balance from all of the weaving through traffic. I took a deep breath and assessed my surrounding. A sign stated 'Grassy City Library' near the entrance. A nearly empty parking lot surrounded a one story building. Small glass windows lined the entrance to the small library. Cephas grabbed hold of my hand and pulled me into the back entrance. The silence in the library was shocking just now, and I dared not whisper. We walked hurriedly down the dark hall; floor to ceiling shelves lined the walls, packed with books. I cast my eyes up and down the aisles; I had never seen so many books in such a small space. I heard a click and turned toward Cephas. He pushed open a door and shoved me through.
“Just stay in here until I come and get you,” he commanded.
“I don't appreciate your demanding attitude," I stated firmly.
“I just need to buy us some time,” he said, his eyes cold. “Stay here.” He pulled my chin up to force my eyes to meet his. “Please?” he whispered. I rolled my eyes and he spun on his heels, pulling the door shut. I looked around to figure out my location: a janitor's closet. Metal shelves lined the walls and protruded into the middle of the room. The room was dark, except for an ill-covered window at the back of the closet. I walked toward the creases of light it provided and looked up. It was near the ceiling. I looked around for a stool and found an old crate. It was just tall enough to peer through the high window.
The small square of glass was covered with an old, cracking piece of wood. The cracks were too small to see through, so I pulled at the board. The old nails were loose, but I couldn't quite pull the wood free. I yanked on it. Without warning, a piece of the wood broke loose and I flew backward. My feet flew above my head and I landed with a thud on a pile of old rags—that was convenient. I stood up and dusted off my pants, retaking my perch. I could see through the window now. The small parking lot hosted a few cars, though it was deserted as far as people were concerned, albeit one man. It was the English man from the art gallery, I was sure of it. His long sideburns gave him away. Turning the knob clockwise on the antique window, I reeled the window open, just a little. A rush of street noise filled the tiny closet. The man turned on his heels and then smiled.
“Oh, Cephas, it's you. You gave me quite a fright,” he said in a lowered voice. Cephas held out his hand. What was he doing? The man took it, shaking it in a friendly manner. “Where's the hostage?” he asked.
“I lost her, a ways back,” came Cephas’ reply. The man eyed him suspiciously.
“Why didn't you call for help? That's protocol.”
“Yeah, well, this situation is a little different.”
“How's that?” he asked.
“We don't usually hold people hostage. We just kill them.”
“So what's the plan?” he asked, unwillingly allowing Cephas’ excuse.
“You head back to the safe house. I'll meet you there once I've found her.”
“But Cephas, I've got a tracker with me. She's somewhere near here.” My breath caught involuntarily in my throat. The noise was small, but the man noticed. I covered my mouth to prevent my making another noise. The Englishman turned slowly toward the window and narrowed his eyes. He took a step toward the window, which came to about his waist. The room must be half way in the basement. I tried to swallow, but my fear kept anything from going down. I tried to breathe as quietly as possible. His eyes were nearly staring right at me, though he didn't see my face.
“Look, James,” I heard Cephas start. James tore his piercing eyes from the window for a moment to look at Cephas. “I'm going to need some assistance when I bring her back to the house. Go get everything ready. Just hurry over there and I'll be back soon.” Cephas turned away from James, who simultaneously pulled a gun from his side.
“Don't move, Cephas.” Cephas stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. His eyes were gray.
“What are you doing, James?” he asked, warning in his voice.
“I saw you with her—on the bike. I saw you. Whose side are you on?” he demanded, the gun ever pointed at Cephas’ chest. His voice was nearly a whisper, though venom spewed from his mouth.
“James, go to the house. That's an order.” James took a step closer to Cephas.
“I have other orders: kill any and all traitors,” James responded, his voice cold like Cephas’. His finger pulled slightly on the gun's trigger and Cephas lunged forward. Grabbing James's right wrist, he punched him hard in the face. James reeled backward, his gun now in Cephas’ hand. Cephas pulled the gun apart and dropped it on the ground.
“Enough, James,” he hissed.
“Not even close,” James retorted, flying at Cephas. He swung a fist into Cephas’ face and plunged another into his stomach. Cephas leaned over and moaned in agony. James set his hands on Cephas’ bent shoulders and slammed his knee into Cephas’ face. Cephas flew backward and landed on the ground. James stalked toward him. I resisted the urge to scream.
“Idiot!” James shouted. “Choosing a stupid girl over Dominic. If I don't kill you, somebody else will. And all for a stupid girl—not even a woman!” His English accent made his comments all the more infuriating. I glared, though nobody could see my expression. Cephas stood from his crouched position on the asphalt. Determination crossed his face and he closed his mouth, gritting his teeth. Blood dripped from his left eye. His tongue moved over his broken lip as he took a few steps toward James.
“How long have you known me, James?” Cephas asked, slowly stepping closer to him. James stopped walking.
“Long enough to know your youthful mind takes advantage of your better judgment, and you won't kill me.” A devilish smile crossed his pale white face.
“Why wouldn't I?” Cephas asked, taking another step forward.
“Because you're soft. If only Dominic knew how truly incapable you really are.”
Cephas ran at James and slammed his fist into his
stomach, then let his other fist fly at his face with all the force he could summon. James fell over and Cephas grabbed him by the shirt. He beat his face over and over, blood spouting with each release of his fist. He pulled James to his feet and slammed him against the wall next to the window. I heard James’s head thud against the stucco. He moaned in pain. Cephas whispered something in his ear, but I didn't hear what he said. I watched as he unpinned James from the wall and stood him on the sidewalk. He tottered from side to side, and Cephas steadied him. He let him go and reeled his arm back. James wobbled backward, his eyes rolling back in his head. He wobbled forward, and Cephas released his left arm, James's head turning violently to one side before he crumpled to the ground. The terrible sound of skull meeting cement reached my ears. Blood pooled around James's head.
I gasped and jumped off of the crate. I walked toward the door, grabbing onto the metal shelves to aid my unstable feet. He killed him! Cephas killed him and I had watched him do it! I sank onto the floor and leaned against the brick wall. My arms instinctively wrapped around my knees and I felt a tear slip down my cheek.
The door swung open and Cephas appeared in its entrance. Shock must have overtaken my face, because Cephas’ softened and he shut the door behind him. He crouched down next to me and surrounded my body with his arms. My body went limp under his hold and I began crying softly. His thumb traced the line of my hair. I buried my face in his chest. Stifling my tears, I shut my eyes and concentrated on breathing. His arms around my back were sweating, reminding me of the scene I had witnessed just a moment ago. I tried to push it all away, to forget that Cephas was a trained killer. Rough hands ran through my hair.
“Is he dead?” I whispered, not really wanting to know the answer. Cephas bit his lower lip.
CHAPTER 13
“No,” he replied, his voice still cold, though warming a bit. “Em, I don't—” he paused, still running his hand through my hair. “There's something you should know. I never—” He lifted his head suddenly, shifting his attention to the open window. Sirens sounded in the distance. I heard them—how did he hear them so much sooner than I heard them?
“We have to go,” he stated flatly, releasing me and walking to a shelf. He grabbed a few rags and wiped off his hands. I stood still, unable to move, unable to think. Cephas picked up his bag and walked past me, opening the door. I was motionless. He turned around.
“Emma, we have to go,” he repeated, gesturing toward the door. I tried to move but I couldn't. My eyes traveled to his hands, up his arms, and to his face. There was so much blood. He nodded in understanding, then grabbed my hand. He pulled me out of the room, placing his arm around my shoulder.
“Just try not to draw attention to us for a moment.” He guided me down an isle and around the corner. A librarian walked past us and Cephas buried his face in my neck to hide the blood, pretending to whisper something into my ear.
“Laugh,” he whispered. I giggled systematically and the librarian looked away, pushing his glasses further up his nose. We continued down the hall. The tall book shelves disappeared and were replaced by filing cabinets. Cephas kept a firm hold around me. I had to walk quickly to keep up with his pace. A set of four tables sat in the center of the room. Cephas pulled out a chair and sat me down on the unforgiving, wooden seat.
“Wait here,” he demanded. I nodded obediently and watched as he walked to a filing cabinet a few feet away. He rifled through the files a moment and then returned to the table. Opening the file, he flipped quickly through the pages until he found a double folded paper. It was a map of some sort. He unfolded it and spread it flat on the tabletop. His mouth pulled the lid off of a sharpie and he began making marks on the paper.
“Shouldn't you make a copy to mark on?” I asked, holding onto the seat of the wooden chair. I nervously pulled my feet up onto the bar between the legs of the chair. He chuckled a little.
“What are you, a saint?” he muttered. I narrowed my eyes, not very entertained by his comment. He continued drawing on the map, marking an x here and a circle there. He tapped the marker against his chin.
“Stumped?” I asked.
“Hmm?” he glanced up, then smirked. He looked back to the paper. “Never.” I rolled my eyes, Cephas’ cocky attitude temporarily relieved the horrid scene from my thoughts. He folded up the map, stuffed it into his backpack, and then nodded his head toward the exit.
“Ready?” he asked. I stood and pushed the chair back into place.
“One day, somebody's gonna need that, and it won't be here, thanks to you,” I said, picking up my backpack and following him down the hall.
“I promise nobody will need this map,” he replied.
“How can you be so sure?” I questioned.
“Trust me,” he responded.
“What a line.” Cephas cast his eyes down and bit his lower lip. I shouldn't have said that. It hurt him—I could tell. Even though he was a murderer—and a liar—I felt awful for intentionally hurting anyone.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I didn't mean—”
“It's fine,” he said, finishing the conversation. “When we go outside, stay close to my side.”
“Why?” I asked, looking up at him. He glared at me, and I smiled in return. “Just kidding,” I said. He shook his head.
“And to think, James said you weren't a woman. You sure seem to fit the typical description,” he whispered before pushing open the door. My instinct bid my legs to quit moving, indignant at his sexist comment. Cephas was too quick, though. His hand wrapped quickly around my waist, pushing me outside. Walking out of a library is a strange experience. The transition between perfectly sustained silence to the uncontrollable noise of life can be very shocking to one's ears. Even the wind seems obnoxiously loud. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and shook my head to accustom my ears to what the librarian might consider obscene noises. Car engines revved as lights turned green, and more revved as lights turned yellow. We walked behind the building to where the motorcycle was parked. I watched Cephas fiddle with the wires until they sparked. The motorcycle came alive and I hopped on.
We rode down the street, passing hundreds of cars and small businesses until we got to the freeway. The trip seemed long, especially at eighty miles per hour on a bike with no helmet. My hair blew in the wind and my eyes began to water against the merciless dry air. We were leaving the city. Hills started to appear around us, grass and trees creating a light green blanket across the valley. The sun was beginning to move toward the mountains. I closed my eyes and relaxed my body against Cephas'.
My mind was racing with all that had happened, but his body was so warm and inviting. I nuzzled my face against his back and subconsciously began running my fingers along his stomach. I felt tension leave my body with each stroke. The lines in each muscle were easy to trace, and my breathing slowed. The slight vibration of the bike on the open freeway lulled my mind almost to sleep. I breathed in the scent of his cologne. A drop of water fell on my face, and my eyes fluttered open. Pulling my face away from its place of rest, my gaze rested on Cephas' shirt. A spot of blood glared at me from his shoulder. I shuddered, no longer detached from reality, and sat back in my seat just as the bike slowed at an off ramp. Exiting the freeway to an old highway, we traveled for a few minutes until the asphalt met a dirt road. We drove a little slower on the bumpy dirt and rocks.
“Where are we going?” I asked, disregarding his annoyance that was bound to follow.
“You've got a tracking device inside of you,” he began. “They can't be tracked underground, especially in mines. California is filled with underground mines and caverns. We'll be safe there for a little while.” I thought a moment.
“But won't they be able to track us to the mine, just not inside?” I asked, somewhat worried.
“Yes. So we don't have that much time. If, during pursuit, I don't report back every hour, on the hour, they'll send another group of agents after me for backup.”
“Pursuit of what?” I asked.
“You,” he stated, easing the bike up to a hole in the rocks. I peered into the dark entrance, unable to see more than two feet inside. Cephas flipped on the headlights and we began our journey into the dark cave. I wasn't sure why we needed the bike, especially if we were going at such a slow pace. The light illuminated part of the dreary walls, with their water dripping down the rocks. The tunnel seemed to go on forever, the dampness increasing as we drove deeper. I saw bats hanging from the ceiling and I shivered, unsure if the reaction was caused by them or the cold temperature. We seemed to journey relatively deep below the earth's surface. Cephas maneuvered the bike through another opening, pushing the bike along with his legs. The motor idled low as we inched into a cramped alcove. He shut off the engine and silence surrounded us. Cephas got off of the bike, leaving the headlights on. Unzipping his backpack, he pulled out the map he had stolen and spread it on the ground in front of us. We both crouched down and looked at the markings.
“All we have to do is set a stick here, here, and here, and connect a wire between these three points. If we light it from this alcove here, we should be able to get out of this hole here.” Cephas pointed to various marks he had made on the map.
“Should?” I asked, weary of his makeshift plan.
“Well, based on the air flow, this shaft should be clear of methane. I'm banking on methane aiding the explosion, but if it's in this shaft . . .” his voice trailed off.
“We might die?” I offered, smiling sarcastically at him. He touched my chin playfully.
“Not might—we would definitely die,” he replied.
“Does that scare you?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“You're not scared to die?”
“Are you?”
“Well, I don't know,” I responded, caught off guard by his question. “Then everything is—over, kind of.”
“It's been over for a long time,” he said, his voice cold once more, just like when he nearly killed James.
