by A. M. Hooper
A faint motor approached in the distance; it was above the mineshaft. I looked around but didn't see Cephas. The sound stopped at an idle, then revved and faded to where it had come from. It was going toward the entrance. I stood from my crouched position and looked around frantically for Cephas. What was taking so long? I folded up the map and shoved it in my backpack. I got on the back of the bike and waited a moment. Footsteps. A small light appeared down the tunnel to my left: Cephas’ flashlight! I slung the backpack over my shoulders and scooted back to allow him some room to mount the bike.
“Hurry, Cephas!” I whispered in a hurried tone.
“What, you're driving?” he whispered, lifting his foot between me and the handlebars.
“Oh, yeah right, like I could drive this thing.”
“Do you wanna try?” “Cephas, hurry!” I chastened, smirking as the words left my mouth. “They're coming!” I think he was actually enjoying this, as if he got a rush from near death.
“Oh, right, I forgot.” His voice was sarcastic and he smiled. After sparking the wires together, the engine roared and he pulled the bike to the edge of the alcove.
“You ready?” he asked, revving the engine a few times.
“For what? What are we going to do?” I asked.
“Did you look at the map?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, we put dynamite on the three x's. They're all major structural points for this side of the mine. We'll draw the agents down a tunnel and . . . well . . . the rest is a little complicated, but we'll get out and they won't.”
“Are you sure?” I was skeptical.
“Pretty sure,” he said, putting the bike into first gear. The motorcycle lunged forward, traveling instantly at what I considered much too quick a speed for a closed—down mine. I clung to Cephas’ waist, hugging my legs tightly against the seat. The headlights shone only a few feet in front of us, illuminating the gravel on the ground as the tires flung it every which way. We tore through the mine shaft, gaining speed each second. We turned right and stopped abruptly.
“What are we doing?” I asked in a hurried voice.
“Shh,” he quieted me. “They're coming.” I listened intently. After a moment, I heard the faint sound of a motor. Cephas edged the bike forward and shut off the lights. A light appeared at the top of the tunnel and I gasped.
“They're coming, Cephas,” I whispered. The fright was evident in my voice.
“You're quick,” he muttered.
“Shut up.” I rolled my eyes and let go of his waist.
“I wouldn't do that,” he muttered.
“Do what?” I asked, frustration rising in my voice.
“Let go.”
“Why not?” I asked, very annoyed. He revved the engine and flipped the lights on. In an instant we took off down the tunnel, cutting in front of the group of bikers that had just entered the tunnel. I let out a short scream and wrapped my arms tightly around his waist. I saw the left corner of his mouth twitch upward.
“I told you. Now will you quit asking so many questions and just do what I tell you to do?”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” I replied sarcastically, shouting to be heard over the bike's engine. Why was he always so full of himself? We flew down the tunnel, the agents right on our tail. It seemed like we were going deeper and deeper into the cave. I was beginning to think we weren't going to be able to get out. The other motorcycles were quickly closing the space between them and us.
“Do you trust me?” Cephas shouted as he increased his speed.
“Are you kidding!” I shouted back. “No way.”
“Good. There's a pack of matches in my left front pocket. Get them out.”
“Are you coming onto me?” I asked, smiling as I fished around in his pocket. Cephas shook his head in feigned exasperation.
“What do I do with these?” I asked. Cephas took a sharp turn to the left, bringing the bike to an abrupt halt.
“Get off,” he ordered.
“What? No!”
“Look—take the matches and light the end of that wick when this timer goes off.” He handed me a timer and put the bike into gear. “Wait for me. I'll be back.”
“But Cephas, I—”
“Can you do this for me? I promise I'll be back.” I paused a moment and bit my lip. “Emmaline. They're coming.” His voice was calm, but urgent at the same time. I ripped the timer out of his hand and glared. The engine revved and he was gone. His pursuers drove past me a few seconds later. I turned around, frantically searching for the wick. Shining my cell phone along the wall, I finally located the brace. I looked at the timer: twenty seconds. I started counting down the seconds in my head, not because I needed to, but because my nerves were going crazy. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen. I listened to the motors. They were coming back toward me. I opened the box and fumbled a match out of the container, spilling half the contents on the ground. I closed the box and struck a match on the side. It wouldn't light. I struck it again and it broke in half. I frantically opened the box again, pulling out another match—two, just in case. I shined the dim light on the timer. Six, five, four. I struck the match—no luck. I chucked the broken match and held the other one up in the air. Pull it together. I blew off the match: maybe dust was keeping it from lighting. Yeah, matches break from dust. I rolled my eyes at myself as I struck the match on the box. It lit! I moved it to the wick, but the flame blew out. I let out a frustrated sigh and grabbed a match from the ground. The bikes were getting closer. I could see the lights approaching. I hurriedly struck the match and held it to the wick. The timer started beeping, signaling the end of the allotted time. I waited a moment, the small fire heating my finger. I wanted to fling it out of my hand. Come on, stupid wick. Just light! Cephas pulled into the alcove and gravel spun beneath his tires. I looked up at him and threw the short match onto the ground.
“You didn't light it yet?” he asked, his wide eyes growing impossibly wider in the dim light.
“It won't light!” I argued, striking another match on the box.
“Well, do you have a lighter?”
“Yeah, Cephas. I have a lighter. That's why I'm sitting here burning my finger with matches.” I scowled and struck the match.
“Do you want me to do it?” he asked, looking over his shoulder. The match lit and I held it to the wick. Sparks ignited from the end of the dynamite.
“I did it!” I exclaimed.
“Is that all I have to do to get you excited? Let you light explosives?” Cephas taunted as I hopped on the back of the bike.
“Cephas, they're coming,” I said, pointing at the approaching headlights.
“Do you think we should go?” he asked.
“I don't know, how far ahead of them are you supposed to be?”
“Oh, we missed that point a few seconds ago. Somebody couldn't light the dynamite.”
“Shut up,” I commanded, holding onto his waist. “Do you think we ought to go sometime soon?”
“Yeah, we ought to,” he said casually, revving the engine. His eyes were alight with excitement
“Cephas!” I shouted. He let off the clutch and we tore off onto the trail. The back end of the bike jutted out in front of the other agents, cutting them off. The nearest bike spun violently in a circle and smashed against the mineshaft wall. I yelped at the noise and turned to face Cephas’ back, clinging tighter to his abdomen.
“Cephas, they—I—” I stammered, the anxiety evident in my voice. He ignored me and increased our speed, riding deeper still into the mine.
“Why haven't they shot at us yet?” I asked. They were within range and simply followed us.
“Dominic won't kill us; if they kill you, they have no pull with your dad. Besides his own life, that is. I'd wager, though, that with his wife and only daughter dead, he wouldn't care much about living,” he shouted, all the while maneuvering through the narrow trail. He took a sudden turn onto a different path that took us back in the direction from which we had
come. The bike accelerated to its original speed. I turned and saw the remaining agents following us up the new trail. They were a few minutes behind us. I faced the front and held on with all my might. The trail was taking us up and up, and I could see a light.
“Cephas! The end of the tunnel!”
“Yeah, let's see if we make it,” he muttered.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, feeling my anxiety climax.
“Well—” his voice broke off as a loud noise exploded behind us. I screamed and grabbed onto Cephas, causing him to swerve all over the narrow pathway.
“Chill out! It's supposed to happen!”
“It is?” I shouted, still freaking out.
“Yes,” he muttered, pulling my hand off his neck; that must have been difficult to do at the speed we were traveling. “Just not that soon.”
“What!” I screamed.
“Hang on, okay!” he shouted, attempting to be heard above another explosion. He pushed the gas even further and I attempted to suppress another scream. A new noise reached my ears. I looked behind me: rocks and dirt were falling from the ceiling, tumbling down the trail. A rather large boulder landed in front of one of the agents and his bike plowed into the rock, exploding on contact. I buried my face in Cephas’ back. The light was getting closer and closer. I heard one more explosion as we and the bike charged out the opening of the mine shaft. Soaring through the air, my voice cut off. I wasn't screaming anymore—I couldn't, in fact. It was like riding a really big roller coaster with an insane drop; the upward air is so forceful that you can't breathe, let alone scream. I got butterflies in my stomach as we fell down, down, down.
And then we landed.
The bike hit hard on the dirt, and I bounced against Cephas’ back, hitting my mouth on his shoulder. The bike skid across the gravel until it came to a stop, nearly tipped over on its side. I let myself fall off of the seat and Cephas followed. He kicked the bike away from us and lay on the ground. I looked up at the opening in the rock just in time to see the last of the explosion escape. The cave coughed a cloud of smoke into the air and the putrid smell quickly cascaded down toward us. The tumbling of rocks finally ceased and silence filled the air. I cleared my throat and shoved my feet against the bike, pushing myself away from it. My breathing was loud. I heard a low laugh beside me.
“Are you laughing?” I exclaimed. How could he find such humor when I found only terror in the same situation? “We almost died!” I sat up and glared at him, eyes wide with disbelief.
“We got out, didn't we?” he mumbled, lifting himself up to a standing position.
“Yeah,” I guffawed. “Barely.”
“Don't be such a girl,” he complained, offering his hand.
“You don't want me to be a girl, huh?” I asked, taking his hand and pushing myself up with my legs. “That would've thrown a wrench in your plans.” I smiled up at him and released his hand, dusting off my pants.
“Come on,” he said. “We've got less than an hour until the next search crew comes.”
CHAPTER 15
“So the people that you were supposed to kill aren't really dead . . . but nobody knows they're alive . . . and we're going to transfer Dominic's money from all of the gamblers into the not-dead people's accounts?” This plan was difficult to keep straight.
“Exactly,” Cephas replied, crouching on the sand a few feet away from me. He stared out across the ocean. The sky was a mix of fiery pink and docile purple. The light blue water was quickly darkening, its gentle waves lapping against the smooth sand. I put my head between my legs, holding it up with my palms. Moving my bare foot through the sand, I watched the dry dirt sifting between my freshly painted toenails. I had painted them right before going downstairs in the museum last night.
“So how are you going to communicate this to my dad? You didn't tell him yet, I'm assuming.”
“No, I didn’t have enough time,” he replied solemnly. “But that's not most important right now. We need to focus on how to break into the machine . . . and I've been trying to figure it out for two years.” His voice trailed off and he let himself fall to a sitting position. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he shook his head. I didn't know what to do.
Should I help him? Maybe if we couldn't break into the machine, they would let me go! Although, judging by their recent value of life, Cephas’ team would probably just kill me and my dad regardless of our assistance. I shuddered and switched my gaze to the horizon. I usually cried when somebody made me really upset, but I didn't feel much like crying right now. I wanted to scream. Blood began to rise to my heart through my veins, and I imagined I was in Cephas’ really fast car. The car sped across a long highway, no end in sight. The petal reached the floor, and I determinedly spun the steering wheel left. A slight breeze rustled my hair, then, bringing me out of my mind before I imagined the fatal crash. I squeezed my arms tightly around my knees. It was the only comfort available to me at the moment. Too bad I couldn't be driving Cephas’ car. I would speed away—then this would all be over. I would forget about Cephas . . . forever.
"Em, do you remember the first night I kissed you?" Cephas asked, interrupting my thoughts. I glanced at him, then fixed my site on the darkening sand between my legs.
"Vaguely," I lied. Why was he bringing this up? I think I heard him scoff, but I allowed him to continue.
"I started to tell you—to explain—I—" he stammered. His lips tightened together and he shook his head. "I started to say that high school basketball star was just my cover, but I couldn't finish. You blew it off, so I took the exit—I wanted to tell you so badly." His voice was very near a whisper.
"Why?" I asked flatly. I refused to let my emotion get the best of me ever again. Cephas ran his finger through the sand, though his eyes were on the horizon, the part where the ocean falls into the sky.
"What I said was true, Em. I fell in love with you." His voice trailed off and he wouldn't look at me. "I know I probably ruined any chance of reciprocation, but I just needed you to know that . . . it wasn't all a lie."
I didn't respond. What was I supposed to do? Throw myself into the arms of the man who killed my mother? He said he hadn't killed her, but when had he spoken truth? He had lied to me, and I wasn't sure I could ever love him again. At least, not out loud.
"Every time I almost kissed you, or you almost kissed me—I know you thought it was just playful banter. Some of it was, but Em— I knew that if I kissed you, even just once, everything would be over. You stole my heart, Em." He was looking at me now. I could feel those penetrating, mesmerizing eyes searing my heart.
"And the craziest part is—I don't want it back." He laughed, the way one laughs when trying not to cry. He said things so perfectly. So much so, in fact, that a response was virtually impossible. What was I supposed to say? Cephas, did you know you stole my heart, too? We're perfect for each other! Oh, too bad you're an assassin! I rubbed my temples with my pointer fingers, then ran my hand through my hair in frustration. My eyes widened and I let out an exasperated sigh. Gosh, I loved him. But it was so horrible, to love such a person. He was only a foot away from me, but I couldn't reach out and touch him. I couldn't even mutter his name. If I did, he would look at me, and then I might give into those persuasive eyes. I knew he wouldn't do anything harmful to me, and perhaps he was looking out for my safety. But I could never love the person who murdered my mother. I decided to change the subject.
"Tell me about your mom," I suggested quietly. Cephas eyed me sideways, cocking one eyebrow in skepticism.
"Okay," he began slowly. "Well, she was probably the greatest person that ever lived." A smile crossed his face that made me feel more comfortable.
"She was always looking out for me, always making sure I was taken care of. I keep thinking that maybe she left me a clue or something. Right after my dad died, she gave me that poem—the one I told you about on the bus.”
“Do you have a copy of it?” I asked. Rummaging in his pocket, Cephas handed
me a scrap of paper. I read over the lines of the poem. 'Asleep amid an anguished cry—' the writing looked frantically scribbled, like it had been written in a hurry. It definitely wasn't a woman's writing.
“But it's all in riddles, and it's all about the life of the apostle Peter. What does that have to do with me?”
“Doesn't your name mean Peter?” I asked. He shook his head and smirked.
“You don't catch on very quickly, do you?” he muttered. “That's not my real name.”
“I know,” I said, trying to hide my annoyance as I continued to read over the poem. “So why is your cover name Cephas?”
“My mom was very religious. While all the other parents read Cat in the Hat to their kids, my mom told me bible stories at bedtime. So, it only follows that my imagination included the characters from the bible. My favorite character was Peter.” He smiled at the memory, running his finger slowly along the sand beside him. He stared at the sand—just kept staring and staring. The picture in the sand expanded, his finger tracing line after line.
“What does the first line mean?” I began, interrupting his revere.
“Hmm?” he mumbled, drawing another line in the sand. “Oh, it's referring to the time when Peter slept through the Lord's suffering.” His finger stopped. He looked up at the line of the distant ocean.
“What is it, Cephas?”
“Well, I usually try to suppress these memories, but the night my dad died . . .” His voice trailed off. He stood and placed his hands on his hips, his manner very agitated. “Before they came in the house, I was asleep. I woke up to my mother crying . . .”
