by A. M. Hooper
“When I tell you to send the information, push enter,” Cephas directed my father. My dad didn't respond, just took a seat at the desk. Cephas walked to the glass windows and opened a set of blinds. He peered through the slits.
“Cephas, would you tell me what's going on?” I asked in a whining voice. He glanced momentarily in my direction, his eyes sky blue. He looked back through the glass.
“The game's back on. I'll explain everything when it's over.”
“But why can't you tell me now? Nobody else is in here.”
“Because. The less you know, the better. Then they can't torture anything out of you.”
“They're going to torture me?” I asked frantically.
“No,” Cephas said emphatically, rolling his eyes. He cleared the space between us with a few steps and knelt in front of me. I wasn’t in the mood to listen to his fake, soothing words, though. I hated it when Cephas rolled his eyes at me. Taking my hand in his, he looked directly at me.
“Everything's going to be fine. You just have to trust me.” I wrenched my hand out of his hold.
“Trust you?” I exclaimed. I could feel my blood pump quicker through my veins. I was already forgiving Cephas’ lies (in hope he might actually love me), but my fear took over and I lashed out at his painful choice of words.
“Trust you? You left us alone in that room with Dominic and other agents who could have killed us!”
“No, I didn't,” Cephas replied, sustaining his close proximity.
“What do you mean?”
“I can't explain, okay. You're just going to have to wait. I'm sorry.” I turned away from him and folded my arms.
“Sorry to interrupt,” my dad started, “but I don't think you fully understand this software. You can't actually transfer the money from this computer.”
“Just make sure you push enter when I say to,” Cephas replied coldly.
“But it won't—” my dad stopped at a banging on the door. Cephas walked over to the desk and pulled out his gun, cocking the hammer and holding it at his side. His shaven head made him seem even more serious than he already was. The door handle jiggled and I sat in my chair to have something to grip onto. A gun shot fired and I let out a small scream. The door swung open to reveal Dominic—and a rather ominous looking gun—with James in his wake. People screamed throughout the hallway, running away from the gunshot. Dominic walked slowly, threateningly, into the room. James closed the door and stood a few feet behind him.
“What are you doing, Cephas?” Dominic asked, the malice leaking out of his mouth.
“Nothing you won't know about in a few minutes.”
“Well, I want to know now,” he demanded in a hissing sort of whisper. “Why isn't Mr. Brickard at the machine?” His voice dared Cephas to defy him. Cephas only glared, his eyes shooting needles into Dominic's face.
“You're going to march through that door, Mr. Brickard in tow, and go transfer my money,” Dominic commanded, an ironic calmness emanating from his voice.
“No, we're not. We're going to transfer the funds right here,” Cephas stated. Dominic looked confused.
“Then the government will be able to track it.”
“No, they won't. I've got all your software on this lap top.”
“So you're going to transfer my money?” Dominic sounded confused and shocked. He didn't catch on very quickly.
“Yes, I am, but the money will go into different accounts than originally planned . . . and you won't be able to trace it,” Cephas gloated, a smirk pulling at the side of his mouth. Dominic pulled the hammer on his gun and looked over the bridge, making sure he had perfect aim at my forehead. My hands shot up in the air in an instant.
“Don't do it, or I'll kill your little pet over there.”
“Her? Please, Dominic, how long have you known me?” The words rolled of Cephas’ tongue without a pause or second thought. I felt like somebody stabbed my heart. I wanted to curl over and die. Cephas didn't care if I died! Or maybe he was bluffing. I could feel my breathing increase as I looked down the dark barrel of Dominic's nine millimeter gun. Cephas had to be bluffing, right? How could he not care whether I lived or died. The radio at Dominic's side sounded again.
“Go ahead,” Dominic responded into the speaker. He held his gun pointed at my face, eying casually down the sight.
“Sir, we've got Mrs. Brickard here. What do you want us to do with her?” My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach and I felt nauseous. How could Cephas have sent the men to my mother? What if she really was alive and they killed her again. I needed a bag or something—I was hyperventilating.
“You found her?” Dominic asked hurriedly, lowering his weapon. His voice lost its edge and he didn't sound quite as flustered anymore.
“Affirmative.”
“Good. Do you have a gun pointed at her head?” An evil smile crossed his face, and he regained his full stature. He smirked at my dad, who had stood from his chair, looking all but shocked at the news.
"My wife is dead," he put in, taking a step forward.
“We do now, sir," the fuzzy voice stated over the radio.
“Good job. Now, let's hear her voice . . . just for effect,” Dominic ordered. The radio went fuzzy and then it beeped.
“George? Emmaline?” a voice cracked over the speaker. My dad's eyes widened and I didn’t speak. I didn’t want to say anything that might endanger my mother’s life.
“Mom?” I finally whispered, barely believing what I heard. It had been over two years since . . . My dad was striding across the room. Guns from all angles lifted through the air to stop his motion. I gasped at his audacity, though in my mind I was right by his side. The clacking of pulled hammers shattered the hanging suspense and my father stopped dead in his tracks. My mother's voice came back over the radio.
“Just keep going with your plan,” she whimpered. “I don't care what they do to me.” She let out a short scream at a thumping noise and I couldn't help but scream in return.
“What are you doing to her!” I yelled, unable to restrain my anger anymore. My blood ran cold in my veins. Dominic laughed in a low, resounding chuckle.
“Nothing worse than what we're going to do to you—if your Daddy over there doesn't do what we need him to do.”
“Which is what?” I asked, determined to save my mother.
“Why, what he was originally brought here to do, my dear: transfer the money into the proper accounts.” He said it in quite a matter-of-fact tone. My dad was moving forward again.
“You leave my wife alone!” my dad yelled, shaking his finger wildly in the air.
“Or what?” Dominic asked.
“Or I'll transfer the money to the wrong accounts.”
“And if I do leave her alone, will you transfer the money to my previously designated accounts?”
“Don't do this, George,” Cephas interrupted. “Your wife will be fine,” he pleaded in an uncertain voice.
“How do you know that?” my dad argued back, his voice was strangely calm—like Dominic's. “I've been living without my wife for over two years, and now I find out she's alive! I'm not prepared to lose her again.” His eyes were jet black. I trembled myself, afraid of what my dad was capable of doing. Everything began flashing through my mind—how do you know your dad doesn’t speak French? Would you know if he did? I thought of all of his business trips, and all the times we discussed politics at the dinner table instead of my dad’s work or young adult life—what was my dad really capable of? I felt like I didn’t know anybody anymore! I realized that, in the next moment, I had no clue what my dad might do, or what my mom might sacrifice, or what Cephas might confess; everything was spinning wildly out of control, and I didn’t know what to do.
“I know, George, but you're going to have to trust me. Your wife will be just fine,” came Cephas’ calm, commanding voice.
“Actually, she won't. In fact, George is going to experience her death for the second time if he doesn't do exactly as I say,�
� Dominic corrected.
“George, if you don't transfer the money, I will,” Cephas threatened.
“You would kill my wife?” my dad asked, anger clouding over his eyes. His voice was accusing, negligent of Cephas’ objective.
“No. Your wife will be fine. And even if she won't be now, they'll kill her no matter what.” Cephas was inching toward my dad, holding his hands out in an athletic stance. “She'll be fine, Mr. Brickard.”
“You're not there! How do you know? Someone I love is about to die if I don't do something!” my dad shouted. “A gun's not pointed at someone you love!” Cephas glanced in my direction. He stared into my face and I saw the swirl of cerulean and turquoise in his eyes, the color reserved specifically for me. Our eyes locked and I felt that feeling again. I knew Cephas would do anything to save me, and nothing to endanger me. I had to trust him—he was all I had. Live or die, I had to help Cephas in taking down Dominic, or none of this would ever end.
“Maybe not, but it has been in the past,” Cephas replied, ripping his gaze from mine and glancing in my father's direction.
“How can you expect me to follow your plan rather than save my wife?” my dad asked helplessly. “I don't even know what you're planning!” He slumped in his chair, exhaustion weakening his nerve. My economics class flashed through my head. 'Can't you save all of it?' 'No, you have to choose.'
“Can somebody decide who's going to hand over the lap top?” Dominic asked, growing more impatient by the minute. “Or am I going to have to choose for you?” My dad hung his head; his fingers had turned white from gripping his chair so tightly. He stood resolutely and turned his attention to Cephas.
“I'm sorry,” he muttered.
“Mr. Brickard, don't do this,” Cephas warned, taking another step toward my dad.
“Or what?” my dad asked. “Are you gonna shoot me?”
“I'll do what I have to,” he replied, gritting his teeth. “Please don't make me do that.” His voice was definite as he aimed his gun at my dad.
“Don't make me do something drastic, Cephas,” my dad warned. He pulled a small hand gun from his side and aimed it at Cephas. Cephas’ eyes grew wide and he stabled his own gun with both hands.
“Dad, what are you doing?” I asked anxiously, standing from my seat for the first time. Doubt overwhelmed my mind and I felt dizzy. My dad was acting on emotion, and nothing every turned out right when you acted on emotions. At least Cephas had a plan . . . hopefully.
“Emmaline, stay out of this,” he warned, never removing his gaze from Cephas. “I'm going to do what I have to do.”
“You would choose one person over another?” I asked, exposing my vulnerability. My chin was quivering. “I—I know you're a better person than that.” My dad pulled back the hammer on his gun.
“I've been a better person in the past,” he replied. “But I've been screwed over too many times, and now I have to do what's best for my family.”
“Dad, please don't,” I begged. I felt a tear slide down my cheek.
“You prefer your mother to die?” he asked bitterly.
“Neither one has to die,” I argued calmly, attempting to soothe my father’s rage.
“Em, I know this is hard to understand, but you're just going to have to deal with it.”
“That's good advice,” Dominic added, leaning back against the wall. My dad glared at him.
“I'm sorry, it's just that this is all so entertaining. I don't even have to do anything.”
“How's that?” my dad asked, anger seething in his voice.
“If all goes well, you'll all just kill each other,” he replied.
The loudspeaker boomed through the room and everyone looked at the ceiling.
“And the Suns take the game! And what a game it was, Ted.”
“That's right, Beau. It got a little crazy there for a minute—” the voice faded out as the cheering increased amongst the crowd. Dominic stood up straight from his position against the wall.
“So you took care of the game, I guess?” Cephas asked innocently.
“Yes. And the Suns won.”
“Too bad the money's not going to be transferred to your gamblers' accounts,” Cephas replied smugly.
“Au contraire. You heard the man! Mr. Brickard is going to help us out after all.”
“No, he's not,” Cephas replied with force. He glared at my dad, then looked imploringly at me. I raised my eyebrows in defeat; there was nothing I could do.
“Mr. Brickard: if you would be so kind as to hand over the computer, we'll make sure everything gets taken care of.”
“Including my wife?” he asked, the gun trembling in his hands.
“Yes, yes, whatever you like,” he said, waving away his concern. My dad reached down to pick up the lap top. I heard a hammer click. Cephas straightened his aim.
“Cephas, no!” I screamed. “You can't—you wouldn't!”
“Shut up, Emmaline,” he demanded. His eyes were just slits, the anger shooting from his eyes.
“Excuse me?” I asked, indignant at his audacity. “Don't tell me what to do!” Cephas rolled his eyes.
“I'm holding a gun, and it's pointing at your dad's head. I think I can say whatever I want,” he spat, shifting his gaze to me. My dad took the opening. He grabbed the lap top and ran, clearing the ten feet across the room to Dominic. Cephas followed my gaze. He darted across the room to stop my dad, but didn't reach him in time. Dominic snatched the computer from my dad's hands and aimed his gun at his chest.
“Now sit on that chair!” he shouted. My dad looked shocked.
“What are you going to do?” my dad asked. An all too familiar devilish grin crossed Dominic's face and he handed the computer to James.
“I really would sit down, if I were you,” Dominic suggested. Pulling the radio from his side, he pushed the call button.
“Yes, sir?” a voice came over the radio. Dominic brought the radio slowly to his mouth.
“Kill her,” he instructed.
“No!” my dad shouted. He stood and took a step toward Dominic, but James pulled a gun out.
“Don't move,” he ordered in a thick English accent. My dad stopped and fell to his knees.
“Please, sir. Please,” he begged. “You still need me to transfer the money for you!”
“But the information is already on this computer. Plus, your daughter is still alive . . . for now.” Dominic held the radio out, releasing the call button so we could hear the other end. My mom's voice traveled over the radio waves.
“No, please!” she whimpered. “What do you want from me? Please don't kill me—” there was a pause, and then muffled crying. A whimper escaped my mother's mouth before a commotion broke through the air.
“No, no, no!” she exclaimed, and a shot fired. Dominic turned down the radio's volume and my dad collapsed onto the ground, cradling his face in his cupped hands. Any hope I may have had vanished when I saw my father crumple on the ground, his tuxedo wrinkling on the hard floor. He sobbed so much that his body shook violently. My body felt light, as if I was about to blow away. My limbs felt disconnected from my body and my head filled with fuzz. None of this was happening—it couldn’t be happening! And I had just stood there and let it happen. I hated myself—hated my stupid emotions, and my lack of gumption, hated my inability to act when I was need the most. My mother was dead—again—and I had let it happen.
Cephas stood in the middle of the room, still holding his gun, but aiming it at no one in particular. My feet were planted on the commercial carpet. I could my souls going numb from standing anxiously on the hard surface. Dominic smirked and buttoned his suit. His radio sounded again.
“Yes?” he answered, annoyed at the interruption.
“This is Thackar. The transfer is complete.” Dominic's grin grew wider and he pulled the radio back to his mouth.
“Excellent work, Thackar. I'll be there to see for myself.” Dominic turned and placed his hand on the doorknob. James kept his gun poi
nted at the three of us while Dominic walked out the door. He held the door open with his foot, the lap top in one hand his gun in the other. His long sideburns made his sallow, smug face appear even more sunken. Dominic's dastardly grin morphed onto James's face and he moved his gun in between the three of us.
“You're lucky you're still alive,” he gloated, kicking the door open and stepping backward over the threshold.
“So are you,” Cephas rebutted, his malice sneaking through the opening before the door slammed shut between them
CHAPTER 18
Cephas didn't waste any time. He walked across the room and picked up a bag.
“Let's go,” he ordered. I looked over at my dad, who still lay dejected on the durable, uncomfortable carpet.
“It's over!” my dad shouted angrily. “My wife is dead. What more can you do to my family!”
“Your wife's not dead,” Cephas stated calmly, zipping up his backpack.
“I've had it with your cocky, indifferent attitude!” my dad shouted. “What are you still fighting for? The money got transferred, my wife died, and we have nothing left.” The last words came out bitterly, his dejection transforming to hate. “Why do you have to torment us?” he whispered.
“It was a setup,” Cephas began. “Just like the first time we killed your wife. I ripped her out of your arms—remember? And then I shot the gun . . . your wife's a good actress,” he commented, swinging the back pack over his shoulders.
“But the money? How?” my dad stammered, shock clearly overtaking his emotions. My mother was alive? If I was left in the dark one more time I was going to punch something. Cephas was really pissing me off.
“Walk with me—I'll explain,” Cephas offered, slinging the bag over his shoulder. My dad nodded his head and Cephas glanced at me. “Coming?” he asked.
“Do I have a choice?” I asked, disgusted at his nonchalant demeanor toward the entire situation.
