Hollow Point

by Robert Swartwood

  Louis says, “Take four steps back.”

  I take four steps back, my calves brushing up against the bed behind me.

  Louis waits a beat and then moves the Glock away from Jose’s head.

  Holstering the gun, Louis pushes Jose down the hallway, and I can hear the boy’s soft footsteps rapidly retreat.

  I decide when I kill Louis, he, like his boss, will suffer greatly.

  Louis doesn’t move from the doorway.

  I say, “This isn’t a striptease. Mind giving me some privacy?”

  Louis points up at the camera in the corner. Of course. In Neverland, privacy doesn’t exist.

  I ask, “So what’s on the docket for today?”

  Louis keeps watching me with his blank expression.

  “Ten minutes to get dressed and to eat. Don’t be a second late. Or else the boy will suffer for your insolence.”

  Before I can say anything, he shuts the door.

  I stand there for a beat, watching the space he occupied a moment ago, and then I shift my gaze up to the camera in the ceiling.

  My first impulse is to give it the finger, but I think about the collar around my neck and the zap I’d felt last night. I could handle another one of those, but then I think about how Jose or maybe another child—that girl from last night—might get zapped for the gesture instead.

  I haven’t been here long and already I’ve become conditioned. I can’t even begin to imagine what these children go through on a daily basis.

  As I turn away and drop the towel and start to get dressed, I decide that when I kill everybody at this place—the guards and freelancers and anybody else who’s had a hand in hurting these children—they’ll all suffer greatly.

  Thirty

  Louis leads me outside into the morning sunlight. The sky is clear, only a haze of clouds on the horizon, and it’s much easier to scan the area.

  Besides the three buildings and the shed sitting several hundred yards away against the rise of a hill, there isn’t much else. Everything is sort of tucked in at the bottom of the hill, like we’re in half a bowl.

  Last night there were guards roaming the grounds, but today they’re gone.

  “This way.”

  The man’s voice is flat, indifferent, and he walks ahead of me with no fear whatsoever, the fob in his hand, the Glock 17 in its holster.

  We head out into an open field. Four men wait beside a folding table and chair. I peg them as the same freelancers who had abducted me from the Marshals. They each wear sunglasses, Beretta nine-millimeters holstered to their hips. Earplugs hang from strings around their necks. They don’t speak as we approach, and as we near, I notice the sniper rifle laid out on the table, along with a box of ammunition and a pair of earplugs and binoculars.

  Louis stops beside the table and crosses his arms.

  “We didn’t know which was your dominant hand, so we got you a Nemesis Valkyrie. Are you familiar with it?”

  I nod, staring down at the ambidextrous bolt-action sniper rifle. The weapon has already been assembled and sits upright on its bipod.

  Louis says, “We opted for the twenty-inch barrel. Supplied you with more than enough 6.5 Creedmoor to show us whether or not you can complete this mission.”

  I nod again and step closer to the table. Each of the freelancers draws his Beretta as I reach for the rifle.

  I raise an eyebrow at them.

  “Relax, boys. How else am I supposed to fire this thing if I don’t touch it?”

  The men don’t answer. They don’t aim their pistols at me, though, and just keep them at their sides. Ready for anything.

  Louis clears his throat.

  “As you can see, the rifle is not loaded. We figured you would want to do that yourself.”

  The Valkyrie has a ten-round magazine. I open the box and start feeding the magazine cartridges.

  “What am I shooting at today?”

  Louis gestures at the field.

  “We’ve set up a dozen two-liter soda bottles, as well as a few smaller bottles, roughly one thousand feet away.”

  I insert the magazine and pick up the rifle, and that’s when the freelancers aim their Berettas at me. They’ve moved in a sort of V-point position—one to my left, one to my right, two behind me—so that if I were to try to take out one the rest would easily put me down.

  “Like I said, boys, relax.”

  The freelancers don’t look relaxed.

  Louis says, “They’re simply doing their jobs. Now, why don’t you do yours?”

  Ouch.

  “Where do you want me to set up?”

  Louis picks up the binoculars from the table, and points at the chair.

  “Use the table to rest the rifle.”

  I sit down on the chair and secure the plugs in my ears. Pull the rifle close to me, peer through the scope. I spot the soda bottles hiding in the grass at the other end of the field. They’ve been stripped of their labels and look to be filled with water.

  My finger touches the trigger.

  I take a deep breath, let it out. Take another breath … and squeeze the trigger as I release the breath.

  One of the two-liters explodes.

  Louis, now with plugs in his own ears, lowers the binoculars from his face and nods at me.

  “Again.”

  I pull back the bolt, which spits out the spent casing, and then aim at one of the smaller bottles. Squeeze the trigger again, and another bottle disappears.

  This is almost too easy.

  I pull back the bolt again, ready to keep shooting, when Louis shouts.

  “Wait!”

  I keep my finger on the trigger but don’t squeeze it. Wait a couple seconds, and when Louis remains silent, I lean back and look at him.

  Hayward is headed toward us. He wears chinos and a white button-down shirt and a Panama hat. Jose and his minder follow, the boy staring at the ground as he walks.

  When they reach us, Louis hands off the binoculars to his boss. Hayward peers through the binoculars at the field and then hands the binoculars back to Louis.

  “Not too bad, Ms. Lin. Of course, those are stationary targets. And there isn’t any pressure, is there? You have unlimited chances to hit these targets here, while when the time comes to hit your intended target, you will only get one chance.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, coach.”

  Hayward’s face colors. He glares at me for a beat, then glances down at Jose.

  “You have a soft spot for children, don’t you, Ms. Lin?”

  Jose stands motionless, keeping his face tilted down. It’s because I remember how he writhed in pain on the floor last night that I don’t say something smart to Hayward.

  Instead, I ask, “Who’s my target?”

  Hayward merely smiles.

  “All in due time, Ms. Lin. You’ll be a guest here at Neverland for at least another day. You and I will get to know each other better. Plus, you’ll be able to practice your target shooting. So far”—he gestures at the field—“you seem to be capable, but remember, when the real time comes, you will be under a great deal of pressure. After all, if you do not follow through and successfully eliminate the target, your family will die. Your mother and sister and brother-in-law and, most importantly, your nephews. You don’t want them to die, do you?”

  It’s a stupid question—obviously I don’t want them to die—but the man is playing with me, and because he calls the shots right now, I have no choice but to play along.

  “No.”

  “That’s right, Ms. Lin. Of course you don’t want them to die. And because I feel it’s in your best interest to practice under some pressure, I’ve brought Jose along to give you extra motivation.”

  I don’t like the sound of where this is going.

  Hayward smiles again.

  “I want you to shoot one of the smaller bottles. And if you miss, Jose will suffer.”

  Jose, still staring down at the ground, starts to tremble.

  I wet my lip
s and again think about how when I kill Hayward I’m going to make him suffer. Break some bones. Maybe gouge an eye. But right now that’s all just a distraction. I need to focus. Need to calm my nerves.

  So I turn back to the rifle. Reset the earplugs. Peer through the scope. Center on one of the smaller bottles standing in the grass. Touch my finger to the trigger. Take a breath, let it out. Take another breath—

  Louis kicks the table as I pull the trigger, and the shot goes wide.

  At once Jose cries out as he falls to the ground. I immediately push to my feet, but a sudden bolt of lightning courses through me, and I jerk and drop to one knee as Hayward simply stands there, his hands clasped in front of him, watching me.

  A couple seconds, that’s all it takes, and the lightning blinks out and all that’s left is a lingering pain, a shadow pain.

  Jose stops writhing on the ground, but he doesn’t get up.

  Hayward shakes his head at me, a disappointed father.

  “Turns out you’re not so great under pressure after all.”

  He waits for me to answer, and when I don’t give him one, he turns back to the boy.

  “Jose, stand up.”

  Jose quickly climbs to his feet.

  Hayward pats the boy once on the head, then smiles at me.

  “You see, when he first arrived at Neverland, Jose was a very defiant boy. He refused to listen to us, even with his collar. Typically the children we have here learn to follow directions in a short amount of time, but not Jose. He was quite a stubborn boy. But everybody has a breaking point.”

  “What do you do with the children?”

  Hayward regards me for a long time, thinking how he wants to answer, before he sighs.

  “I give them purpose, Ms. Lin. These children come from terrible places. In most instances, their mothers are searching for safety. We promise them that—we promise that safety—and then we use them whatever way we see fit. And no, before you jump to conclusions, we don’t sell their children off as sex slaves.”

  He pauses, and grins.

  “Well, most of them we don’t. What happens to the children once they leave here is no business of ours after a transaction has been completed. Most of these children end up in homes where they are used merely as indentured servants. They clean. They cook. Most of them have become so conditioned to do what they’re told that they no longer need the collars, but we always provide collars with each bill of sale. After all, we will sometimes have children like Jose here who are so defiant that they eventually build confidence again. It’s important for us to make certain once that confidence is stripped away it never returns.”

  Hayward gestures at the field.

  “Now, Ms. Lin, one of the smaller bottles. This time, Jose’s pain won’t stop until you accomplish your mission.”

  Jose yelps again as he drops to the ground, and I immediately turn back to the rifle.

  Peer through the scope, my finger on the trigger.

  But I can’t focus. I don’t want to prematurely fire off a round and miss the target because that will keep Jose’s pain going, but I don’t want to wait too long either.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  I squeeze the trigger. Watch the small soda bottle explode down at the other end of the field.

  “There! I did it!”

  I lean back, start to stand, but the freelancers each take a step forward, their pistols aimed at my head.

  Jose keeps writhing on the ground. Hayward takes the binoculars from Louis, stares through them for a beat, then lowers them.

  “Yes, it appears you did.”

  Jose keeps writhing.

  I shout, “Turn off the collar!”

  Hayward’s face tilts toward me, and his eyes narrow.

  “Do not tell me what to do, Ms. Lin.”

  I prepare myself for another zap—from the corner of my eye I can see Louis’s thumb on the fob—but before another spike of lightning hits, Carla appears by one of the buildings. She hurries toward us.

  Hayward turns away, and as soon as he does, Jose’s minder lowers the fob. Jose goes still. He’s crying now, sobbing into the ground, and I want to go to him, to somehow ease his pain, but the freelancers keep their Berettas aimed at me even though the rifle sits on the table untouched.

  When Carla joins us, Hayward asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “His schedule has changed. He’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  Hayward’s voice echoes across the field. His hands squeeze into fists. I’m worried that he’ll take his anger out on Jose again—maybe rip the fob from the minder, zap the boy himself—but then he steps toward Carla.

  “There must be some mistake.”

  Carla shakes her head.

  “I just received the call. It’s tomorrow.”

  Hayward turns to Louis, his jaw tight.

  “What are our options?”

  Louis chews his bottom lip, thinking it over.

  “It’s fourteen hours away, depending on traffic. If we leave now, we can make it there by midnight and get everything set up. It’ll be tight but doable.”

  Hayward thinks it over for a moment.

  “Do it. Tie her up and put her in the trunk.”

  Louis motions at the freelancers. One of them stays where he is, his pistol aimed at my head, while the others move forward to collect the rifle and box of ammunition.

  Hayward turns to me, a forced smile on his face.

  “It appears we don’t have much time together after all. What a shame, because I’m told the lobster tail is being delivered later today.”

  He steps closers, reaches out to tap the collar around my neck.

  “This will be staying on you. Louis will have the trigger. Your family is depending on your compliance. Do you understand me, Ms. Lin?”

  Suddenly feeling empty, I nod.

  Hayward glances at Carla before clearing his throat.

  “Now that you’ll be leaving here shortly, I suppose I might as well tell you your target. I believe you knew his son. You killed him last year, as a matter of fact.”

  Hayward grins as he sees the understanding cross my face.

  “That’s right, Ms. Lin. You’ll be assassinating Alejandro Cortez’s father. The President of Mexico.”

  Thirty-One

  Tina Davis didn’t know how long she’d been unhappy with her life, but in the past several weeks that unhappiness had morphed into loathing, and every day that passed—every day where she woke to Ryan’s alarm or one of the boys’ voices out in the hallway—she hated her life more and more.

  It wasn’t always like this, of course. She’d been happy once. And she knew it had nothing to do with her sister disappearing—almost a year ago now, come to think of it—or Ryan being laid off from his six-figure job about a month after Holly left.

  But it had started sometime after that, in the limbo period where Ryan searched nonstop for a job until he finally found one—only a couple months ago, a job that paid considerably less, but at least it had decent benefits, so there was that—and the unhappiness had started to settle in, and even though things were beginning to look up—or at the very least weren’t looking as dire—Tina just couldn’t shake the unhappiness, no matter how much she tried, until it started to snowball into that loathing and then, finally, hatred.

  It wasn’t like she was suicidal. Tina didn’t want to end her life; she simply hated it. The way you hate that one coworker who constantly gets on your nerves, just small stuff at first until that stuff is all you think about, and the more you think about it, the more you wonder how anybody could put up with the person until the day finally comes when you realize what had started out as simple dislike has turned into hate.

  “Mom? What time is Mrs. Holbrook picking us up?”

  Tina blinked. Realized she was standing at the sink, the faucet running. Lost again in her thoughts.

  Matthew tried again, his tone this time hesitant.
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  “Mom?”

  She shut off the water and turned around. Smiled down at her two sons at the kitchen table.

  They had their tablets open, propped on the table in front of them. It was the only time of day they were allowed to have their tablets at the table. At dinner it was No Tablet Time. Tina had even printed up signs with a tablet in a red circle and a slash across it, like the Ghostbusters logo. It hung on the fridge, a helpful reminder, though one time Matthew tore it down when he got detention at school and they’d taken away his tablet as a punishment.

  Both boys were watching her now, worried, their plates of pancakes half-eaten. For one crazy moment, Tina considered telling them she hated her life—she even started to open her mouth—and that was when Ryan tore into the kitchen like a tornado.

  “Sorry, in a rush.”

  His tie was draped around his neck, the first two buttons of his dress shirt open. He carried his briefcase in one hand, his cell phone in the other, and he ignored the plate she’d prepared for him as he hurried past, kissing each boy on the head, and pecked her on the cheek before pivoting away and heading for the side door.

  “See you when I get home.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, disappearing outside, and Tina was left feeling like she’d missed something, though in truth Ryan had been doing this more and more lately, staying up late because he couldn’t sleep and then getting up at the last minute and rushing out of the house.

  Tina knew she couldn’t blame him—the new job was running him ragged—but still she wondered how this would affect the boys later in life, whether or not they would understand and respect their father or resent him.

  Matthew said, “Mom?”

  She blinked again. Shifted her focus down to her son.

  “Yes?”

  “What time is Mrs. Holbrook picking us up?”

  Stacey Holbrook, a longtime family friend, had volunteered to take the boys to the zoo today, along with her son Kyle. Stacey invited Tina along too, but Tina had declined, making up some excuse why she couldn’t go—right now the reason evaded her—because she worried Stacey would sense Tina’s depression, and she didn’t want her friend to worry about her.