“English?” Andy asked again. He tried to control the tremor in his voice, but it was no use. He was more afraid of his body than these men.
Whippet approached, eyes blazing. A snarl creased his top lip, showcasing yellowing teeth that looked like fangs. “¡Cállate!” the man ordered. His voice was as coarse as sandpaper.
Up close, Andy could smell the cigarettes, and he saw the nicotine stains marking Whippet’s fingers.
“Please,” Andy said, croaking out the word. The moisture in his mouth had retreated like water in the desert heat.
He wanted to reach for the man, grab hold and fight the way his dad had taught him, but his arms were wrenched behind his back, and his hands lashed together with rope. Andy’s legs had gone numb from sitting. Or was something else causing him to lose the feeling in his feet, in his limbs?
The man got close and knelt before Andy. His penetrating gaze forced Andy to shut his eyes and look away. The smell of cigarettes overpowered his senses.
“Cállate,” the man said again, drawing out the command. It was clear he took pleasure in Andy’s suffering. Whippet stood and clamped a strong hand around Andy’s shoulder. Andy braced himself for the blow-a strike to the face, perhaps.
Instead, the classroom door swung open and two men entered: the one who called himself Fausto and the bull of a man who had guarded Andy before. Seeing Fausto, Whippet removed his hand from Andy’s shoulder. Fausto gave Whippet a displeased, hard stare. The look said that nobody was supposed to lay a hand on the hostages without his direct order.
Fausto came around behind Andy and undid the rope restraints. The relief was instant. Andy rubbed at his sore and aching wrists.
A second later, Andy had the oddest thought. Who undid the rope? Fausto? Efren? Whippet? When did it happen? One minute he was bound, and the next he was free. It all took place in blackout time. The gale forming inside him had blossomed into a hurricane and was moving past Category 1. Soon it would strengthen, and it would rage on until it swallowed him whole.
“I need food,” Andy said. “I’m diabetic and my blood sugar is getting low.”
“I need two hundred million dollars,” Fausto replied matter-of-factly. “We trade. Money for food. Deal?”
Andy recoiled at the sight of the man’s metal mouth, his bloodstained shirt, and the dried blood knotting his dark hair. Rippled with sinewy muscle and crowned with long, flowing hair, Fausto looked to Andy like a stallion that had trotted through a slaughterhouse.
“I told you, I don’t have your money.”
Fausto shook his head in exasperation and eyed Andy contemptuously. “Now I show you something.”
Andy expected to see a gun, but instead Fausto produced a Galaxy smartphone with a large screen display. Next, Andy heard the distinct sound of a video chat request. Fausto was calling somebody, but who? Andy rubbed at his sore wrists and peeled his sweat-soaked shirt from his skin. He loosened his tie. Efren stared coldly at Andy. He was imagining doing things-terrible things, Andy suspected.
The next sound Andy heard was the audio cue indicating somebody had answered Fausto’s call. A pleased expression overtook Fausto’s face. The killer’s smile could freeze the sun. Fausto pulled up a chair and sat facing Andy. Instead of cigarettes, Andy smelled cologne mixed with the coppery scent of blood. From the phone’s small speaker Andy heard indistinguishable noises.
“Ponte frente al teléfono. Quiero que el niño te vea la cara,” Fausto said.
Andy did not know what that meant, but Fausto repositioned his chair so they could both look at the phone’s display. A man’s face filled much of the screen. He had a broad forehead, wide and flat nose, and disturbed, deeply set eyes.
“This is my friend. I call him Odio. That means ‘hate’ in your language,” Fausto explained. “Odio, muéstrale al niño que están allí.”
The phone panned away from Odio’s face. The movement turned everything into a blur. But as the motion settled, Andy could make out the shape of a person-no, persons-tied to chairs, with gags in their mouths.
Andy recognized the boy right away, even with the blindfold that the boy wore. Gus. A classmate. A chum. The woman he didn’t know, but he assumed she was Gus’s mother. The man he’d never seen, though Andy knew he and his friends had robbed him of millions.
Javier Martinez.
Oh, God, what have we done? Andy thought. What have we done? It was supposed to be thrills mixed with a message. The Shire never meant to hurt anybody. It was a statement about society, about income inequality. Yes, they all enjoyed the rush of hacking-it was addicting, for sure-but they were also taking a stand for something important, much like the group Anonymous, which used the Internet for justice. Andy founded The Shire on those very principles. He had wanted to send a message, but not this one.
A choice, a terrible misbegotten choice, a break in protocol. Stealing more than the paltry sums the group’s charter allowed had spawned a nightmare that stretched far beyond the boundaries of the school. One woman might have been killed. Who she was, Andy couldn’t say. A cop? A teacher? He had seen a man bludgeoned to death before his eyes. Two others shot. Andy had no doubt more death was to come.
“Odio, muéstrales a Javier.”
The camera went to the man who could move only his head and see only darkness.
“Quítate la venda.”
The camera spun erratically, distorting the view until it eventually came to a stop. When it did, the blindfold had come off. Andy could see panic in Javier Martinez’s wide eyes. That seemed to please Fausto to no end.
“Busca un taladro.”
The camera jiggled again. A few seconds later, Odio held the camera out at arm’s length to show that he had in his possession a power drill.
“Good,” Fausto said, now directing his attention to Andy. “Let me explain something. I want to hurt you to get my money. But I’m afraid.” Fausto chuckled. “Let me explain-I’m not afraid of hurting you. My English, what can I do? I’m afraid you would die, and maybe it’s you who has the key.”
Andy’s ragged breathing made it hard to speak. “Don’t you think I’d give it to you if I had it?”
Fausto shrugged. “I do not know. Until I get the money, I must assume any of you could have it. So you have a chance right now to prevent this man-this man who you robbed-from suffering greatly. I don’t think you want to hear a man screaming. Do you?”
What did he just say? Andy’s world had slipped into the black again. He tried to recall the last few seconds, but they had been erased from time. His blood buzzed. Bit by bit, he felt himself weakening. It came in waves, and would keep lapping against him, until like a sand castle, the whole structure would collapse.
“Here’s the deal,” Fausto said. “Give me the money. And I don’t have Odio drill this man’s legs.”
Tears gathered in Andy’s lower eyelids, distorting his vision even more. “I don’t have it. Please don’t hurt anyone. Please. We didn’t mean for this to happen. We’d give it back to you if we could. Honest.”
Fausto shrugged again and looked somewhat annoyed. “‘Honest, ’” he said, chuckling. “We are all thieves, my friend.”
Fausto turned the phone so Odio could see him. He nodded. Then Fausto put the phone up to Andy’s face. Efren came around behind Andy. He grabbed the sides of Andy’s head and forced him to look at the phone. Whippet also came over and made sure Andy wouldn’t try to stand. Andy closed his eyes.
“Open your eyes,” Fausto said. “Or I will kill them all.”