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 lips 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
