Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I’ll allow a lot of things into my life, but allowing myself to turn into some type of jumpy fokker is not one.
“Mr. van den Berg,” I hear spoken politely by a voice I have come to know over the last thirty-six hours.
Looking to the side, we see him approach. The oke from the phone. The one with whom we have been communicating. He wears a smart three-piece suit. Wool and cashmere, by the sheen of it in the afternoon sunshine. Dark blue. His hair is brown and his eyes are blue. He’s thin. Clean-shaven. He dons circular, wire-frame eyeglasses.
In other words, the oke looks almost comically like a stereotypical Austrian bad guy from some movie crafted by an unimaginative filmmaker with a particular xenophobia for Austrians. Had he also a tiny moustache, trimmed to perfection, I might be inclined to believe that this has all been some elaborate joke designed as part of a hidden-camera show or some fokken thing.
I see Christine’s brow furrow out of the corner of my eye and I lean in to her to whisper, “Do you recognize him?”
Her brow furrows like she’s trying to recall something that does not want to be easily summoned. “Maybe?” she says. “I think… maybe?”
“Mr. van den Berg,” he says again, striding closer, his hand extended to shake. I do not reciprocate. Fokken obviously. He appears to take no umbrage to the snub and merely continues politely addressing us all. “Ms. Watson. Mr. Fortnight. Ms. Keene. Very good to see you once more. And welcome. I trust the accommodations were satisfactory?”
“Fuck you, bro,” Danny blurts out before I can say anything in response. There isn’t much I could offer that’s more appropriate than what Danny volunteered.
“What happens now?” I ask him after Danny’s justified retort settles.
“Now,” the comic book baddie says, “we will bring you to meet and discuss the terms for the return of the young Ms. Alexandria Watson.”
A cold chill rustles through all four of us. Bracing our flesh and rattling our bones.
I can hear Eliza’s breathing begin to accelerate in and out through her nose.
“Terms?” she asks, sharply.
“I recognize that sounds a bit… transactional,” the cartoon-come-to-life Austrian says, “but rest assured, we are confident all will be resolved to everyone’s best satisfaction.”
I have so many questions I want to ask. So many things that deserve answers. Who the fok are you? How long have you been watching us? What’s this all about? What the fok do you want? But if there’s one thing I have learned, it is to never allow anyone to know that you are uncertain or curious. One should always strive to project an air of unbothered disinterest and indifference. When people talk of others having a “magnetism,” it simply means that they don’t exude a thirsting neediness. And while I find myself parched and in desperate need of information right now, that is no one’s business but mine own. So…
“All right then, man,” I say to our new friend, “then let’s get about satisfying everyone.”
“Excellent,” he replies in his unrelentingly obsequious way. Then he gets an almost apologetic look about him and adds, “Do you mind if I please may collect whatever weaponry you might be concealing? I am sorry, but I’m sure you understand.”
“We aren’t carrying any, bru,” I tell him.
He looks at me skeptically. I don’t say anything more. I’m quite interested to see if this oke is the type who will ask questions. He stares at me. I can tell he wants to know why or confirm if I’m lying. I can tell he wants so badly to question me that it’s gnawing at him deep in his innards. The internal struggle to query me is painted on his face, giving him away. But, at the last, he simply says…
“Wonderful.” He’s been trained well. Someone has instructed him to behave in the same way I would have instructed him myself. “Then I shall escort you to your cars.”
“Cars?” I ask. “Plural?”
“Yes. You and Mr. Fortnight shall ride in the lead vehicle with myself and your driver, and Ms. Keene and Ms. Watson’s driver shall follow with them behind.”
“No fucking way,” Danny says. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fortnight. Perhaps I misrepresented the arrangement. It is not part of any negotiation. It is what is happening.”
I feel Danny start to move forward. I take him by the leather of his jacketed arm and pull him back. “That doesn’t work for us, man,” I tell the suited Austrian whose name I have decided could not possibly matter less. “We’ll not be coming with you if that’s our only option.”
He contorts his mouth in that way someone’s does when they’re trying to convey their regret at having to repeat bad news. “I am truly sorry, Mr. van den Berg, but, again, this is not a debatable point. For what it’s worth, there is nothing sinister about it. It is simply because there are four of you and, for your comfort and safety, we wish to transport you in the outlined manner. You are welcome to hold onto your mobile devices and are free to maintain contact with one another as much as you wish. I assure you, we did not go through the effort and expense of bringing you all here to do anything… unseemly… at this juncture.”