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)
So, what are you willing to do, Alec? What are you prepared to do?
“Alec?” Christine’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
The van is now stopped and Christine, Danny, Eliza, and Russell are out, holding bags of weapons, and staring at me still sitting in the seat, gazing out the window.
Well. That’s embarrassing.
“Yeah?” I respond.
They look at me for another beat like I’m some kind of insane person.
“You good?” Danny asks.
I take a breath, furrow my brow, laugh a tiny laugh, nod my head, and says, “Aces, bru. Aces.” I pull myself out of the van, slide the door shut, and rub my hands together in the universal indication of all right, what now? before actually saying, “All right, what now?”
Danny eyes me for a moment, shares a glance with Christine and starts, “So—” before being cut off by Eliza.
“Alec?”
“Yes,” I reply.
She stares at me. Squints. Then shakes her head. “Nothing.” She turns to Danny, Christine, and Russell. “What’s the chance he doesn’t show up at all?”
Danny starts to answer, but before he can get the words out—
Ring. Ring.
He looks at his mobile. “I’d say about zero percent.” He answers the phone. “Yeah?” he says. “Yeah. Yeah, no shit. Did you actually think we’d just sit there waiting for you?” He pauses and we can hear his old business partner’s unintelligible brogue coming through the earpiece, punctuated by an occasional “feck” or “cocksucker.”
“Brasil, Brasil, Brasil, shut the fuck up and listen,” Danny advises into the phone. It seems to work because the Irishman quiets down. “Here’s what’s going to happen: You’re going to meet me on the Sam Thompson Bridge in Victoria Park in thirty minutes. You’re going to bring Theo and Andra Watson with you. And once we have them safely in our possession, we’ll tell you where you can find your cousins. And then we’ll all walk away without anyone else killing anyone else and you can go back to doing whatever the fuck you’re doing now and we’ll pretend none of this bullshit ever happened.”
There are any number of things wrong with this plan.
It’s inelegant.
It’s obvious.
It doesn’t address the whys and the wherefores.
It leaves open holes and questions and is the kind of thing that only the clumsiest of okes would ever suggest, as it leaves far too much to chance, is far too out in the open, and—while not the biggest concern—isn’t clever or charming at all.
But none of that is what’s striking me at the moment. What’s striking me is hearing Andra’s last name: Watson.
I mean, of course it is her name. She’s Eliza’s daughter, and why wouldn’t she be given the Watson family name? But still… even though I’ve just been sitting thinking about all the ways in which I’d be a kak father and how it’s for the best that the little one never even know of my existence, something about hearing her called Andra Watson brings into vivid clarity for me that I am all that is left of the van den Bergs. Once I am gone—whenever that day may come that I flee this mortal coil—the van den Berg name and legacy will be no more.
It causes me to feel sad and relieved all at once.
The incoherent brogue of the Irishman once again returns through the earpiece of Danny’s phone. Louder this time. Danny shouts back.
“Well, then you’d better fucking find two people who look exactly like them and bring them with you! Thirty minutes!” And he hangs up and faces us.
“Fuck’s going on, bruv?” asks Russell.
“He’s still claiming he doesn’t know what we’re talking about.”
“What’s his game?” Eliza questions with strained frustration.
“I don’t fuckin’ know,” says Danny. “But, y’know, I didn’t know he was a goddamn human trafficker either, so the guy is just full of mysteries.”
Brenden comes walking out of the new warehouse. Or possibly Charlie.
“Oi,” Brenden (or Charlie) says. “How we goin’?”
Russell responds, “We’re figuring it out.” Eliza eyes him with a withering annoyance. It seems to me that her anger no longer has a central repository, but is now aimed at all living beings equally and without prejudice. “How’re the lads?” he asks.
“Fine. Charlie gave ’em some Vicodin, so they’re quieter now.” (I knew it was probably Brenden.)
“All right,” I say, assuming command. Because, frankly, someone has to and this decision-by-committee experiment we’ve been trying out isn’t moving things along with any great expedience.
What are you willing to do, Alec van den Berg? What are you willing to do to break the cycle? To be what you claim you want to be? What is your sacrifice?
“Fortnight, I think I should go meet him alone.”
I say it as much to shut up the annoying voice inside my head as I do because I believe it to be the most appropriate course of action. And one need not be a fortune teller to know that my issuance of that directive was going to cause a bit of a kerfuffle.