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Eric moved stealthily through the crowds, clutching his phone and his columnar tighter to his chest. He kept a safe distance between himself and the library walls in fear of the exchange of bullets happening inside. He wondered how his roommate was doing there. Had he been shot? Did he turn into a killer?
As he turned to the alley where the side entrance was, he spotted an unfamiliar person walking towards him. A girl with dark elbow-length curls sported a tank top and shorts, under a lacy blue vest and an elegant sidebag. She stopped in front of him.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
How does it feel like when a stranger asks you where you're going? Eric's mind was blank. She was around his age, fifteen or fourteen maybe, but her innocent orange eyes suggested she was even younger. He hesitated before replying, "Umm . . . are you lost?"
She struck a pose by placing a hand on her hip. "I asked you the question first. My parents are shooting down some terrorists there, and I'm bored as hell. You're from here, aren't you?"
Her parents were police officers? "Well, in a way . . ."
"Don't tell me you're going in there," she said, jerking her head towards the building.
"I think I am. Well, I hope I don't have to. I mean―"
A small smile flitted between her lips. "Trying to be noble?"
As the course of this conversation with a stranger had taken a darker turn, Eric gripped his columnar tighter. This girl had obviously struck gold.
"I can help you with that," she grinned mischievously. Her fingers spun and produced a phone, casually hidden within her hand. "I have connections."
"I don't even know you."
She rolled her eyes. "Kylie Benedict. The detectives' daughter. And I'm bored as hell, that's why I'm helping you."
"How do you know I'm not a terrorist?" Eric challenged. "The kids holding other kids hostage are my classmates, you know."
"'Coz you're carrying that thing," she said, pointing to the columnar. "And your face says it all. I know an innocent when I see one. Now, do you want me to help you or not?"
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"I knew those Trainees would fail at one point."
The detective man had told them that the terrorists/fraternity/cult had occupied the third floor where some of the original texts were found. Which probably left the second-floor fire exit hopefully unguarded. The detectives and their team would cause a distraction, while she and Rachel would slip out unnoticed.
'Oh and don't worry, we'll be using a lot of dust bombs and blank bullets to intimidate them. We don't want blood on our hands, do we? And if the youngsters fight back, well . . . we'll deal with them soon enough. But we won't kill them. Yet.'
That was the plan.
Hailey wondered where things came out wrong.
The second floor was where the college and senior-year students usually worked. It consisted of rows upon rows of regularly-spaced bookshelves, beanbags in one corner, couches in another, and a cluster of long tables in the middle. The fire exit was at the farthest wall.
The floor had appeared deserted when she and Rachel approached. Therefore, they did not expect someone to be waiting for them at their destination.
And so they arrived at their current situation.
"I know how it feels, staying with those Trainees." Mr Terrorist was relaxing on a beanbag, with arms thrown over his head and his legs crossed as his thugs stood guard over the door. "Overexcited cubs, aren't they? Ready and hungry for their first kill."
"Aren't you gonna put us back there?" Rachel asked, but Hailey saw she was daring. Her voice quivered a little as she spoke, the recognition of which had nothing to do with their five years of separation. They sat across each other against opposite bookshelves.
"D'you wanna?" he questioned again. Hailey noted Mr Terrorist's dark complexion, well-built features, dark brown hair and dark eyes. A nondescript black American, almost to the point when he could blend in with the crowd. Eyes could glance over him for a full minute and still end up forgetting his face, the perfect terrorist. "You're probably bored down there, are you? Trainees bore me to death too, ya know. Always talking about how good they are and what they wanna do once they get ranks."
"Ranks?" Hailey tried to stir up a conversation. She figured that if they were destined to die today, in the hands of a random guy who just happened to have detained them; it would be at least a consolation if it was delayed even just for a few minutes. "What kind of ranks?"
"Oh you know, the usual: newbie, training, master, test, work. The kids below are just in training."
"What kind of training?"
Mr Terrorist gave Hailey a curious glance. Their eyes met, and Hailey thought he recognized him.
"D'you really wanna know?" he inquired. "Tell me something first."
She kept silent.
"Of all places you could go through―there's a fire exit at the ground floor, a main entrance, plus a lot of secret passageways you probably know about―how d'heck did you decide on going for the second floor? Were you gonna . . . get something? Perhaps, a certain book?"
So this is how you want it played, Hailey thought. You're really determined to find that soul-exchange book, aren't you? She suddenly remembered that last moment of normality, when she had resolved to set aside the bitter memories that came with Rachel's sudden arrival. At the present moment, she realized that the decision had just been broken.
She remembered listening to her mom's endless rants about 'budget cuts' and having to 'cut down computer use because our electricity bill's too high'. She remembered hearing her dad talk about how their mother should get a job because his salary simply wasn't enough. She remembered the kitchen battle, which had completely driven the stake between her parents and her relationship with her sister as well.
But most of all, she remembered keeping silent.
As she grew up with only her dad for company, silence had always been her trump card. She was denied contact with her sister, and he never wanted to talk about his wife. Don't butt in if it doesn't concern you. Think before you speak. People are watching, watch your every word. Her life had always revolved around those lines. Sometimes she would break down into depression with 'voicelessness' among her peers at school, but then she ended up not caring at all about it the next day. She became that 'other-girl', a student who rarely spoke, and when she did, it was in retort.
Hailey decided that it was best to use her trump card once more.
"Why did you choose this place?" Mr Terrorist demanded. "Do you know where the book is?"
"This is a library, is it not? Where else can you find more books than here?"
"Um, Hail . . ." Rachel poked her sister with a bound foot. "I don't think―"
Mr Terrorist silenced her with a glare. "I applaud your guts, young woman, but I don't think we'll be getting anywhere with this kind of approach." He had already stood from the beanbag and was now glowering at the siblings' helpless forms. "As much as I wanna have a little more chat with you two, I still think you're just as useless as the other―"
His words were cut off by the sound of quick footsteps bouncing off the hollow room. Hailey recognized the two guys and one girl as those who had been holding the students hostage.
"The detectives have broken in!" The first guy cried. He had on mirrored glasses and a gray bonnet, and was looking kind of bored despite the situation. The other two held guns loosely at their sides, looking tired and dishevelled.
"It's enemy bishops, you good-for-nothing Trainee," Mr Terrorist glared. "Mind your f***ing words."
"S-sorry . . . "
"How did these two get in here?" the girl demanded. "I thought Sim and Sid had the hostages detained."
"Because," he said, jerking a finger toward Hailey, "these here know something about what we're looking for."
The other dude, a blonde, raked his hands through his hair in exasperation. "I thought we had a highly-trained team of Rooks up there, turning the place upside-down. What the hell happened to the plans?"
If an angry black American drawing himself to full height was intimidating, then Mr Terrorist was a sight to see. He scowled at the blonde. "Then can you explain it yourself, young Trainee, why these two had slipped from your very fingers to go to this very floor?"
Hailey heard the bonnet guy mutter something about "―to escape."
"What did you say, Trainee?"
He stiffened like a child caught in the act of stealing candy. He began to sweat feverishly.
"Whispers are not allowed in the cult," Mr Terrorist reminded sharply. "Spit or you'll regret."
"I-I-I was th-thinking that . . . she knows about the book, right?" He pointed a shaking hand at Hailey, who soon realized where this conversation was heading off too. "Maybe we could―like, make her tell us where it is?"
Mr Terrorist's expression was as if he understood. "Forced confession . . . I like your thinking, Trainee."
He gave a sigh as Hailey's heartbeat quickened.
"Would you like to do the honors?"
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Instead of giving it to Philster, the more experienced one, the more confident one, Big Joe had handed the gun to Nick, who could barely stand on his jelly-turned feet.
Christen held the kneeling redhead by her hair as he pointed the cold metal against her forehead. Her face was blank―undecided―as Big Joe held (as Nick assumed) her sister and (he realized) his classmate, Hailey Dawson. From beneath his mirrored glasses, he stared into the redhead's pleading blue eyes.
I wish I could do something.
I can't save you right now.
There's nothing I could do.
Not now.
Not ever.
I'm sorry.
Silently, repeatedly, furiously, Nick wished he could remove his glasses and plead for the girl's forgiveness. But Big Joe was already drilling Hailey with a single question.
"WHERE'S THE BOOK?" he screamed in her face. Hailey was already panicking, glancing between the redhead and at Nick, at the gun then back at the man. The redhead had closed her eyes and seemed to be praying.
"How the hell should I know. . ." she whispered, kneeling on her bound feet with her hands tied to the back. "You're the terrorist; shouldn't you know what you're looking for?"
Philster jabbed the butt of his gun into the back of her head. "We're asking the questions here, girlie. Confess, or she dies."
They had already spent roughly half an hour in this situation.
By the present moment, pools of cold sweat had formed on his hands.
He imagined swinging this gun around and shooting Big Joe in the head. Two more bullets and two would be deducted from their squadron. Another two or four and the thugs would be out as well. Then he'd grab Hailey and her redhead sister and jump out this fire exit. That would be his happy ending.
If only he could do that, he could finally continue his life in peace.
No, not peace. He never should have joined this fraternity in the first place. He never should have let himself be placed in this situation. If―and it was a big if―he did manage to get out of here alive; the mere memory of this moment would haunt him for the rest of his days.
As bitter thoughts encircled in his mind, one voice broke through it all. Big Joe had seemingly grown tired of Hailey's retorts.
"Kill her."
It seemed like he was drowning in water―the screams that came from his classmate's mouth, desperately pleading, crying, muffled with the heartbeat that threatened to jump out of chest―made Nick suddenly feel nauseated.
"Now."
He could feel the drilling presence of Big Joe, a Master, on his left, and the steely gaze of their second commander, Philster, at the back of his head.
"Niccolo."
The cold metal in his hands now seemed heavier than it should be.
"It's an order."
His vision blurred with tears, dripping, gathering in the edges of his glasses, but his body remained frozen. He wanted to move his mouth, to utter a single plea of forgiveness, but his heart was beating too loudly that he didn't think a small choke even escaped his lips.
"What are you waiting for, Marcelin?" Christen demanded, placing a hand on her hip. "Why are you shaking so badly?"
He barely had a second's hesitation before a rough hand grazed the side of his face. Philster had stretched out and quickly, deliberately, slipped his glasses from the side of his face.
He barely saw Hailey's surprised expression as she probably recognized her classmate as well, before a look of revulsion came upon Big Joe's face. A hard force from behind and pushed him to his knees, knocking the air from his lungs and the gun from his hands.
"Disgusting" was the single word that came out from Philster's mouth.
In one swift motion, he was already pulling the trigger of his gun.
Less than a split-second later, a loud gunshot echoed through the room.
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(END)
(comment if you still want me to continue the story)
(but that's all for now!)