Convict Island
Page 22
“Are you serious right now?”
“Si, si.” He stands. “You know, I must confess I have never heard of this,” he puts his hands up and does air quotes, “convict island.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a secret island if you’d heard of it.”
“Si, si. But you know, taking a vessel like you did—the seaplane that’s currently being dragged to our police port—would suggest this island cannot be far from our borders. And yet, we have not seen it.”
“Yes, yes,” I mock. “It’s quite vexing, isn’t it?” I take a deep breath. “Look, my brother is in danger. He could be in jail. Or dead. Or on his way to the island. We need—”
“—We also have not found any cargo ships with the drugs you alluded to. This also seems curious.”
“Pretty big freaking ocean,” I say, my frustration starting to rise within my bones.
The door swings open and the other stupid guy comes in. This one is slick—he’s freshly shaven so his sweat makes his face glimmer, his hair has seven pounds of gel in it, and the rolls of his neck that are escaping from his collared shirt jiggle when he talks. He first says something in Spanish to the other stupid guy. Then he looks at me. “We have searched everywhere and have not found these friends you claim were on your plane.”
“Well, yeah.” I huff. “We figured out on the plane how we’re all connected and why we were sent to the island. They weren’t gonna just stick around to be found by cops. It’s suicide.”
“You did. You actually came to us,” Slick says.
“I. Have. To. Get. To. My. Brother,” I yell, clapping my hands at every word. The combination of heat and concern are making my blood boil. “I assumed coming to you guys would help me reach him faster than hitchhiking—even if it means risking my life and freedom.”
“Well,” Slick says, walking back to the door. “Fortunately, we have an American agent here to assist.” He opens the door.
If I wasn’t already sweating, this announcement would’ve done it. “What? They can’t be trusted!”
Fancy shoes click on the hallway as someone makes their way to the room. My jaw drops as the suited bald guy that had stayed in the car the night of Chris’ murder steps into the room.
“Son of a bitch,” I say.
He’s in a suit again and still has on his sunglasses. “Hello, Jhalon,” he says cordially. He motions to the two idiots to leave, and they do. After they’re gone, the man pulls out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes the chair across the table from me and hesitantly sits. “I’m surprised to see you again.” He shows off his perfectly straight white teeth. “Well, alive, anyway. I have been listening to your narrative. You did not disappoint in your story-telling abilities.”
It’s over. I’m dead. My friends will be killed. Chris is screwed. It’s over.
“Your hyperthymesia does not lie, but it is inaccurate. Mason was not a part of the first island deposit as he claimed. That blowhard was one man in a longer line of puppet usurpers used to meet a greater need on behalf of my boss.”
My hands shake uncontrollably.
He takes a small pad out of his suit jacket pocket, folds the jacket over the back of his chair, and reviews his notebook. “Darryl and William—I believe you know him as ‘John’—will have to be disposed of before we begin again. Smiley wasn’t hard to find—he’s not the most intelligent quarry.” He clears his throat. “I would like you to tell me where Sam, Mitch, and the rest have gone—they’ve been tougher to hunt down.”
My heart races.
“We have some things to discuss.” He walks to the camera and deletes my entire statement. As he sits in the chair, he removes a gun from his hip and places it on the table but doesn’t take his palm off of it. “While your mind is fascinating, we are concerned about your recollections and the potential they have to cause us issues. You managed to throw a rather large wrench into an otherwise well-oiled machine. It is up to you to rectify the situation.”
I can’t breathe.
About the Author
Mark Mosley is a proud Ravenclaw, vintage video gamer, and Marvel nerd that somehow ended up with an insane passion for teaching Language Arts to teenagers. Having worked for fifteen years with students—some of whom haven’t read a book since fourth grade—Mark was inspired to write a story that even his most reluctant readers may (hopefully) finish. He lives in St. Louis with his wife and four children.
You can visit him online at www.MarkMosleyAuthor.com or on Twitter (@MarkGMosley).
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