32. Georgia-May
32
GEORGIA-MAY
As I’m waking up, I realize I’m being shunted onto yet another vehicle. Time is a blur, but they wouldn’t have drugged me for a mere jaunt. I’m forced into a seat. This time, I think it’s a van, given the extra space. The interior is grim and claustrophobic, with all windows blacked out. The same two men flank me, their grips firm, while the hooded man takes the wheel. The engine roars to life, and we accelerate hard.
When the van finally jerks to a stop, I’m herded out into the chilly air. The scent of salty sea and rust assaults my senses, confirming my suspicions of being at a port—abandoned by the looks of it. A vast stretch of dilapidation greets me. Crumbling buildings loom in the fading light.
We navigate a maze of debris and broken pavement, arriving at a particularly desolate building. It’s barely more than ruins: no roof, only windows and walls stubbornly standing as if defying time itself.
Yet, amidst this decay, an anomaly: a steel door embedded in the ground, its presence almost surreal. The hooded man treads around it with caution as if the ground itself might betray him. The door, obscured by a tangle of marine ropes and rusty chains, seems to lead into a basement. He produces a key.
The two men flanking either side pull me along a predetermined path toward the door as if navigating mine-infested ground. Desperation seeps into my bones as I scan the area, hunting for any clue to my whereabouts. Near the door, a code is scrawled on the wall—faded, indecipherable, but I commit it to memory nonetheless.
The hooded figure seems to sense my growing unease. “Feeling like you’re cut off from the outside world?” He scoffs. “Relax, we’re all about hospitality here. Down below, you’ll have everything you need. Think of this as your own rustic luxury retreat.”
With a firm push, the men guide me down stony steps that could belong in a World War II bunker. At the bottom, we step into a room. The walls here are as ancient as the steps, yet the setup is startlingly modern. Portable lights cast shadows across compact beds and chairs while several computer terminals buzz quietly, their power drawn from a hidden generator.
Without ceremony, they push me into a chair in front of the terminal with the largest monitor.
Once the hooded man logs in, the screen flickers to life with a remote conference interface. We wait in anticipation. The computers, despite their underground setting, connect to a network. Wirelessly, it seems. Considering the depth and age of this basement, which for sure lacks traditional network wiring, there must be a system aboveground facilitating this connection.
Abner Bertram’s image materializes on the screen. Despite being in his sixties, he appears even older, embodying the quintessential businessman with his unwavering single-tone voice and perpetually upbeat expression that starkly contrasts with the ominous nature of his words. “Greetings, Mary O’Connor,” he opens. “Welcome back to Project Mock.”
His voice and digital presence make me feel as though I’m right back in London, on the fourteenth floor of Bertram Tower.
I manage a half-smirk. “Abner Bertram, I can’t believe a man of your…distinction actually missed me.”
“You were one of the most beautiful and talented assets I ever had. No, that I now have again. I’m absolutely delighted you’ve rejoined the team,” he says with a veneer of warmth.
“Where is my daughter?”
Bertram tuts, shaking his head. “Always so methodical, Miss O’Connor. Cutting to the chase? That’s desperation, not diligence.”
I clench my jaw. “What do you want, Bertram?”
“First,” he begins, leaning closer to the camera, his eyes narrowing, “I want you to reverse the actions of your dead boyfriend. You know what I mean.” He pauses, masking a sneer, then studies me. When I say nothing, he adds, “I heard Mr. Sebastian Langford screamed like a child when the first bullet hit his leg.”
I mask my pain with defiance, staring at him without a blink.
Bertram continues, relishing his cruel narrative. “He had a weak heart, didn’t he?”
I take short breaths, suppressing the rage bubbling up under my throat.
He adds, “But that wasn’t what silenced him.” He pauses, eyes fixed on mine, waiting for any sign of breaking. “His scream stopped when the second bullet hit his head. Close to his mouth, if I’m not mistaken.”
My fingers itch to hurl the monitor and everything within reach to the ground. But I can’t give in to his taunts. He’d revel in my anger as though it were a scene from a tacky flick. Instead, I gather my composure. “You’ve got me, Bertram. I’ll do what you ask. But if you lay a finger on Coco, I swear I’ll dismantle your empire right before your eyes. And I can be crueler than Sebastian.”
He brushes off my threat as though offering a negligible concession. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says, but his eyes flicker slightly—a tell. He’s hiding something. “This is the beauty of separation, Miss O’Connor. It just doesn’t have the same sting if Coco were here, would it? Even though the situation might be as dire.”
A wave of nausea hits me as I swallow.
“The agony of not knowing is far worse than seeing,” Bertram muses cruelly.
“Let me see her!” I demand.
“Perhaps, after you’ve corrected the systems, I might let you speak to Coco. Remotely, of course. I’m not in the business of making things easy.”
“I’ll do whatever you ask,” I assert, partly to appease him, partly plotting my escape. “And I expect you to keep your word.”
He leans back, a cold smile playing on his lips. “I’m laying out the rules, Miss O’Connor. And they come with a maze of terms and conditions you won’t even bother to understand. Fix the systems first. Then we’ll talk.”
“Fine, I’ll fix your damned systems,” I snap back, the wheels already turning in my head for a way out.
“I’m sure you’ve not forgotten how things work at Bertram. Consider this your very own corner office,” he quips. “But even the higher-ups get visitors. Let’s call it succession planning. Mr. Hark here will be your shadow.”
The hooded man—Hark, as Bertram calls him—wheels his chair close. Despite his role as my captor, I can hardly believe he’s more than a goon tasked with finding me and managing my logins. He’s a programmer, which suggests that soon, Bertram might deem me expendable, preferring a trusted ally over a rogue ex-employee. I need to find a way to outmaneuver him.
Then Bertram’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “I’d rather work with you, Mary O’Connor. What can I say? You’re quite the sight,” he chuckles. “But I can’t put all my eggs in one basket. Besides, Mr. Hark is a man of many talents.”
Hark flexes his fist, the brass knuckles gleaming as he casually drags them across my cheek. “I can be anything, anyone, Mary,” he says, suddenly shifting from American to a British accent. “Soft or hard. Mary.” He twists my name through a few more accents. One of those accents might’ve been what Blake heard when he spotted him on the university campus.
Bertram adds, “I’m a businessman, Miss O’Connor, and I pride myself on efficiency. Mr. Hark, well, he’s my Swiss army knife.”
I jerk my head away from Hark. “Don’t touch me!” I snarl.
Hark chuckles darkly as if he’s the heir to Bertram’s throne of cruelty.
Bertram’s tone hardens, “What Mr. Hark asks, you answer. What he instructs, you follow.”
I barely glance up, my fingers already dancing across the keyboard. “I’m starting, Bertram. You might want to make yourself scarce,” I say, my focus shifting to the other monitor displaying the familiar B.I.T. system login from my days in London.
“That’s hardly the way to speak to your boss, especially one so thoughtfully holding your family’s safety in his hands,” he taunts. “Once the system’s free of your late boyfriend’s gremlins, we’ll get back to Project Mock. And as for your complicated password? Quite the brain teaser, but consider it cracked.”
So they’ve breached the backup folder, the one that necessitated my icy torture in that motel. Ironically, it was this sequence of events that led me to Blake, or rather, led him to me.
“Still clueless about what to do with it, aren’t you?” I launch a tempered sarcasm, my mind darting through possible codes I could deploy, subtle yet potent enough to signal for help. After all, every network is built to connect.
“That’s why you’re here, indeed,” Bertram concedes.
“The algorithms won’t work perpetually. I’m not God.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just a girl who knows the future.”
“I’m not going to be your Prometheus.”
Bertram’s voice turns cold. “Tell me, Miss O’Connor. What do the algorithms predict about my odds of harming your darling daughter if you fail to comply?”
“You can’t keep me here forever,” I counter. “Project Mock will take years to complete.”
“Then you’d better start working, Miss O’Connor,” he says curtly before cutting the connection.
Hark leans in, his breath on my shoulder. “You heard him. Get to work!”
I begin typing, my eyes sweeping the room under the guise of concentration. It’s as barren as my chances of a Hollywood-style breakout. No handy clues or convenient escape routes. Clearly, taking down the three goons surrounding me isn’t on today’s agenda. So, back to my original plan: the digital breakout. Somewhere within these keystrokes is a window. I just need to signal to the right person where I am.