59 The voice on the phone

**Date = 25 June**
**Place = San Francisco (Inferno parking / On the road)**

**POV - Enrique**

I swallow back the bile. Who does this voice belong to? Can it really be Graham?

“If that’s all,” my twin says like a death sentence, like he’s already dug the grave, “We have things to do.”

“Wait.” The voice is quiet — too quiet — the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl, because silence is where monsters live.

“I know almost everything about you … except what I need to know,” he laughs — not with humor, but with that sick, twisted sound people make when pain’s the only thing left.

Axel grits his teeth, “You don’t know shit about us!” He lost his cool.

The voice answers it with a laugh so cold, so wrong, it curdles the air in the car. “Oh, I know … every person you shag … every move you make … even those dirty little secrets you’re all trying to keep to yourselves.”

Alejandro twists his face into an even worse frown than Jackson’s, and hate clouds Axel’s icy eyes that are fixed on the dashboard as if he can see right through it.

“What secrets?” Axel’s jaw tightens. He’s holding a crowbar — not sure where it came from — as if he might bend it.

The man laughs again, “Juvenile records — so easy to dig up if you have the right connections.” Axel stiffens, his knuckles, holding the crowbar on his lap, going white like his face. The air is tense, vibrating as if something is gonna blow up any second.

“Same way, one can find out about a Mama in a little white room, talkin’ to ghosts that don’t talk back. And an arsonistic granny. Crazy definitely runs in families.”

“Fuck off!” Alejandro squeals. There’s a moment of silence. Jackson looks at me through the rearview mirror. Apologetic. I look back. Confused.

“Then there’s signatures on paper, love for hire.” It feels like my insides are trying to crawl out, but his laugh slices through, rough and manic, a sound that doesn’t belong in a human throat. I blink. How does he know? Did Aria tell someone? Fuck.

“Real smooth, Casanova. Too bad you fucked around and made a baby out of contract.”

My eyes darken. My voice shakes when I speak.

“How do you know about that?”

“Oh, Sport, I told you I know everything.” Sport? Seems he does.

“Aria is a contract?” Alejandro whispers, surprised. I shrug and drone back, “Was.”

“Secrets … you’re drowning in them. But one of you — one of you makes the rest look like saints.” All of us glance simultaneously in the same direction — Jackson. He exhales like a man already tired of the verdict. “Me … I suppose.”

The master hoarder.

“In different circumstances, we might have been friends. I like a bunch of psychotic killers any time of the day.” Psychotic, I get. But killers? “Until they touch my people.”

Jackson shrugs his shoulders, unaffected, as if the guy just accused him of playing with butterflies. Or peeing in the snow.

“Some people earn their fate,” my twin says then, as tranquil as a light summer breeze.

“Oh, I agree.” The voice mutters slowly, like the sound of a gun being cocked in the dark — deadly, inevitable. “But not him. He was all good.”

“You fucked up. Messed with the wrong family,” he continues, tone smooth and calculating, “Because we’re not just a family … we’re an institution.”

“You mean that little round click you belong to?” Jackson pushes his buttons. I roll my eyes.

“You know about The Circle? Good.” His voice jumps up, lighter now, almost cheerful — a sharp, disorienting contrast to the rage a heartbeat ago. It makes my skin crawl.

Plurrrrttt!

Mel’s phone receives a message. Jackson looks at it.

“We make the world small. One phone call is all it takes.” His mood is a sudden, unsettling cheer.

Jackson holds up the phone. It’s a photo. Of Mel. Dressed in a Reaper team outfit, sitting in the Monster Reaper paddock. Damion is racing in the Netherlands, so that must have been taken at the Cathedral of Speed. It’s daylight in the photo, but the sun’s already setting over there now. Which means this was probably taken earlier today. Maybe yesterday.

Doesn’t matter. The point is — they know her whereabouts.

Jackson gestures to Alejandro, who quickly thumbs out a quick message … likely to Damion. To make sure. Confirmation.

Low laughter crawls out of the man, dry and cracked like it hasn’t been used in years. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to randomly kill people…” He pauses. “… yet. I want you to suffer first. That’s the fun of it.”

Jackson’s reply comes fast, sharp as the edge of broken glass. “You forget … in a war, both sides bleed. Both sides bury their dead. There are always consequences.” He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink — just lets the words hang in the air like smoke.

A silence spreads, thick enough to taste the tautness of it on your tongue. The man is weighing, recalculating — as if the equations in his head no longer add up clean. The tension bends the air, elastic, until finally he exhales through his nose, sighing almost conversational.

“Have you guys ever done something stupid to impress a girl?” Over the phone, the voice is metallic, detached, almost casual, as though we’ve been discussing bad dates instead of bloodshed. The sudden topic turn makes the inside of the car hitch, a weird, dangerous humor cracking through the grime of the moment. It’s the kind of pivot that makes your pulse race — not from laughter, but from the sheer insanity of not knowing where the hell he’ll go next.

“Like learn a new language?” No one answers. So he continues — “Here I am, torturing my brain with some useless language that … according to Charlize Theron … only about forty-four people speak … because I love someone so bad it hurts.”

Boo-hoo.

Jackson snorts, teeth flashing. “I don’t do stupid. I don’t do love either … I just don’t get it.” His tone is flat, almost bored, like the concept doesn’t even exist in his world. Girls don’t confuse him, emotions don’t rattle him — none of it sticks.

But all that changed since Lee moved in. And this person must know that since he took Lee.

I wish my twin would stop exasperating the person holding Aria’s life in his hands. But that’s not how Jackson is made … no matter the stakes, Jackson’s genetic wiring is hardwired to needle people.

“See if you get this,” the voice snaps with irritation. “Julle dom dose gaan kry wat julle verdien.” (Afrikaans = You stupid assholes are going to get what you deserve)

I’m not sure what language that is — must be old and dying if fewer than fifty people speak it — but he’s clearly struggling a little with his pronunciation. I think. It’s rough, clipped, like he’s annoyed at the words themselves. But the tone cuts through the air, sharp, precise, a quiet threat wrapped in foreign syllables.

However, I’m almost sure my brother can speak the lingo — or at least understand it — languages stick to him like teeth to gum.

“Not if I get to you first, poepol (Afrikaans = asshole),” Jackson snubs condescendingly. “Dan gaan jy kak.” (The Afrikaans phrase literally translates to ‘then you’re going to poop’ — but here it’s used more figuratively to mean something like “then you’re going to get it” or “then you’re fucked” or “then shit is gonna happen”)

I don’t know what he just said, but the voice on the other side snorts. And not in a good way. Yeah, leave it to my brother to aggravate our persecutor to the max.

I glance at Jackson. His expression hasn’t changed — he still manages to radiate that maddening confidence.

“Did you get that, or is the grammar too complex? I can translate.” Sometimes I can strangle my twin. I just haven’t gotten around to it cause I know I lack the physical skills needed to murder the devil.

But I’m starting to think Lee might have the skills to drive Jackson to close cardiac arrest.

The line goes quiet. Nothing but faint static, a hiss like breath caught in the wires. For a moment, I wonder if the man has hung up — then the voice returns, low and deliberate, as if savoring each syllable.

“You should not push your luck,” the bionic voice hisses, clearly antagonized. Yeah … don’t push your luck, bro.

“And why’s that?” Still pushing

“Oh, you’ll figure it out soon enough … when you get your choice.” My brother definitely ruffled some feathers.

“Great. I like choices.” Pushing. Or no … bulldozing.

“Fair enough,” the stranger murmurs, his tone laced with a grin I can’t see but feel crawling under my skin. “But you won’t like this one.”

“And since your brother ignored his … I’ve added something extra. I’ve found that suffering makes the lesson stick better. Draw it out. Make you beg. So you won’t forget.” A bitter, half-laugh curls through his tone.

Jackson just tilts his head, tone like gravel dragged across cement. “Problem with that — suffering cuts both ways.” He leans closer to the phone, his whisper a blade slipping through static, “Drag it out long enough, and you’ll beg too.”

Silence. Heavy. Alejandro’s phone vibrates in his hand, a faint buzz like a wasp in the thick air, and it makes the pause feel even longer.

Then comes laughter, muffled by the distortion of the speaker but no less unsettling — like it’s happening too close to the ear. “You talk big, Blackburn. I can’t decide if you’re reckless … or just suicidal.”

Jackson’s grin finally breaks loose, wolfish and dark. “Both. Today I’m leaning towards reckless.”

The voice slips back in, smooth, almost indulgent. “Reckless makes you sloppy, Blackburn. Sloppy makes mistakes. And mistakes …” The pause drags, thick with relish. “… win wars.” His words coil through the line, stretched and deliberate, like barbed wire unspooling.

“So listen carefully, reckless boy, cause you’re next. When you get your choice, you have 48 hours to make your decision. That’s the law. Five days later, you’ll learn the cost,” he sneers through the phone, the sound cutting and cruel. “Is that clear?” Sort of.

“Crystal,” Jackson tosses the word out with smug dismissal.

“That’s a week,” the voice oozes arrogance, like he’s above it all.

“I can do the math,” Jackson replies in a snotty manner. I also do the math … yesterday my week ended. Did they take Aria because I didn’t make a choice?

Fuck. What’s gonna happen to her? The images in the video drill into my mind — jagged, relentless.

“When the week is done … you’ll get a location to find the remnant of the choice you made.” His voice drips with scorn, a twisted kind of amusement. This is all a game to him.

“Remnant?” Alejandro tilts his voice, almost lazy, almost cruel.

“Like giving Sophie back her daughter’s body — raped, mangled, and maimed.” The voice chuckles lightly as if he finds it funny. I find it sick. “And the next person will get to choose. The rules are easy.” A thin chuckle cuts across the static. “Break it, and others will pay for you.”

“It’s all good and well … but may I ask why?” Alejandro snubs.

An iconic metallic chuckle chirps from the phone. Robot-voice is straightforwardly starting to cheese me off, that’s for sure. “I told you … you killed the wrong guy.”

“Darren?” Axel asks.

“Pft.” The man exhales sharply through his nose, a half-hearted sound that lands somewhere between agreement and mockery — as if to say maybe … but probably not.

A nasal, contemptuous puff. “He’s a fragment, not crucial.” So not exactly about Darren then.

“Great,” I hiss softly.

Jackson’s voice is tight, razor-edged. “Do you have Lee?” He gets to the point.

“And the redhead,” the voice says casually. “But she’s … collateral damage. I have no use for her.”

A cold rush hits my stomach, sharp and twisting, like ice sliding down my spine. My throat tightens. I can feel my pulse hammering in my ears, loud enough that I swear the man could hear it.

“Collateral damage,” I repeat under my breath, tasting bile. Collateral. Damage. My hands clench into fists at my sides.

“Explain that,” I say. Strangely, my voice doesn’t waver. It’s calm and violent at once.

The man chuckles in a lazy tone that makes my skin crawl. “She’s … expendable. Not part of the plan. Wrong place at the wrong time.”

I swallow, taste sourness in my mouth, and feel my chest tighten. I see her face anyway —the way she laughs, that stubborn flare in her eyes. My gut twists, and I have to bite back a sharp noise.

A breath, a stall — deliberate — then the man’s voice slides back over the line, casual, almost teasing.

“You know, Bruiser … at first I thought you were gay.” He’s talking to Jackson. He knows our nicknames. Our secrets.

I blink, caught off guard. Heat crawls up my neck, a mix of fear and disbelief, and I realize I can see where he’s coming from. I’ve wondered the same myself, about Jackson and Lee and everything tangled up in this mess.

He pauses again, letting the moment hang like a noose. Then he tightens the knot.

“Maybe bi-curious or incredibly confused. But I get it now.” Jackson doesn’t even flinch. He keeps his eyes on the road. “T-Bone explained.”

“Love the little midget. And so much spunk. Nearly took out a man’s eye.” I’m guessing he’s talking about Lee. It hits a nerve. “But don’t worry, my men will have their fun.”

The words land, and something in Jackson snaps quietly — the kind of stillness that feels dangerous. His jaw ticks, his face drains of color, eyes gone flat and empty, like someone just cut the last wire holding him together — leaving behind nothing but that bleak, hollow stare — the kind people wear right before they kill.

“They’re rather horny savages … the men working for me. You’ve seen the video.”

There’s a moment of stillness.

My teeth clench. My fingers tremble. I want to kill him, to scream down the line, but the danger presses in, tight and suffocating. All I can do is watch Jackson’s face, read the tension in his jaw, and feel the sick churn in my stomach.

“If you mean Lee, I don’t care … the twit is just my roommate.” There’s not even the slightest crack in his voice. Hell, if I were not looking at his face, I would for sure believe it.

Another irate muteness. Axel gestures, and Jackson takes Exit 30-A onto the I-780.

“Well, we’ll soon see about that, won’t we?” The voice cracks as if it’s overwhelmed. Filled with sudden uncertainty. “Since you like blowing people up so much, I thought it would be a befitting choice.”

“Must say … I’ve never personally done that before. Always thought it a little overkill. But hey … whatever floats your boat, I suppose.”

Sure. Clearly, this guy’s lost all his chickens. His fucking coop is empty.

“And if we don’t play?” D-Boy asks.

“Then I choose,” he says. Whatever that means.

“So, Jackson … be sure to pick wisely.” The voice rises a few octaves.

End of discussion. The line goes dead.

We look at each other with deep frowns, unsure about what it all means.

“Mel?” Jackson asks immediately.

“She’s fine …” Alejandro nods. “However … they are leaving early morning … their time … back to Ilkay … via speed bike. Should arrive at Interlaken a few hours past midnight here.”

“Fuck, fuck, FFUUUUCKKK!” Jackson screams, slamming the phone onto the steering wheel. As if protesting, the phone lets out another fart.

Plurrrrttt!

“Jou tyd loop uit.” Jackson reads out loud, keeping one eye on the battered asphalt as we leave the last traces of San Francisco behind, the city giving way to rusting fences and grassy hills.

“What language is that?” I ask.

“Afrikaans,” Jackson answers calmly. “He’s saying my clock is ticking,” he continues, his gaze scanning over us. Afrikaans. So the bastard loves a South African.

“Well, we’d better get moving then,” Axel snaps. “And FYI, I really don’t like that guy.” No one does.

“So the clock’s started,” Alejandro says. “You don’t even know the choice yet.”

And as if fate is watching, Jackson’s phone receives that choice. He stares at it quietly.

Jackson’s mouth hardens into a thin, bloodless line. His eyes aren’t burning with fury — they’re darker, colder, like a man already imagining how to kill.

“Are you gonna share?” Alejandro asks.

“Later,” Jackson lets out a derisive breath. “Let’s first find our people.”

My phone tweets, shifting the attention, and everyone looks at me in great anticipation. Good news or bad?

A location. No more ‘mayday’ shit — thank heaven. For some reason, he sends the choices to our own personal phones … not Mel’s, like the rest of the messages.

“It’s a location,” I say. I zoom in on the red dot. “It’s a building in Benicia, just off the I-680. Looks like a warehouse or factory or something,” I explain.

“It adds up with Lee’s location.” Axel sounds a bit more optimistic.

“Fucking go,” I shout out, hoping Aria is there too.

My body suddenly goes cold, and I swear my heart stopped. Aria. Is that the place I’m going to find her corpse? Because I didn’t make a stupid choice.

We take Exit 6 for E 5th Street. No one dares to speak, and a hollow grave silence fills the car. Through the windows, sagging buildings lean into the wind like they’ve long since given up.

Axel sits stiffly in the passenger seat, eyes locked on the pulsing dot on his phone screen —Lee’s phone’s location. Alejandro is in the back seat, arms folded, jaw flexing. The only sound in the car comes from Jinx’s soft panting. The young Doberman stands alert between the seats, ears twitching with every bump in the road.

My brother’s eyes are dark, almost navy ― an indication that he’s terrorized, bordering on panic-stricken. It puts me in a funk, and I break down in cold sweat.

We stop in front of a fenced area with a double gate — locked with a chain. A white and red sign reads ‘Private Property’.

A warehouse stands on the edge of the Carquinez Strait like a rotting tooth. Its rusted shell looms against the bruised sky like the broken spine of something once alive. A wounded building, forgotten by city maps and remembered only by ghosts.

It reeks of rust and secrets.

Chain-link fences lean inwards. Seagulls circled above, shrieking. The wind howls through busted windows.

We all stare through the chicken coop wire at the old dilapidated building. Just staring. All hoping the same thing.

To find them.

Alive.