Hacked

Hello

The lights of downtown flash musically to the beat of the world, temporarily blinding me. I intuitively pull my hood over my head to block out the pulsating red and green and blue. People walk around me, cars pass by me, but nobody notices me. I am like a shadow on the wall, hidden from the world in the dark of night. And like the night, I am full of secrets. Like a shadow, there is more to me than meets the eye. 

With my computer bag slung lazily across my back, I carefully picked my way through  the crowded metropolis, expertly dodging oblivious pedestrians as I walked purposefully towards a small cafe hidden between two large buildings. Chrome letters superimposed on the generic tile labeled the modest establishment "But First, Coffee."

I walk inside, the open doors revealing to me the smell of freshly ground coffee beans and another smell I can't describe. It's quite heavenly, and under normal circumstances, I might have ordered something.

These were not normal circumstances.

I crossed the small interior and sat down in a plush chair on the far side of the building. I set down my bag and instinctively drew up the zipper on my sweater. It was broken, and didn't work very well at keeping the two halves together. It was cheap, and I bought it at a second-hand store, where I get pretty much all of my clothes. The only, even remotely nice  article  of clothing I own right now is a pair of torn-up Chuck All-stars. 

I glance around the cafe and spot myself in a mirror on the wall. My pitch-black hair is short, the tips clinging against my pasty-white forehead, my large green eyes staring wistfully at myself. I am not very good looking. I look away.

Checking my watch, I realize that my subject should be here any moment. I open up my laptop and start it, making sure that everything is in order.

Sure enough, the shiny windowed doors open at exactly 10:43, and my subject walks briskly up to the counter and begins to chat all chummy with the barista. He orders something and sits right in the middle of the shop. Of course, the business he's in, you wouldn't want anyone to stab you in the back. Might as well be out in the open, and therefore less susceptible to criminal and malicious atrocities. Well played, I'll give him that.

I decide to abandon my corner and approach him from behind. As I draw nearer to the subject, I can smell an expensive stench wafting off his coat, coolly dry cleaned and pants freshly pressed. I notice his slick black hair is combed back neatly, and his left ear has a peculiar nick in it, as though a cat might have after a fight.

I have heard he is quite the cougar.

I reach out and tap him on his dapper shoulder. He turns around and visibly cringes.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Fautier, but may I sit with you?"

He gives me a weird look, as though I'm street scum and have no right to touch his pimp shoulder, but he grudges and motions to the chair across from him,"How do you know my name."

"Oh, you spoke with me on the phone a while ago. I ordered from you."

He gives me and odd look, then, as though remembering,"Ah, yes. The young man from the phone."

"Y-yes sir. Do you have my packages?"

He turns to me skeptically,"What's your name?"

I pull out my phone casually as though checking the time. I press a button, and begin to record. After putting it down face first on the table, I answer,"Hugo Bachman."

My suspect pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket and glances at it. He looks at me and comes to the conclusion that I am who I say I am.

"Alright," He begins to mumble under his thick facial hair,"Your packages are in the back, in the trunk of my car. I think you'll really enjoy them, a fine specimen. Boy and girl. Siblings, actually."

"Oh cool. I can't wait," I manage to say.

His name is called for his coffee, and as he goes up to fetch his beverage, I lean over and take a picture of his list, then settle back into my hunched position.

"Actually," He whispers,"No transaction until payment, that's my rule."

"No problem. May I see them?"

He nods and says,"Of course. Wouldn't want me to cheat you now, would you?"

He winks, a sparkle catching the light on his eyes, ironically uplifting for such a dark and sinister man.

The subject climbs out of his chair, and pushes it in respectfully. I do the same, my laptop in my bag and my phone in my pocket, still recording.

We make our way outside, into the frigid night air, up the street and around a corner to an alley behind the coffee shop. He walks with pride, every step he takes long and powerful. He refuses to look back to see if I am catching up. No conversation, I guess. It's ok, though, I already have enough evidence.

Once in the darkness of the alley, he takes out a flashlight and we approach a black car, the company decal torn off the avoid recognition. He hands me the flashlight and pulls out a pair of old keys from his pants pockets, stuffs them in the slot, and yanks it around a bit, before the trunk finally pops open with an odd hiss sound.

Once he lifts it up, it takes all my courage to keep from screaming bloody murder.

In my subjects trunk, an adolescent boy and girl are cramped and shoved uncomfortably in an awkward sexual looking position, and their faces are streaked with tears and covered with dirt and soot. They are gagged at the mouth and tied at the hands. Their stomachs are pits and their limbs are twigs. Stringy hair clings hopelessly to their sweaty, malnourished faces.

It's all I can do to not gag at the sight. I turn to my subject and ask,"How much?"

He smirks, and says,"Two grand apiece."

A buzz in my pocket takes my back to reality, and I know its a notification that the call has been sent and that I will be out of here soon enough.

"Hey," He says,"You got the money or what."

I clear my head of all logical sense and begin to move toward the trunk, to help the kids out, and give them some breathing room. But before I can, my guy gets in the way and says,"Hey, no touching the merchandise."

This is the part where I snap.

His hand on my shoulder, I whirl around and punch him straight in the nose, making him bleed, possibly breaking it. He goes down, but swings at my legs. I dodge and kick him in the side, and I hear the breath leave his body. He gasps like a fish, and I bend down and help lift the two kids from the trunk, as swiftly as possible. I give my sweater to the girl, who is naked, and begin to take a shirt out of my bag for the boy. After that, I cut their gags and free them of their ties.

I can here the police cars coming. I don't have much more time.

I squat down to the boy and girl and say,"Hey. Don't be afraid, ok? You're going to be alright now. No one is going to hurt you anymore. Answer all of the police's questions. And don't mention me at all, whatever you do."

The boy looks at the girl, who nods, and they both look at me.

"Kyle," Says the boy.
"Jamie," Says the girl.

I stare at the two, these children, as they look at me with admiration and gratitude. I look back into their eyes, and I see a universe of hurt, but also hope.

"T-Trevor," I respond.

Their breathing shallows, calms, and they whisper,"Thank you, Trevor."

"Sure thing."

I toss a bundle of four grand on the ground in front of them, and walk away before they can say anything else. I have to get out of here.

As I turn the corner of the alley and face the rest of the world once more, I notice the police are still a few blocks away. Good, I made it.

I stroll casually out into the night. The fresh air hits my nose, and the sounds of metropolitan nightlife flood my ears. I can feel the lights of the police cars as they pull into the alley. The relief of those poor kids once a real hero rescues them. Some real justice.

I am content. I think I'll hit the shower as soon as I get home.

But first, coffee.