Pyro

Chapter 3

Samuel Yates, John Belrook, and some unknown brains behind the brawn. Who was he? Or was he a she?

The fact that the Traders operated in three-man cells was a prudent approach. If police captured a cell, they likely had no knowledge to spill about other groups, making my job that much harder.

I could visit Sam in prison, I pondered. I determined my father would sooner kill me than allow anyone to get a whiff of my ties to a prison, even if I had no ties to begin with. Even if I proceeded tactfully, he'd find out.

I seriously hated him.

I stared out the window of the bus, watching the surroundings slug by. The greenery of grass and trees soothed my frazzled mindset. Soon, I'd see him, and he'd lighten my mood.

My phone vibrated in my pocket and my smile fell. As I fished my jean pockets for the phone, I grimaced. Speak of the Devil and the Devil shall come, I thought as soon contact name "DARTH VADER" buzzed prominently on the screen.

I chose that nickname for obvious reasons; one, he was my father; two he was, well, evil. More like rotten to the core. The nickname sent a smile to my face, unsouring my mood.

"Where the hell are you!" demanded a stern voice through the phone, brimming with untamed fury as soon as I accepted the call.

I held the phone diffidently to my ear, grimacing. "I'm out."

"You've been locked in your room for over a week, and today is the day you decide to finally get off your ass?"

Any sense of amusement drained out of me. I hate him, I thought, clenching and unclenching my fingers. "Yes, I chose today to leave. But I'll be back in time for the party."

Palpable silence crackled through the phone. Then, "You better be here on time. I threw this party and donated hundreds of thousands to a charity against human trafficking just so the board would be assured that your girlfriend's death left hasn't left you raving mad."

"I'll be on time," I mollified.

"Good. I'm assuming you already have a suit picked out for the party? More specifically, I'm assuming you chose the one I brought you from Italy."

That suit, tailored just for me, cost thousands of dollars. He no doubt wanted to impress the board members. "Yes."

My father laughed through the phone. "I'm surprised you haven't thrown one of your fits. Ah, I wonder if you would've shown this much deference had your girlfriend died sooner... Who knows? Maybe this is a good thing."

A swirl of rage, fear, and grief threatened to burst. "I'll be there at nine," I snapped.

Poised to hang up, my father said one last thing before I cut him off. "Hope you're not out doing something that'll get someone else killed."

I shoved the phone in my pocket, belligerent. I felt my fingernails bite my skin, but I feared if I unfurled my fingers I'd snap them and set the entire bus ablaze. Oddly enough, the thought of releasing that pent-up, festering anger held a rather... enticing appeal to it. 

The bus rocked and rumbled, hitting a rough patch of road, and I buried myself into the fabric of the worn seat. I resumed my staring out of the window. Somehow, the greenery of the countryside didn't seem to concillate me like before.

A boy slunk into a nearby seat, startling me.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," said a young man, chuckling. An image of Sam fluttered to the surface and I uncomfortably compressed myself in my seat.