Oliver Hayward cracked open another beer—his fifth or sixth or maybe it was his seventh, he’d lost track a couple of beers ago—and stared out at the darkness.
It was just past midnight. Hayward was typically in bed by now, but he couldn’t sleep. How could he, after the major fuck-up that was today? Any sensible person would have packed his things and disappeared, but he couldn’t do that, not with his whole operation and the kids and the women. He provided a valuable service to the cartels, and believed that despite today’s failing, they still had a use for him.
“Do you know why I named this place Neverland?”
Hayward didn’t wait for a reply, taking a long swallow from his bottle as he stared out into the darkness. He sat on a chair on the back porch overlooking the field; one of the guards could be seen, rifle slung over his shoulder, walking the perimeter.
“Growing up, my parents were not around much. My father was an important businessman, and when I say he worked all the time, I mean he worked all the time. I barely saw him. I saw my mother more often, but even then we didn’t interact much. I don’t think she ever wanted kids. She was too focused on her charity work to spend too much time with me. And so what was a boy my age supposed to do?”
Again, Hayward didn’t wait for a reply.
“I read all types of books, including the entire Hardy Boys series. You ever read any of the Hardy Boys books?”
For the first time in several minutes, Hayward regarded Jose. The boy stood ramrod straight, his chin tilted up, his eyes closed. One of Hayward’s empty beer bottles was balanced on the top of Jose’s head, Hayward having told Jose that if the bottle fell and shattered then Jose would get a zap like he’d never gotten before.
Shaking his head, Hayward muttered, “Of course you never read any Hardy Boys books. You’ve probably never read a book. Do you even know how to read? Well, anyway, one of the books I read again and again was Peter and Wendy. Did you ever hear about Peter Pan?”
Jose didn’t answer. Hayward fingered the fob in his left hand, considered giving the boy a quick zap just for the hell of it, but it felt good to talk like this, the alcohol having soothed his nerves, and he pushed on.
“Peter Pan was a boy who refused to grow up, and he had all these magical powers—he could fly, Jose!—and he had this fairy named Tinkerbell, and he was in charge of the Lost Boys. These Lost Boys had been taken away from their families when they were babies and brought to Neverland, and these boys, they were tough. And I … I sometimes thought of myself as a Lost Boy. My parents were extremely wealthy, and I never had to worry about anything, but still I saw myself as an outcast.”
Hayward shook his head suddenly, as if to clear it, and realized with whom he had been sharing such private matters. He leaned forward and pointed the fob at Jose, his voice dipping into a whisper.
“I never told anybody about that before—not even my therapists—and if you tell anyone, I am not only going to zap you, I will kill you myself.”
Jose stood motionless with the empty bottle on his head, his eyes closed.
Hayward said, “Nod that you understand me.”
The boy opened his eyes. Glanced at Hayward for a second but then quickly looked away.
“I’m not going to tell you again, Jose.”
The boy knew what would happen once he nodded—the bottle would tip off his head, shatter on the ground—and he knew what would happen then. Jose had come to fear being zapped, which was good, Hayward thought. A boy should never be fearless. A fearless boy was a stupid boy. A dangerous boy.
When Jose didn’t nod—when it became clear that he would refuse—Hayward pressed down on the fob.
The boy immediately jerked, and the empty bottle fell off his head.
But the bottle didn’t shatter on the ground. Jose caught it inches before it hit, and he stood motionless, staring up at Hayward, who for an instant thought he saw defiance flicker in the boy’s eyes, though maybe that was only his imagination or the alcohol or a combination of the two. Whatever the reason, Hayward didn’t like it, not one bit, and he intended on zapping Jose until the boy passed out, but before he could press down on the fob again, Carla stepped outside.
“What are you still doing out here?”
Hayward looked at her, at first not sure what to say, and then smiled.
“Enjoying the nice evening.”
“You should come to bed.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Take a pill.”
“I don’t want a pill.”
“Everything will be okay, Oliver.”
He shot to his feet so suddenly he stumbled, almost fell, and had to hold on to the railing to regain his balance.
“Everything will not be okay! Cortez is still alive. I failed. I failed the cartel.”
Carla stared back at him with her typical unnerving calmness.
“If they wanted to kill you, they would have done it by now.”
Hayward squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head. None of it made sense. He’d watched the TV for hours and listened to the reports about how President Cortez had been abducted and taken to an airport where they sat on the airstrip, police surrounding them, until gunshots were fired. For the first hour or so, the news reported that President Cortez was killed, but then news broke that he had actually survived, as well as that his longtime aide Imna Rodriguez had been taken into custody.
No word on Holly Lin. No word from Louis or any of his men.
He looked out at the dark field and the guard walking the perimeter. He put the beer to his lips, was about to take another long swallow, when suddenly the guard fell to the ground.
Hayward stared for a moment, then blinked, not sure he had seen what he just witnessed.
“Did you—”
Carla clamped her hand over his mouth, her eyes suddenly intense, and held a finger to her lips.
Hayward wasn’t sure what was going on. He tried listening but couldn’t concentrate, and then suddenly he heard gunfire somewhere out front, along with the sound of engines, and—
Was that the sound of a helicopter?
Hayward pulled away from her hand, whispered, “Is it the cartel?”
The intensity in Carla’s eyes flared.
“No, you idiot. It’s the feds.”
She glanced down at the Jose, then up at the shed sitting against the hill, and then at the armed dead guard out in the field.
“Grab the boy. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”