Page 114 of The Circle

He leers his macabre grin, wholly unrecognizable to me as the man I once knew. Physically at least. Some essential piece of him, the piece that requires he maintain his authority, is still visible. “Yes, my seun?” he replies. “Have you had a rethink? Are you coming along? Like to accompany your dear old dad, would you?”

I’m torn about what to do. I truly am. I cannot shoot, obviously. He is holding my daughter in front of him. And there are two strapping okes behind him, both with their hands on the grips of their own guns.

If I can get Andra away from him, somehow get her free, I believe I would still take the shot. Even if it meant that I would also be fired upon and have my life ended. Maybe perhaps because it would mean that. That would be the assured end of the van den Berg legacy. Or perhaps the van den Berg curse. Maybe they are one and the same.

“Let the child go,” I say to him, “and we can discuss what happens next.”

I am hoping that whatever seismic fracture surviving the car accident caused in my father’s brain that drove him from being simply a ruthless South African businessman to becoming a make-believe Russian oligarch and archenemy can be clotted enough that I may persuade him to listen to reason.

“I’m not sure I feel so certain of your intentions, my boy,” he says, still smiling. “You are still holding that frightful-looking weapon there, aren’t you?”

My grip tightens on the gun as I debate what I should do. And then…

I close my eyes.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to feel the air around me. Trying to know the unknowable and predict the future. And when I open them again, I am awash in a sense of confidence that tells me letting go is the only way to keep my hold on that which truly matters. And so I do. I remove the rifle’s strap from off my shoulder and I lay the gun at my feet.

And, as soon as I have, the two chauffeurs do exactly as I expect. They draw out their submachine guns, point them at me, and ready their fingers on the triggers.

CHRISTINE

His back is to me.

The one called Anton.

The one who threw me from a roof.

He rests his elbows on the edge of the low castle wall that rings the roof we’re on now and peers through the scope of the long gun.

I know the position well.

Does he assume that Danny and I are about to come charging out into view along with Alec? Does he plan to shoot us both when we get there? Does he plan to shoot anyone at all, including Alec, if they attempt to interfere with Zander?

Does it fucking matter?

I don’t think it does.

I go to fire on him. Just shoot him in the back, blow him off the roof, and send him to whatever nightmarish fate awaits him. But then I worry that if Zander hears gunfire erupting up here, things might get even worse down below.

And, besides, one good toss off a fucking roof deserves another. Or however the phrase goes.

So, I slide the AK off my shoulder and place it on the ground as quietly as I can before I begin creeping in his direction.

Suddenly, I am overtaken—yet again—by the urge to vomit.

Images in my mind.

Falling.

Shooting.

Alec.

Danny.

Falling.

Shooting.