Phone still to my ear, my dad continues. “I’m trying to get to Zimbabwe. I just feel like I need to be there, on the ground, trying to find him. We’re trying to get the money gathered now, even though I have no idea where I’d even start there,” he chokes out. “This video, Brynne—it’s not pretty.”
I cry softly into the phone, saying silent prayers on repeat that it isn’t as bad as he’s making it out. That there’s a mistake. That this is a bad dream.
“Do not let this break your spirit,” Dad says, his voice even. “Wherever your brother is, he’s getting power from you—he always has. You two have always been so close. Use that connection by living well and sending him energy to come home.”
“I’ll try,” I say as the email opens. “Your email is here. I’m going to watch.”
“Call me if you need me. I love you.”
“You too,” I whisper, shutting off the phone.
The screen darkens, the frame fuzzy. It zooms in, out, and back in again before settling on a man on his knees in the middle of what looks like a warehouse. A long white robe drapes his thin frame, and as the camera zooms in, I see his face.
I gasp.
Presley’s hand flies to her mouth.
My stomach threatens to expel everything inside it.
Brady’s cheekbones are sunken in, his beard scraggly. There’s a cut above his eye that looks like it’s been bleeding recently. I examine the screen as closely as I can before a man steps between the camera and my brother.
“We come to show you our captive,” he says in broken English. “He is alive and well and wants to go home.”
I try to peek around him, which is impossible and infuriating. My tears scald my cheeks as I wait for the man in the military fatigues to speak again, my heart pounding in my chest.
“We will decide soon, America, on his fate. Because you have no heart. You know what you’ve done to our brothers around the world. And this time, you don’t get to call the shots.” He steps back and Brady is centered in the lens again. “Fighter, tell them your name.”
Brady lifts his chin, his eyes trained on the camera. They’re so lifeless it rips a hole in my soul. When he speaks, his voice is calm. “I am not a fighter. I’m a doctor—Brady Stewart Calloway from California, USA.”
“Do you want to go home?”
“Yes. I want to go home, to see my parents and my sister.” He forces a swallow and readjusts on his knees. Every move is calculated, every motion premeditated.
“He says he’s not a fighter, but he’s in Zimbabwe, in our country. In our business. America, you are fools. If you want him back, you will listen to us. We are in control.”
Presley’s hand finds mine and I grab it, pulling her close. My hands tremble as she clasps hers over them, both of us glued to the screen.
Brady faces forward, still watching the camera. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, barely breathes. The top of his robe has fallen forward, a bit of his chest exposed. You can see the outline of bones beneath the skin and it causes my tears to fall harder.
“In a few days, you will receive a list of demands,” his captor says. “If you want to see Fighter again, you will give us what we want.”
He turns to Brady, the sun streaming in the small windows at the top of the room behind them glistening off the butt of his gun. “You want to say something else?”
“Yes,” Brady says cautiously, looking at him before turning back the camera. “Mom, Dad, Brynne . . .”
I wipe the tears as soon as they hit so I can see him, but they come too quickly. His voice washes over me, my big brother trying to be the anchor even in the midst of his own storm.
“I’m okay,” he says. “I’ll be patient. But I need you to—”
The gun, a long, black piece of metal, strikes the side of his head before he can finish. I scream and Presley jumps as Brady falls to the side, the butt of the gun smashing him in the ribs. He shouts, his voice dripping in agony, as he’s struck again. This time, the force bowls him over and his face hits the ground.
The camera jolts to the asshole terrorist before it cuts out.
Jumping off the chair, shoving it behind me, I grasp the computer with both hands. “No!” I cry, trying to figure out how to rewind it. My hands won’t work, my eyes won’t focus. “Damn it! No!”
I collapse against Pres and she holds me tight, letting me sob into her shoulder. Wails wrack my body, my cries are howls as they echo off the kitchen walls.
Presley closes the computer and guides me to the sofa. We sit there until I finally cry myself to sleep.
The sofa sinks with Presley’s weight, the setting sun dipping behind the horizon. My head hurts a little from the crying, but tears also cleanse the soul somehow.
“You okay?” she asks, giving me a sad smile.
“Not how I planned to spend the day,” I groan, rising up and pulling a pillow on my lap. “This is such a nightmare.”
“I called and checked on your mom a few hours ago while you were asleep,” she says. “Your dad took her to the doctor and got her on some medicine to calm her down. She’s a wreck.”