The director willed the elevator cart to ascend faster. The doors opened, and he nearly lunged out of the enclosed space.

“Director-” Clark's face scrunched up in worry.

“I gave him the phone,” the older man interrupted, striding across the room to the control panels and computer monitors. “What's he doing?”

A business facade fell across the assistant’s expression. He crossed the room, standing behind his employee. “After you left, he crossed the length of his cell again and sat down on the cot we provided,”

On the monitor, the bruises and lacerations on Ezra's form appeared more drastically brutal and severe. The director dearly hoped they were more painful than they appeared.

“He's dialing,” Clark announced when Ezra dared to move. The director swiped a headset off one of the analysts when Ezra lifted the phone to his ear.

“Get a trace on that number!” The director barked. “Now!” At the normally solemn man's venomous tone, every person behind a keyboard began to work furiously. He threw the headset on as Ezra began to speak.

“If I haven't said it before,” He began lightly, his voice slightly warbled over the old monitoring system. “I'll say it now. I bleedin’ hate Denmark,”

His flippant attitude caused the director to scoff; even if Rossen was unable to hear the petty reaction, it forced an upturn of Clark's mouth. “The trace!?” The director hissed, turning to the analyst he had stolen the headset from. “What of the trace!”

The young woman made a show of pounding his fingers against the black keyboard. “The signal is bouncing all across the globe. Nigeria, France, Japan,” The worker listed off, and the director's eyes followed helplessly as a red line on the wide computer screen danced, jumping all over the globe. Clark pecked at his boss’ shoulder, muffling his iPhone's receiver against his chest.

“Sir,” He whispered loudly. “It's MI-6,”

The director waved him off with an infuriated motion. “Shut up!”

There had been an explosion of sound after Ezra first spoke. A loud male voice roared over the other end of the line, demanding of his well-being and cursing Ezra for not contacting him sooner.

The director grabbed Clark's forearm as his assistant communicated with another intelligence officer with an authority complex. “Who is he talking to?” He demanded while Clark's eyes narrowed at the unexpected manicness in the older man's tone.

“One of the silent partners. No ID ever discovered,” He replied, silently disparaging his employer’s unhealthy obsession.

He released Clark's arm with an irritated growl. He looked back to the monitor just as Rossen pushed himself back further onto the cot, making himself more comfortable.

“I don't have long,” Ezra interrupted the other man. “They're tracing this. They'll be moving me tomorrow. Tell mother not to fret. All will be well,”

His smiling words sent the director into a near frenzy. “What is he talking about?” He demanded, mentally searching for some tacit meaning. “Is it code?”

No one chose to answer him as they continued in their own endeavors.

Ezra looked directly into the camera in his cell when he spoke next. “You know what to do,” He said before snapping the phone shut, effectively disconnecting the call.

The director tore the headset off violently, demanding: “Did you get anything?”

“Erik,” Clark began quietly.

“Quiet, Everett!” The director snapped. “The trace!” He repeated, whirling back around to the paling analyst. “Tell me you managed to get something,”

The analyst shook her head. “We tried-”

“He can't win,” The director muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He can't,”

The chaos of his assistant resorting to telling at the MI-6 operative to the team of analysts and guard's working and chattering slowly faded to a dull white noise. A tingling numbness began to travel down the side of his face, signaling the dreaded beginning of a migraine. He rubbed at his temples, backing away from the growing disorder. He narrowly avoided a collision with a young secretary he only vaguely recognized. The vile stench of old black tea permeated the air.

He only stopped in his retreat when he reached the observation window. He glared down in the direction of the cage, wondering if it was too late to electrify the bars Rossen had taken to leaning against.

For the second time that day, Ezra's eyes flashed open, dashing to the mirrored glass. The younger man's eyes bore into him, a sagacious quality to them. An audacious grin split across Ezra's face. He knew what the director refused to accept.

He had already won.

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Last chapter, guys! I really, really good you've liked this short story my warped mind whipped up in two hours! 😊😊🙃🙃  thanks for bearing with me.

Xoxo, Adeline