Frontline (33 page)

With the paper back in my pocket, I open the door and peer out into the plane’s forward lounge. I’m met by the menacing eyes of Chris, Sean, and Trenton. They look like a gang of thugs in the midst of a merciless crime.

It takes me a moment to realize why.

The person kneeling in front of the flat screen television, beside Trenton, with his mouth gagged and his hands tied behind his back, is my father.

Chris leaps toward me, arms in front of him, which can only end with him pushing me back into the room and probably landing on top of me.

I’m standing long enough to read
Call Connecting
on the television.

I’m still standing when Trenton pulls out a black revolver and points the muzzle to the side of my father’s head.

In the instant Chris’ hands connect with my upper body and the force behind them throws me back, Kedrov’s haggard, bearded face appears on the television. I land on the carpeted floor of the bedroom to the sound of his husky voice shaped by a thick Russian accent.

“Well, well, what do have we here, Mr. Merrick?”

Trenton’s reply matches the callous expression he greeted me with moments ago. “A present for you, comrade.”

Déjà vu hits me during Chris’ ambush, only this time I’m his hostage, not Denim.

“Don’t make a sound,” Chris hisses. His hand is so large
, it smothers most of my face. “You hear me, Sara? Not one noise.”

I nod as best I can and he lifts his hand.

“You stay in this room, out of sight, until one of us comes for you. Understand?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before standing, slipping back outside, and closing the door behind him.

I lay on the floor, shaking, staring up at the glow of the red light above the door. I imagine Denim and Kelly tied up somewhere on the plane like my dad, lured into submission via promises of some kinky S&M shit from Chris and Sean, only to end up bound and broken-hearted from their betrayal.

I leap to my feet with the intention of taking action. What action, I have no clue.

The video call conversation broadcasts clearly into the room from the intercom, halting my rescue mission.

“Don’t call me comrade,” Kedrov says flatly.

Trenton clears his throat. “My apologies, I
—”

“What are you doing in the company of this traitor?” Kedrov’s words are fast and terse.

“As you can see, Alexander, I have apprehended the man responsible for our missing cargo. He has kindly agreed to return it to us.”

“Just like that, has he?” Either distortion has caused static in the speakers or Kedrov is stroking his beard way too close to the microphone.

“Well, as you can see, a bit of coercion was necessary.” Trenton chuckles beneath his words. A part of me thinks it sounds forced. Another part of me is chilled by the sound of it.

“So am I to believe I will receive my cargo after all, Mr. Merrick?”

“Today, Alexander. Count on it. Where can we meet to make the exchange?”

“That depends. Where is the container?”

“Hidden in a warehouse at the port.”

Kedrov sighs. “Are you familiar with the Port of San Francisco, Mr. Merrick?”

A brief silence punctuates Kedrov’s question.

“Vaguely.”

“Well, even with a vague knowledge, you should know there are many warehouses on the port’s property. I need more specific details than this.”

“Mr. Peters says guiding us there personally will minimize attention from port security. I will call one of your men with exact coordinates once we reach the container
—and I assure you it’s not a hoax, if that’s your suspicion.”

“You will not open the container.” Kedrov growls the words. “That’s an order.”

“How am I to know if it’s the proper container?”

Slow, steady breaths fill the intercom as Kedrov ponders the question.

“I made the mistake of trusting this man before, Mr. Merrick. I never make the same mistake twice. If the contents of this cargo were not so significant, we would not be having this conversation.”

“I understand, Alexander, but you must
—”

“Phone this number when you’re in position.” Kedrov punches several keys on his keyboard. “I will decide on the next course of action at that time. When will I hear from you?”

“Give us until twenty-two hundred hours, Pacific Standard.”

“I will await your call. Oh, and Mr. Merrick . . .”

Kedrov’s words flow faster as he switches the conversation to Russian. To my surprise, Trenton answers, his words as quick and fluid as Kedrov’s.

They trade sentences until the sound of metal on bone cracks through the intercom. My dad cries out as much as the gag allows. Trenton’s venomous voice spews Russian so fast
that I wonder how someone fluent could even understand.

Kedrov answers, his voice just as malicious.

A loud
click
follows.

“Allan, are you all right?” Trenton says.

I throw the door open and rush into the lounge. My father’s face is deep red and his breaths sound quick and shallow. I crouch next to him.

“What did you do to him?” I shout.

Trenton hands the gun to Chris, who takes it by the barrel and shoves it into a bag.

“He barely touched me,” my father says once Sean unties the gag from around his mouth. He looks at me and manages a smile. “I’m fine, kiddo. It was part of the act.”

“What fucking act? I heard the whole thing!”

Sean beams. “Then you know it went perfectly.”

I skip my eyes across the four men. “I don’t understand.”

Trenton reaches for me. “Are you all right? When Chris took you down, I was so worried
—”

“
You
were worried?” I refuse to take his hand and stand up on my own. “How about how worried
I
was when I saw you pointing a fucking gun at my father?”

“Sorry about the tackle.” Chris zips up the bag with Trenton’s gun in it. “I had to keep you out of sight or the whole thing would’ve been blown.”

“Why didn’t someone tell me what was going on?”

“That was my doing,” my father says as Sean helps him off the floor. “I didn’t want to upset you unnecessarily.”

“Damn it, people. Stop assuming you know what’s best for me. Now, can someone update me on what just happened?”

Sean smirks. “We just convinced Kedrov we know where the container is
—which we do, thanks to your father—and that we’re willing to hand over its contents. He’s going to come to the port. If we can get there with enough lead time, we’ll apprehend him.”

“He didn’t say anything about coming t
o the port personally,” I say.

Trenton shakes his head. “Whatever is inside this thing, it’s a big deal to him. He’s not trusting anyone else with it
—he’ll be there.”

“And what’s to stop him from killing you once he sees it’s the real thing?”

“We’ll be ready for him, Sara. Trust me.”

“Trust. Ha!”

Sorrow, or pain, or confusion—I can’t be certain which—cloaks Trenton’s face. But I’m beyond empathy now.

Denim and Kelly skulk down the corridor from the back of the plane.

“Is everything okay?” Kelly asks.

Sean grins. “Yup. It looks like everything is going to be fine.”

The
ding
sounds again overhead. This time, Randall’s voice floods the cabin. “If I might ask you all to take your seats, we’re beginning our descent into San Francisco.”

Sean motions for Kelly, Denim, and me to sit in our previous seats. Chris continues gathering the maps and unmarked black cases together. It looks like they’re planning to take a small arsenal with them.

“Did you hear the conversation?” Denim says to me. “It played over the speakers in our room. Sounded so fierce! Especially when they spoke in that weird language.”

Kelly rolls her eyes. “That
weird language
was Russian, Denim.”

“Whatever. It was creepy.”

“I wonder what they were saying to each other,” Kelly says. She shoots me an uneasy glance.

Chris holds a computer tablet in front of Trenton. “The airport is approximately twenty miles south of the port. It should take us no more than thirty minutes to get there.”

Trenton nods and approaches me. He kneels next to my chair and touches my arm, giving it a light squeeze. “Everything is going to be fine. This will all be over soon.”

“Tell me what you said to Kedrov in Russian.”

Trenton looks away and blinks several times.

“Nothing, Sara. He just tried to talk tough and threaten me, so I gave it back to him. Then I hit your father so he knew I was serious.” He clears his throat. “Now, you said you had something else to talk to me about?”

I think back to the piece of paper in my pocket and glance at my dad. Sean cuts his hands free and he rubs his wrists. “It’s nothing. It can wait.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The plane glides smoothly onto the runway. There are no lengthy waits on the tarmac. Randall steers us into a nearby hangar and the plane barely stops before the cabin door opens and Sean pushes the folding stairs outward.

Two black Cadillacs wait at the bottom of the stairs. Somehow, Randall already has the keys. After Chris and Sean load the bags into the cars, our group deplanes.

I wrap my dad in the biggest hug possible. “Don’t try to be a hero, okay?”

My father returns my embrace with a pat on the back. “I love you, Sara. I’m going to make this right and I’ll see you soon.”

I wipe away a tear as he disappears into the first car with Sean, who concludes a quick good-bye with Kelly by kissing the back of her hand.

I feel Trenton’s eyes on me, but distract myself by watching Chris and Denim’s farewell, which has enough dramatic flair to rival Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman’s characters at the end of
Casablanca
. Chris even throws on a fedora to make it official.

When Chris gets into the first car, Trenton approaches me sternly. “You’ll do as Randall says from here on out.”

I give a flutter of my hand. “Yes, yes, whatever you say.”

He scowls. “Sara . . .”

In an instant, fear trumps my anger and I pull him in for a hug. When his arms wrap around me, I feel the tension ease from both of our bodies.

“Be safe, Trenton, and please don’t let anything happen to my dad.”

Trenton presses his lips to my forehead. “I promise.”

He lets go of me, and without a parting glance, gets into the first car.

I turn to my remaining—to use Trenton’s word—
comrades.

“Well, ladies.” Randall motions to the second car. “Shall we?”

The irony of being in a safe house is that I feel anything but safe. Scared, lonely, frustrated, anxious—my emotions run an entire spectrum of hopelessness. The prospect of spending hours alone with my thoughts again makes coming face to face with Kedrov and his men seem like the easy choice.

As Randall unlocks the door and I follow him inside, it occurs to me this is the second time I’ve needed a safe house in two days. If I end up needing a third, the room I’m locked in better have padded walls. The only relief is that this time I have my friends with me.

“Well, this doesn’t seem so bad.” Denim places her suitcase at her feet and looks around the foyer. “It’s so quiet . . . so . . .”

“Suburban.” Kelly makes no effort to mask her distaste as she drops her suitcase to the floor with a thud.

“It’s not the Majestic,” Randall says, “but it will have to do for now, ladies. Please accept my apologies.”

Faded yellow hardwood stretches from the front door down the short hallway into the kitchen. A tattered gray area rug sits in the middle of the hallway, its soiled surface a collect-all for years of tracked mud and grit. Three pictures decorate the walls, so disconnected in theme and color that they look as though each one came with its frame.

I’m surprised Trenton owns a house that isn’t decked out with designer décor and state-of-the-art everything. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t fortified with hidden security features. If there’s anything my association with Trenton has taught me, it’s that appearances can be deceiving.

“Everything looks fine, Randall. After all, our apartments are nothing to brag about.” I smile and set my bag down on the floor. “Hopefully things go smoothly at the port and we won’t be here too long.”

“Make yourselves at home.” Randall gestures down the corridor. “But first, please hand me your cell phones for safekeeping. There is to be no communication beyond this house. We don’t want to take any chances.”

Kelly clasps her purse to her chest as if encountering a mugger in a back alley.

“Just a precaution, Miss Sheridan,” he says. “You’ll have it back when the situation has calmed.”

Denim places her phone in Randall’s outstretched left hand as I set mine in his right. Normally, I’d consider it a severe violation of my civil rights to hand over my phone, but I promised Trenton I wouldn’t cause trouble.

Randall pushes both phones into his pockets and then sticks his hand toward Kelly. Her arms tighten around her bag.

“Kelly, for God’s sake
—give him your phone,” I say.

“Ugh. Fine.” She yanks the phone from her purse and slaps it into Randall’s palm.

Denim and I follow her as she picks up her suitcase and storms down the hallway into the kitchen, which looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 1970s.

Kelly sighs. “So what are we supposed to do now? I thought we were going to be part of the action, and instead, they dump us in suburban hell.”

“I like it here.” Denim nods, looking over the kitchen like a potential buyer. “I can see Chris and I being very happy in a place like this.”

Kelly leans on the countertop, the tips of her hair brushing her forearms. “Working his nine-to-five mercenary job? Asking you to get the blood stains out of his clothes and making sure your kids don’t find his stash of guns? Sounds like a dream life.”

“What’s gotten into you?” I say. “You were blushing up a storm at the airport when Sean said his gentlemanly good-bye.”

Kelly flips her hair behind her shoulders. “I got caught up in the moment, that’s all.”

“That’s not it.” Denim points at Kelly and smiles. “You always get like this when you’re worried.”

Kelly swats at Denim, but she dodges the attack and breaks into laughter.

“You’re afraid your sweet little Sean is going to get hurt!”

“Oh, and you’re not?” Kelly folds her arms across her chest. “Chris is in just as much danger.”

“No way. Chris’ll find the container single-handedly. And then he’ll find Kedrov and strap him to it and throw it on the next boat back to Moscow.”

Kelly smirks. “I don’t think it’s possible to sail into Moscow.”

“Oh, shut up,” Denim says. “You know what I mean.”

I laugh along with them, partially out of the humor of the situation and partially out of relief that they’re here, in this house, in this whole crazy scenario with me.

Our lives in New York couldn’t have been more different when we first met each other. Now we’re across the country, hiding in a safe house, put here by men we’re hopelessly enchanted with and don’t know why. It seems, under the circumstances, our lives are destined to intertwine even tighter.

“Hey, there’s a pool in the backyard!” Denim lets out a squeal from the sunroom beyond the kitchen. “Anyone up for a dip? I bet it’s heated.”

“I’m in. I have something in my bag I can wear.” Kelly looks at me. “What about you, Sara?”

“I only have one change of clothes.”

“I’m gonna throw on one of my workout ensembles. I have a spare sports bra and shorts if you want.” She nudges her hip into my side. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“No, thanks. I don’t feel up to it.”

“Fine, be that way,” Kelly says. “Personally, I’d rather keep my mind off the whole situation right now.”

There I go, thinking too much again. Something tells me it’s going to be a process I have to work my way through over time instead of simply escaping it all in one night with Trenton’s help. It’s taken me years to get this deep into it. It will probably take me just as long to get back out.

After Kelly and Denim change into their pseudo-swimwear in one of the bedrooms, I accompany them out of the kitchen. Early evening paints the sunroom in dark orange shades, the color of a ripe tangerine. The tip of the sun pokes over a cluster of treetops, casting long, smooth shadows over the yard.

Denim and Kelly slip out the back door, walk across the deck, and become silhouettes against the bright lights surrounding the pool.

The silence of the house closes in on me. Noises barely noticeable before are now all front and center: the groan of the refrigerator compressor, the ticking of the clock mounted on the wall above the kitchen table, a faint thud from deep in the basement . . . or high in the attic . . . or right behind me. It’s as impossible to tell where they come from as deciding what they are.

My left pocket crinkles as my hand slips inside and finds the paper.

10, 21, 34, 32, 5, 0, 5, 6, 4, 9

Wherever Trenton is right now, I bet he could use those numbers. Whatever they mean, he could figure it out. The only thing holding me back from telling Randall is
my father’s warning for me to safeguard them . . . to use them as a bargaining chip.

Then again, my dad only said that because I told him I still didn’t trust Trenton completely.

My stomach burns as if I drank a shot of gasoline, my pulse beating through my ears like a war drum. Why did I think I couldn’t trust Trenton? Why did I think at all?

As punishing as this affliction feels, there are people who have it worse than me. I see them often at the hospital. A teenage girl I treated once immediately comes to mind, her arms so hardened with scabs and scar tissue it was impossible to find a trace of soft, pink skin. Cutters, they’re called, but the medical term for it is DSH: Deliberate self-harm.

When she fell into her dark place, as she called it, she told me she couldn’t stop herself. Drawing a knife slowly down her arm released something. The pain was directly in front of her, bright red blood bubbling up between two flaps of slit skin. The wound was easier to deal with than the anguish buried so deep inside of her she couldn’t hope to reach it, let alone fight it.

You can’t fight something you can’t see.

And who’s to say the search for it wouldn’t open doors to things even more terrifying? Maybe thinking everything through once or twice or fifteen thousand times is always what I need to do. Maybe I’m lucky to be the way I am.

One glance around this strange room in this strange house forces me to chuckle.

Lucky.

A playful shriek from the backyard brings me back to the patio door. Kelly and Denim are two dark, bobbing heads on the surface of a glowing pool. Their legs rotate beneath them as if they’re pedaling through spin class.

Kelly’s shadowed arm rises above her head and she waves at me. Thin clouds of steam puff from her skin. The humid New York air is far behind us. San Francisco’s nights are downright chilly by comparison.

“Looks like they’re having a great time,” Randall says from behind me. I look over my shoulder. He stands in the wide doorframe of the sunroom, his smile betrayed by the worry in his eyes. “It doesn’t appear as though you are, Sara.”

“What told you that?” I glance down at my arms crossed over my chest and feel the tension in my arrow-straight posture, the dull twinges at the base of my neck migrating up the back of my head. They’ll become a full-blown headache in another hour.

Randall’s smile deepens as he enters the room and stands behind the high-backed chair a few feet from me. “I must admit, I haven’t been in many situations like this . . . on the waiting end. Not long ago, Trenton would’ve had me right there with Christopher and Sean. But time rolls along . . . catches up with us.”

“Please. You put men half your age to shame. Trenton said that to me himself only a week ago.”

“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, Sara, but thank you nonetheless.” Randall considers me a moment. “Here we are, on the other side of the country from where we began this morning, waiting for a sign of life from the man who’s the reason we’re both here. Trenton has put himself in harm’s way for our benefit and we’re powerless to help him. I’m too old. You, too young. It’s frustrating, isn’t it? Time renders us useless.”

A frown settles on my lips. “I’d prefer not to be thought of that way.”

Randall holds his hands up in front of him. “Forgive me, I meant no offense. I only wished to know if you see the situation as I do: poorly planned, maybe hopeless.”

“Time wasn’t exactly on their side either, Randall.”

“Indeed, that’s true. But Trenton never acts impulsively. There isn’t a reckless bone in that man’s body. So I can’t help but think he’s in over his head. Even with Sean and Christopher at his side, and your father’s assistance, it’ll be tough. Damn near impossible.”

I feel an emptiness take hold of me, rising through my gut into my churning stomach, slick and poisonous as mercury.

10, 21, 34, 32, 5, 0, 5, 6, 4, 9

“They’ll make it, Randall. Trenton will guide them. Have faith.”

“Faith.” Randall chuckles, though a frost has settled on his words. “Taking action is what gets us through times such as these, Sara. Not sitting around waiting for rescue. Faith is for those blind to the danger circling them.”

My eyebrows furrow. “Wait, what did you mean when you said you were waiting for a sign of life from Trenton?”

Randall freezes. “Think nothing of it. I’ve spoken too soon.”

“Have you not had any contact from him?”

He exhales a deep breath. “I have tried contacting Trenton, Sean, and Christopher, and been unable to reach any of them.”

“Well, maybe they’re busy. Or they don’t want to risk blowing their cover.”

“Perhaps, but they were supposed to be transmitting updates. I lost contact with them shortly after we arrived here and haven’t heard anything since.” Randall’s eyes drift toward the pool, reflecting his frustration over having to stay behind and babysit my friends and me while the people he cares for most in the world face an international terrorist.

I realize my desire to tag along was more selfish than beneficial. Now Trenton is down one highly trained man as he enters a perilous situation with the added job of protecting my father . . . and for what? So Denim and Kelly can go swimming?

The latch below the handle of the screen door slides off easily and I pull it open. Cool bay breezes float into the sunroom from the backyard. Kelly and Denim’s playful laughter dances through the air.

“I’m sorry, Sara.” Randall’s voice is softer now. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

“It’s okay. You’re worried. We all are.”

Even after my words of reassurance, his nervousness still doesn’t ease.

“Did your father say anything else to you about the container on the plane? Even the smallest thing could help.”

They’re the only leverage we have if things go wrong.

I shake my head. “No, nothing.”

The house suddenly seems too small for the two of us. I need a moment to myself to escape Randall’s interrogation and clear my head.

I take off my shoes and socks. I’m surprised a loud hiss doesn’t sound when my burning feet touch the cool wooden deck outside. Darkness smothers the yard and the houses around us, so inky black, the glowing pool seems suspended in nothingness.

My feet carry me down the deck and across the cold patio stone to the edge of the pool. The acid sloshing in my stomach has spread through my entire body. Every muscle burns with each quivering step.

Swirls of mist rise from the water’s turquoise surface.
I enter the pool with one final step off the patio and the acrid taste of chlorine fills my mouth. Pictures flash in front of my eyes, bleached by pool light reflecting off the concrete walls: standing in the middle of Manhattan rush-hour traffic in my nursing scrubs, the salty smell of San Francisco Bay while my father and I sit on the seawall and watch the ships come in, the warm touch of Trenton’s hand and stifling stench of his rotting wound, a knife drawn down my right arm, so deep it scrapes bone.