Frontline (34 page)

I see it all, feel it all
—fleeting moments of exhilaration swept away in an ocean of terror. My body stays beneath the surface, neither floating nor sinking, arms outstretched, toes pointed, all of me suspended. The weight of the water sucks the air from my lungs, the last bubbles from my mouth shoot over my head.

Two thin arms encircle my waist and pull me up through the surface so I meet the night air again. Strong, meaty hands wrap around my wrists and yank me from the water, dragging me over the side of the pool. Coughs erupt from so deep inside my lungs I feel they might explode through my chest.

“What the hell?” The screeching voice comes from someone positioned so close that my ears crackle like stereo speakers about to blow. “Seriously, Sara. What the hell?”

“Move back, give her some room,” a gruff voice says.

Clicks and snaps go off in front of my eyes.

“Sara, can you hear me?”

I force myself up, drawing my chest to my knees. The coughing lessens and my breathing relaxes. A small hand rubs my back in deep, soothing circles.

“Sara, can you hear me? Are you okay?”

Once my ears clear, I recognize the gruff voice as Randall’s. The rubbing hand on my back belongs to Denim. The steel-eyed glare belongs to a dripping wet Kelly.

“What the fuck was that?” Kelly says. “Did you not hear us calling you?”

I push my hand into my waterlogged pocket. The paper comes out in one wet lump, but when I pull it apart, it falls to pulpy pieces on the patio stone. Faded splotches of blue ink are nothing but illegible smears.

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

“What’s that?” Denim asks.

I reach for Kelly. “Help me up.”

Both Kelly and Denim place one of my arms around their shoulders. We walk across the deck and enter the house. In the pool lights’ reflection on the sunroom windows, I see Randall following a short distance behind us, carrying my shoes and socks. He examines the soggy pieces of paper in the palm of his other hand.

I find my feet and take some steps for myself. With help from the dishrag hanging on the front of the oven, I squeeze most of the water from my hair over the kitchen sink.

“What is this, Sara?” Randall sets my shoes and socks down on the counter and holds the destroyed pieces of paper out to me. “What was written here?”

The image of my dad and me sitting on the seawall overlooking the Port of San Francisco flashes in my mind again, but this time the vision is even more detailed. I see myself as a small girl, no more than nine or ten years old. Cruise ships and cargo vessels move smoothly through the calm waters of the bay. My father scribbles numbers in a small spiral bound notebook.

“Look how far, Dad!” The ripples from the rock I threw into the bay seconds earlier spread into wide rings. I try to catch my father’s attention before they disappear. “See if you can throw one further!”

“Hang on while I get these numbers down, Sara,” my father says. “Want to learn something neat? Come sit beside me.” He pats the flat part of the rock next to him.

“Aw, Dad, not another boring math lesson.”

“Randall, give me the blueprint of the port,” I say.

Randall reaches into his satchel on the kitchen table and pulls out a computer tablet. He presses a few times on the screen and a schematic map of the Port of San Francisco appears.

He hands it to me. I drag my forefinger and thumb over the screen to shrink the map and reveal the edges of the blueprint. Numbers listed horizontally and vertically label each gridline running through the diagram, assigning each section of the port specific coordinates.

“Is there a pen and paper I can use?”

Randall digs deeper into his satchel and hands me a dull wooden pencil and pad of Merrick Industries emblazoned paper.

See, kiddo, this is part of what I do each day for my job here. I look at this chart . . . every letter has a number . . .

“If A always equals 10, then 21 equals K . . .”

“Sara, since when did you become a friggin’ Einstein?”

“Be quiet, Denim, I’m trying to remember something.”

You’re a smart girl. I know you’ll figure it out if you have to.

Eyes closed, I see my father’s handwriting as clear as the day I sat beside him on the seawall. I write out the full chart on the paper and match the first four numbers he gave me today with their assigned letter of the alphabet.

AKVU505649

But there’s always a digit missing, Sara. It’s called the check digit. It allows me to validate
the owner code and serial number of every cargo container here at the port
.

I scribble down my calculations as I work them out, thankful I took math as an elective in college. “Add them up . . . divide by eleven . . . erase the decimal, multiply by eleven . . . subtract that from that . . . and . . . six. The check digit is six!”

Kelly and Denim look at me as if I need to be committed to a mental facility. Randall maintains a silent presence behind me.

AKVU5056496

My fingers fly across the tablet screen. I zoom in on the location on the map that corresponds to this container number.

Randall leans over my shoulder. “What the devil are you looking for, Sara?”

“I’m not looking anymore. I’ve already found it.” My voice shakes under the weight of my returning guilt. I should’ve trusted Trenton. I also should’ve told my father I trusted Trenton. Now they’re both unreachable, along with Chris and Sean, and it’s all my fault.

“Found what?” Randall asks.

“We need to get to the port right now.” I tear off the piece of the paper with the container number written on it so I can memorize it on the drive, and run to the foyer to grab dry clothes from my bag. “I know where the container is hidden and it’s not where my dad said it would be.”

Randall rides the bumper of every car in front of us, blinding them with flashing high beams and leaning on the horn until they clear the way. Dotted lane markers blur into long, winding lines. Street lamps streak across our windshield so quickly I feel like I’m sitting underneath a strobe light. I stare at my side view mirror, expecting red and blue flashers to illuminate it at any second.

“What’s my exit, Sara?” Randall asks.

Unlike Trenton’s other cars, this one isn’t equipped with fancy features or even basic GPS. Randall’s computer tablet rests in my lap. I tap the screen and scan the map.

“Turn left on Evans Avenue about one mile ahead.”

The Port of San Francisco stretches along the Embarcadero, its gateway a gleaming stone building with artisan bakeries and cafes tucked inside pier entrances. Refined colonial design blocks the view of what used to be old, dingy warehouses lining the waterfront. In recent years, as more cruise ships found their way to the port, developers overhauled the warehouses into upscale bars, boutiques, and souvenir shops, eager to snatch some of the boatloads of tourist dollars.

But travel a little farther south on the Embarcadero
and any signs of modernization and upgrades on the shoreline slowly disappear. By the time the Embarcadero becomes the Southern Embarcadero Freeway and we cut east into the South Basin, the piers return to their former barren selves. Dilapidated storage houses with shattered windows and rusted sheet-metal exteriors stand in long rows behind a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.

Randall switches off the headlights as we glide over the crunch and crackle of the gravel pathway. He pulls the car up against the fencing, cuts the engine, and reaches beneath his seat, producing a pair of binoculars.

A thick, unnerving silence replaces the growling engine, screeching tires, and horns from a few moments ago. As I predicted, the throbbing at the base of my neck has risen into the back of my head. A stiff, persistent pain shoots along my temples and detonates against my eyes. My brain feels as if it’s held in the ever-tightening grip of thin, bony fingers.

“What are we waiting for?” Kelly asks.

Randall scours each gateway from the driver’s seat, his newsboy cap pulled low over his forehead. “A way in.”

“We have to hurry,” I say. “They could be dead already.”

Randall places the binoculars in his lap and glares through the windshield. “Don’t complain to me of delays, Sara. Not after you intentionally withheld important information from me after their departure.”

My body tingles. I can’t sit still while Trenton, Chris, Sean, and my father are only a short distance away and probably in danger, if they’re even still alive at all.

“Can’t we just, like, jump the fence or something? Or maybe cut a hole in it?” Denim says from the backseat.

“Perhaps some years back that would’ve been a suitable solution, Miss Jacobson.” Randall looks over his shoulder at her. “But port security is at an all-time high these days. Make no mistake, this might look like nothing more than decaying warehouses, but there are cameras and eyes everywhere.”

“Which is exactly how I don’t get they might be in danger,” Kelly says. “If there’s as much security as you say there is, how could anything happen inside that wouldn’t be seen?”

“You make the false assumption that each security guard is only collecting one paycheck, Miss Sheridan,” Randall replies. “Certain port workers are bought and paid for several times over by men like Kedrov. They make their money by looking the other way when he tells them to
—or relaying information regarding suspicious persons lingering where they shouldn’t be.”

A large navy sign with bold red letters reading Pier 70 and its hours of operation sits mounted against the tallest section of fence. Next to it, a smaller section sits on two black wheels. The steel chain that fastens the gate to the fence dangles over the gate’s crossbar. In the dim orange light glowing from the mobile trailer office just behind the fence, a
small opening reveals itself.

Two silhouettes emerge from behind the mobile office. They shake hands before one slips out of the small opening in the gate, tossing his keys up and down in front of him as he walks. A beige Ford sedan’s lights blink upon his approach. He opens the driver’s side, places his lunchbox on the passenger seat, revs the engine, and speeds out of the gravel lot toward the main road.

The second man sits on the edge of the crooked wooden porch in front of the trailer. A flame flashes in front of his face as he lights a cigarette. It lingers long enough for me to notice a thick beard and a shaggy mane of shoulder-length gray hair.

I remember the hair, discolored a sickly yellow at the front from years of smoking, and my mother’s constant reminders at barbeques to take his “cancer sticks into the side yard”. The name Tommy Mills quickly comes to mind. The man flicks the match to his feet and inhales, the light at the tip of his cigarette glowing dark orange.

I hand the tablet to Randall and reach for my door handle. “I know a way in.”

“Sara, wait
—” Randall is cut off when I slam the passenger door shut.

The gravel crunches beneath my sneakers as I approach the gate. Tommy’s cigarette glows brighter as a plume of smoke drifts over his head. I feel his eyes all over me.

“Tommy?” I say tentatively.

“Yeah?” He stands and steps toward the gate.

“Hey, it’s me. Sara Peters.”

“Sara . . . Peters?”

The lamp perched above the gate shines on me like a spotlight. Tommy stands at the edge of the light’s glow, but his scraggly gray beard and the dirt smears on the T-shirt stretching over his prominent belly are all visible.

“Allan’s daughter. Don’t you remember me? You came to a few of my family’s summer barbecues.”

“What can I do for you, Sara?” he says, exhaling a long stream of smoke through his nostrils. His directness surprises me. I had hoped for a,
hey, how are you?
Or at the very least, a friendlier tone.

“Well, I’m here on a surprise visit to see my dad and I can’t seem to find him anywhere.”

“Uh huh.” One more drag on his cigarette burns it to the last nub. Tommy flicks it over his shoulder. It hits the ground in a flurry of sparks and smolders in the dirt.

“So, is he here? I’ve been looking for him for a while. I’m afraid he’s probably heard from someone by now. So much for surprise.” I force a laugh.

“I haven’t seen your father.” Tommy steps back, but he freezes when three car doors slam shut. A quick look over my shoulder reveals Randall, Kelly, and Denim approaching us.

Tommy’s dour expression turns dumbfounded
when his eyes settle on Kelly. “Are these people with you?”

“Tommy, please meet my friends, uh . . . Ashley and Megan, and an old friend of my father’s . . . Dennis.” I gesture to Tommy. “And guys, I’d like you to meet a longtime family friend and co-worker of my father’s, Tommy Mills.”

“Hello, Tommy,” Randall steps closer to the gate, as if a handshake through it might somehow be possible.

Denim giggles. “So your name is Tommy? And you work on the docks?”

I frown at her.

“What?” she says, still giggling. “I’m a huge Bon Jovi fan.”

Tommy’s eyes don’t leave Kelly. She throws her hair back over her shoulders and offers him a half-smile and a few blinks of her eyes.

“Nice,” he murmurs.

“Listen, Tommy.” Randall moves even closer to the fence, his nose almost touching the chain-link. “We’ve been all over hell’s half acre this evening trying to chase down Allan Peters. Have you happened upon him recently?”

Tommy reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

“Haven’t seen him.” He raises the pack to his mouth and captures a cigarette between his lips. Another match appears. He lifts his left foot and strikes the match against the heel of it, staring at Kelly the whole time.

Kelly presents her best flirtatious smile. “You sure know how to play with fire, don’t you, Tommy?” she says, her voice low and sultry.

Tommy’s icy demeanor puddles at his feet.

“Not at all, huh?” Randall says. “No sign of him?”

“I said no.”

Kelly steps up to the fence. She straightens her back and her breasts bulge against her blouse. “This place looks so mysterious, especially at night. Do you think you could show us around, Tommy?”

“Sure, come on in.”

Randall slides through the gate opening and I follow. Tommy glares at us.

“I don’t mean you. Just her.” He exhales another long stream through his nostrils and points his cigarette at Kelly.

“Yes, well, do you mind if we take a look around ourselves?” Randall asks.

Tommy barely has time to open his mouth to protest. Randall’s right elbow swings in an uppercut that cracks him beneath his jaw. Tommy stumbles back, throwing his hands out behind him to break his fall. Randall follows with a swift kick to his gut.

Any wind Tommy inhaled on the way down finds its way straight back out his mouth, a hole Randall plugs when the heel of his boot meets the bottom of Tommy’s chin. Blood gushes from Tommy’s lips and his head rolls back as he slumps to the ground.

Denim slams her hand across her mouth, muffling a shriek.

Randall kneels next to Tommy’s unconscious body and runs his hands over his pockets. “Miss Sheridan, Miss Jacobson, it’s safe to come in now.”

They slip through the fence and gather with me at Randall’s side. Sweat beads on the back of my neck and I feel my shirt cling to me. Any concern I had over not bringing my jacket to the port vanishes.

“Understand, ladies, we have crossed a line now.” Randall fixes us with stern eyes. “Stick close to me and do what I say if you want to make it back through the gate alive.”

Randall heaves Tommy’s flabby body onto its side. Inertia carries him over onto his stomach. Randall glides his hands over the back of Tommy’s T-shirt and stops at his waistline. He yanks the bottom of the T-shirt up to reveal the handle of a gun. With its short, stubby barrel and textured handgrip, it wouldn’t look out of place on a shelf at the neighborhood toy store.

“A P-96M,” he says, pulling back the slide on top of the barrel. A bullet pops out the side and he catches it in his left hand. “Russian. Why am I not surprised?”

Randall presses a release on the side of the barrel and a magazine slides out of the bottom of the pistol’s handgrip. He presses the lone shell into the top of the magazine and slides it back inside.

“Crouch down here, ladies, out of the light.”

The three of us kneel in the dirt around Tommy’s unconscious body.

“We have only minutes until we’re discovered, unless we stay out of sight. I’m going to take a look inside the office.” Randall motions to the trailer. “When I give the all-clear, stay low and join me inside. If I don’t and something happens, get back through the gate, into the car, and get yourselves out of here.”

He pulls the car keys from his pocket, wraps his fingers around them to silence the clinking, and holds them out to me. As soon as they land in my palm, he makes for the office, shuffling across the gravel in a crouch, the pistol held with both hands in front of him. I slide the keys into my pocket.

Randall lowers the pistol when he arrives at the wooden porch. He turns and scales it backward, looking to his left and right. Leaning against the siding next to the office door, he wraps his hand around the doorknob and turns it slowly. It releases. The door creaks open, casting a thin beam of blue light onto the porch. Silent as a shadow, he disappears into the trailer.

“We forgot to ask what the signal is,” Denim whispers.

“I think we’ll know it when we see it,” Kelly says.

If something happens in the next few seconds and we have to run, I think of all the different things that could go wrong between here and the car door, like Kelly, Denim, and I jumping up and running for the gate at the same time. Surely one of us will trip. I brush my hand over my shoelaces to make sure they’re tied, never taking my eyes off the office door.

And if we make it through the gate, what will happen then? Will all three of us dodge the inevitable storm of bullets? I’m pretty sure my luck has run out on accomplishing that. And if we make it to the car, where the hell do we go?

To my parents’ house? Probably a bad move.

To the safe house?

A nervous twinge burns through my gut when I realize I don’t remember the way.

Relief fans me like a cool bay breeze when Randall’s face peeks through the small crack in the doorway. He checks both directions before he opens the door wider and motions for us to join him. One by one, we copy his crouching run maneuver as best we can, Denim first, Kelly second, and then me.

Randall closes the door and locks it behind me as soon as I enter the trailer. A small television plays the late night news in the far corner. The glow from the screen throws different colors over random spots in the room. I see Styrofoam coffee cups turned on their sides and newspaper pages stacked high on the corner of the desk, spilling over the edge. A plate with two crusts of pizza and a phone base missing its wireless receiver sit on top of a steel filing cabinet.