Frontline

by Alexandra Richland

  The car decelerates to a low purr.

  “Thank you,” Trenton says.

  I giggle and pull my bunched-up dress down from around my hips. “Shouldn’t I be the one thanking you?”

  Trenton looks at me with a glassy, sexed-up gaze. “If you knew how I felt just now, seeing you fall apart because of my touch, how beautiful you looked, you wouldn’t question me, Sara.”

  Well, well, well, look at that. Trenton Merrick is a gentleman. A dirty-talking, horny gentleman.

  “Would you like me to . . .?” I eye the bulge under his dress pants.

  He smirks and eases down in his seat. “That can wait until later. Believe me, I’m not done with you yet.”

  The pulses between my legs kick into high gear, my body eager for seconds.

  “So you meant what you said about after the benefit?” I say, twirling one of my earrings.

  Trenton flexes his hand on the steering wheel. “I’m a man of my word, Miss Peters.”

  I settle back in my seat, too, and flash a giddy smile. “Good.”

  Mere days ago, I told Trenton I wanted to take things slow, but when he’s looking so fine in his tuxedo and giving me the best orgasm I’ve ever had with only his hand—not to mention being so sweet and charming and funny and normal—it’s hard not to want him.

  Normally, I’d question my sanity in allowing some guy I’ve known for a week to touch me like that in a speeding car, but this new Sara, the woman Trenton brings out of me, doesn’t regret what just happened. As crazy as it sounds—even after all I’ve been through with him—I trust his feelings for me. I want to move forward with him physically, emotionally, in every way possible.

  My current state of euphoria is so persuasive I now hold zero reservations about arriving on his arm tonight at the benefit. In fact, I refuse to let the rich attendees intimidate me. I’m going to be myself because that’s what Trenton likes—me—not some person who puts on airs. If his social circle doesn’t accept that, well, too bad for them.

  The low drone of the wheels rolling over asphalt overtakes the car as a comfortable silence settles between us.

  The Bugatti rides so close to the ground, looking through the window is like watching footage from a camera strapped to a regular car’s bumper. Every so often a pebble clangs against the side of the car as it jumps up from the road. Trenton winces each time, no doubt envisioning a large chunk of paint going with it, regardless that he could probably afford to buy a thousand Bugattis to replace this one.

  He pulls his hand from mine and straightens himself in his seat as an even louder ping cracks off the back of the car.

  “Wow, that sounded like a huge one,” I say.

  Trenton’s eyes are wide and focused in the rearview mirror. “Sara, duck!”

  “Huh?”

  Trenton pushes my head down into my lap as another ping ricochets off the driver’s side door. Then another. Then about two thousand at the same time.

  “Shit!” Trenton yanks the wheel to the left, and our tires screech as the Bugatti fishtails in the middle of the road.

  A cry blasts from my mouth. I brace my hand on the dashboard and squeeze my eyes shut. The force of the turn hurls me against the passenger side door.

  “Oh my God, what’s happening?”

  “Someone’s shooting at us!”

  I look at Trenton in disbelief. “What?”

  I peer through the driver’s side window just long enough to see the front grill of a black cargo van barreling toward us. Trenton slams his foot on the accelerator and yanks the wheel to the right.

  “Sara, get down!” He grabs a fistful of my hair and shoves my head back down between my legs, maneuvering the steering wheel with his other hand.

  Three shrill beeps punctuate the brief silence between gunshots and the roar of the Bugatti’s engine. The tires finally catch and we blast down the road.

  “Incoming call,” says a robotic female voice. “Incoming call.”

  Trenton presses a button on the steering wheel.

  Sean’s voice bellows from the car speakers. “Trent? What’s going on?”

  “We’re being shot at!” Trenton turns on the headlights and accelerates even more. The needle races around the top end of the speedometer. He’s giving Kelly and her lead foot a run for her money.

  “We’re tracking you using the Bugatti’s GPS,” Sean says. “We’re on our way.”

  Trenton’s eyes bounce between the windshield and the rearview mirror. “How far are you?”

  “ETA: seven and a half minutes by air.”

  Another hail of bullets scatters over the car. I scream and duck my head again, my heart pounding so hard I can’t catch my breath.

  “Trent? Are you there?”

  Trenton plants both hands on the wheel. “Yes, goddamn it!”

  “How much damage have you taken?”

  “We’re fine, the bulletproof body is holding up, but it’s only a matter of time before they hit the tires.”

  “Stay on the line,” Sean says.

  A loud crunch sounds as the asphalt gives way to gravel. The car shifts and skates to the right. Trenton jerks the wheel hard to the left and we skid to the edge of the road as it slopes into a scummy ditch. My head slams against the rear of the seat and then sideways against the window. My right ear crackles. Blazing white lights fracture my vision.

  “Trenton, we’re going to die!”

  “Hang on, Sara!”

  The cargo van screeches to a stop in front of the Bugatti.

  Trenton slams the gearshift in reverse and spews a shower of gravel toward the van just as its side door slides open. A man in a black balaclava levels a gun at our windshield and fire ignites at the mouth of its barrel.

  Trenton’s hand pounds the top of my head again. “For Christ’s sake, Sara, I said stay down!”

  Another storm of bullets bombards the front of the Bugatti, pelting like hailstones against a metal roof. Trenton plows forward. Bullets explode against my side of the car. I stop screaming and keep low, peeking over the dashboard to see Trenton swerve around the van’s back end. We blast off down the road, leaving the cargo van in our dust.

  Trenton smashes his hand against the steering wheel. “Take that, you bastards!”

  “Trent? Everything okay? We’re close, five minutes out,” Sean says over the intercom.

  “We’re still alive down here,” Trenton says, his voice celebratory. He glances at me again, then the rearview mirror. “Sara, sit up. It’s okay now. We can outrace them, we’re—”

  A storm of sparks and glass shards shower Trenton from behind and engulf the front of the car. Blinding orange light scorches my eyes. My arms shoot forward, but the seatbelt jerks me backward, then all at once, we veer sideways. The force throws Trenton against the driver’s side window. My elbow slams into him as I’m thrown toward his seat. The crunch of gravel gives way to a muffled thud as the car catches the muddy shoulder and finally stops.

  “Trent? Are you there? Answer me!”

  Sean’s voice echoes through a choir of deafening chimes clanging in my ears. I blink, trying to refocus, and roll against the door.

  “We’re alive,” Trenton replies. “Tires are blown. A window, too.”

  “Abandon the vehicle. We’ll track you using Sara’s earrings.”

  My earrings?

  It isn’t until my eyes meet Trenton’s that I realize my vision is blurry with tears.

  “Sara, get out,” he says, unclipping my seatbelt. “We need to run.”

  My door opens easily and I spill out onto soft grass that feels cool and itchy against my sweat-soaked skin. A sob retches from my throat as I push against the ground with both hands to steady myself and pull my legs under me. Pebbles stab the bottoms of my feet.

  Where the hell are my shoes?

  I take a deep breath and try to stand as Trenton grabs my right arm and grips it like a vice, pulling me forward.

  “Run, Sara!”

  I follow Trenton as we
rush hand-in-hand into the ditch and push through cattail reeds to the other side. A thin stream of blood trickles down the left side of his face; he no longer wears his tuxedo jacket or bowtie, and his dress shirt and pants are torn in several spots.

  “Come on, Sara. We have to run!”

  We clear a small embankment and dash into the forest. Shadows thicken between the trees as the sun sets behind them. My feet pick up speed beneath me despite the sticks and pine needles blanketing the forest floor that stab my soles and toes like a million tiny bee stings. I gasp for air and my stomach churns as we near a fallen log.

  “Faster, Sara! Come on!”

  I yank free of Trenton’s grip and slam my hands against the log’s rotten bark. My stomach lurches, shooting a stream of bile into my mouth. I choke on the suffocating burn that singes my throat, making it all the harder to gasp for more air.

  “We have to keep moving,” Trenton says, and he pulls me forward again.

  We hop over the log and sprint down the pathway. Low, muffled voices sound from behind us, and gunshots explode seconds later, whistling into the trees and cracking overhead like thunder. I scream and trip when my foot lands on a jagged rock, but Trenton’s grip keeps me upright.

  “Keep running. We have to keep running!”

  Bullets stream past us like speeding fireflies. My heart throws itself against my chest and thuds in my ears. I scream again, but my breath is so short and my throat so raw, I don’t even hear it.

  Trenton yanks me off the small footpath through a thick clump of evergreens, leaping over two more fallen logs and sprinting across a muddy clearing on the other side. My beautiful dress is torn to shreds, and it might as well have a bull’s-eye on it, since it is now being used for target practice—which, in my opinion, these assailants could use a lot more of.

  The gunshots finally dissipate, giving way to the distant rumble of a helicopter. Trenton stops and looks skyward. I never thought I’d be so excited or relieved to see his Tin Men.

  “That’s Sean and Chris. Let’s go!”

  My feet burn with the stabbing pains of twigs and rocks. Blood gushes between my toes. Trenton leads me down a short, descending pathway, carpeted in dry leaves. Rocks jut out of the hillside like broken stairs in a condemned house. The pathway opens into a deep canyon. Thick mist rises from the wild river beneath, clouding the rope bridge that stretches out over it.

  “Your men aren’t going to see us!” I yell.

  The river’s deafening roar drowns the faint engine of the helicopter. Both of us look upward, our view of the sky blocked by thick tree branches.

  “Sara, are you hit?” Trenton turns to me and grabs a hold of my upper arms, frantically scanning my body for injury.

  It takes me a moment to answer with something other than a sob. “No. At least, I—I don’t think so.”

  “Stay here, okay? And keep low.” Trenton dips his head, leveling our eyes. “I have to get out to the middle of the bridge and signal to them.”

  “The gunmen will see you! They’re right behind us!”

  Trenton sprints out onto the bridge. The flimsy boards and ropes sag beneath his weight. Halfway across, he looks up and waves his hands above his head. Mist soaks his shirt, displaying the strong muscles of his torso. Veins pop at the side of his neck and his complexion turns crimson as he screams over the rushing water.

  Tears soak my cheeks and I shiver as I crouch into the bushes at the side of the pathway and scan behind me for signs of the gunmen.

  Trenton doesn’t stop his frantic waving until the helicopter shifts its course in his direction, the swirling blades blowing denser mist all over him.

  He turns to me. “Come on, Sara! Run!”

  I jump from my hiding spot and start out onto the bridge. Blinding pain shoots from the bottoms of my sliced feet and I almost slip on the bridge’s slick wooden boards. The whole bridge lists and sways underneath me. I grab the frayed rope at the side to steady myself.

  The helicopter flies overhead and begins its descent further downstream.

  “Where’s he going?” I shout to Trenton.

  “The canyon walls are too close together above us. They have to go further downriver where it’s wider and then throw out the ladder.”

  “How are we going to—?”

  “Give me your hand!” Trenton grabs my right hand and throws his right leg over the rope.

  I dig my heels into the bridge and look down at the rushing water. “Are you kidding me? No way!”

  “It’s deep enough here.” Trenton tugs on my hand. “Come on. We have to jump.”

  “Trenton, we’re not going to make it!”

  “Just hold on to me. Don’t let go of my hand. I won’t lose you.”

  “Trenton, I—I can’t.” I yank my hand free of his grip as he brings his left leg over the rope and steadies himself on the edge of the bridge.

  He reaches back over the rope for me.

  “Sara, they’re coming. Come on!”

  I shake my head. “There must be some other way. I—I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”

  Trenton lunges for me over the rope. I jump back just as a bullet screeches past me and slams into his left shoulder. The force of the shot knocks him back.

  A scream tears through my parched throat as his feet fly out from under him and his body soars over the water. His right hand tightens around the rope and the whole bridge tips under his weight, tilting it toward him. I slip and tumble down beneath the rope, but catch it with both hands before sliding over the edge.

  Trenton and I face each other as we dangle from the bridge, the water surging beneath, ready to carry us away.

  “Sara, let go!” Trenton says. Blood soaks his shirt. His left arm hangs at a weird angle from his body, like a tree limb broken in a windstorm.

  Gunfire erupts again, this time from the helicopter, as Christopher leans out of the cabin door and opens fire. Bullets scatter through the trees and spark against the granite cliffs at the mouth of the bridge.

  “Sara, let go.” Trenton gasps, as if every word and every breath takes more effort than the last. His face looks paler than normal. “I’ll be there with you. We’ll make it.”

  Eyes wild with obvious pain, he moves his injured arm toward me. I tear my right hand from the rope and reach for him. To think that only a short time ago, he was handing me a small felt box in the safety of my apartment and sending me over the moon with his tender touch between my legs.

  This is not the kind of plunge I dreamed of us taking together.

  Our two cold, clammy hands meet. Trenton’s eyes lock on mine, and for an instant, I feel we can do this. That instant is all it takes. Our feet hit the water and the freezing river swallows us.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cold lashes my body, clutching me in its freezing inferno; a grip so icy, it burns. Air erupts from deep inside my lungs and bursts through my pursed lips. Thousands of bubbles explode into the white water like passengers escaping a sinking ship. I’m tossed between endless volleys of waves that strike me from every direction. Mouthfuls of acrid water slosh down my throat. Above, dusk scatters beams across the river’s surface; brief flashes of blood red light through walls of gray foam before I’m pulled under into blackness.

  And through it all, Trenton’s hand . . .

  I wake upon a soft mattress buried beneath a mountain of down blankets, still soaked, but now with sweat. White sunlight bleaches the eggshell walls and the room glows. My pulse pounds through my head, each second a new twinge of pain surging behind my eyes. The bitter taste of the river burns the back of my throat and nausea coats me like a hangover.

  I cast my legs over the side of the bed, feeling heavy cotton material travel with me across the sheets, and realize I’m wrapped in a thick bathrobe. Woolen socks cover my feet. I pull the bathrobe open and even the room-temperature air feels cool against my burning skin.

  I’m still wearing my bra and thong. Whoever undressed me was apparently a gentleman. Not that the un
dergarments leave much to the imagination.

  My purse, which I forgot in the Bugatti, rests on the nightstand. I rifle through its contents and find everything accounted for except my cell phone. I have a feeling this isn’t by accident. What’s left of my dress lies on the floor, a tattered heap of damp red ribbons. I stumble past it, the sores on the bottoms of my feet awakening, and for a moment, I’m back in the forest—twigs, rocks, and pine needles stabbing away even as my feet sink into the bedroom’s soft, plush carpet. The sting feels slightly muted and I detect the sticky tightness of bandages beneath the socks after a couple more strides toward the door.

  Footsteps thud outside, accompanied by the clinking of glassware. The door opens to reveal a casually dressed Randall carrying a wood tray piled with a mug, a stainless steel pitcher, bottled water, syrup, utensils, and two steaming hot platters. The condensation against the undersides of the glass domes masks the platters’ contents.

  “Good morning, Miss Peters,” he says, a wide smile accompanying his wide eyes. “I’m glad you’re finally awake. I thought I’d bring you something to eat. You must be famished.”

  “Where . . .?” The rest of my words evaporate in my parched throat.

  Randall lays the tray on a nearby desk and holds his hand up for me to pause. He quickly pours me a cup of hot coffee. I take a small sip and let the bitter liquid slip down my throat and rejuvenate my voice, barely swallowing before continuing.

  “Where are we? Where’s Trenton?” I look at the bedside clock. It’s almost eleven in the morning. On what day, I’m still uncertain.

  “He’s occupied at the moment.” Randall’s smile retreats slightly. “We’re currently in a cabin in the Adirondack Mountains. We’ve been here just over fourteen hours. This is the safest place for everyone and I’m told we’re staying put until all this business is sorted.”

  “I should see him.” I set my coffee mug down on the table and spy the two earrings Trenton gave me next to the breakfast tray.

  We’ll track you using Sara’s earrings.

  A flood of anger fills my chest.

  “How are his wounds?” My words sound cold and terse.