Frontline

by Alexandra Richland

  The last few weeks have been strewn with moments like this: where I have to make a decision I’m not ready to make until I’ve had some time to think. But these moments don’t give you that kind of time. They demand immediate action. Any hesitation is disastrous. Perhaps it’s true what Randall said: Time renders us useless.

  Those words echo so loudly in my mind that if Randall says anything as I pull the pistol from my belt, disengage the safety, and step out from our hiding spot behind the crates, I don’t hear him. But I do hear the three semi-automatic rifles cock as they’re pointed at me and Kedrov’s men tell me to drop my gun.

  Kedrov freezes, holding the flashlight in mid-air.

  Blood coats the horror on Trenton’s face when he sees me.

  “Stop hitting him! I know where the container is!” I repeat this over and over until Kedrov registers I’m here and pointing a gun at him.

  The three guards look from Kedrov, to me, to Kedrov, back to me, waiting for a signal.

  Instead, Kedrov lowers the flashlight. “And who might you be, my dear?”

  “Sara, get out of here!” Trenton chokes on the blood flowing down his cheeks and around the corners of his mouth. The chains rattle as he struggles against them.

  “Sara? That’s a lovely name.” Kedrov’s eyes narrow as he considers me a moment and then glances at my father’s body. A wide smile streaks across his face. “Of course, Sara Peters! How wonderful to see you again. So your father brought you along to the port.” He shakes his head. “Can’t say I’m surprised. He was never a bright man.”

  Was . . .

  “I’m the only one who knows where the container is and I’ll take you to it.” I keep my eyes off Trenton so I don’t lose my nerve. “But you are not to hurt Mr. Merrick and his men further. Or else.”

  With his sinister smile intact, Kedrov places the flashlight on the floor and inches closer. “Or else what?”

  The fact that three semi-automatics are pointed at me, and my life could end in the next instant with the simple jerk of a finger, makes my knees wobble. There are no targets here I can hope to hit before a shot comes from one of Kedrov’s men and kills me on the spot. So instead, I take aim at the one target I know I can hit, and right now, is the only kill that would ensure Kedrov’s container stays lost for good.

  I bend my right arm and press the muzzle to the side of my head. “Or else this.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Sara, put the gun down right now!”

  “Listen to Mr. Merrick, Sara.” Kedrov raises his hands slowly, as if he’s afraid he’ll lose his balance. “This can be worked out. No one else needs to get hurt.”

  “Sara, I mean it. Put down the gun!”

  “My dad,” I point to his body, “is he alive?”

  “I felt a pulse, but it’s faint,” Kedrov says.

  “I don’t trust you. I want to check for myself.”

  Kedrov nods. “Please, by all means. But my dear, you’re scaring everyone. Lower the gun first.”

  My arm vibrates so hard I doubt I’d even hit myself if I pulled the trigger.

  “I’m your last hope of getting to the correct container.”

  “Yes, Sara. You help me and I will help your father.”

  Nothing about Kedrov indicates I should trust him, but what other choice do I have? I lower the pistol and slide it into my waistband.

  The guard who examined the inside of the container runs to the stack of crates Randall and I hid behind. I brace myself for shots to ring out. Seconds pass. Nothing happens.

  Relief floods me. I hope this means Randall escaped.

  The two remaining guards keep their guns trained on me until their boss waves them off. I kneel next to my father’s body and place two fingers over his carotid artery, confirming Kedrov’s assessment of his pulse.

  Wiping the gooey, congealed blood from the side of his face, I examine him more closely. His jawbone feels dislocated. I force his eyelids open. Streaks of red shoot across his pupils.

  “Dad? Can you hear me?”

  His left ear, bloated to twice its normal size, hemorrhages from the canal. The blow to his head impacted his neck in some way, but I don’t want to move him to determine the extent of the damage and risk making it worse.

  “You speak of trust, Sara.” Kedrov creeps closer to me. “How am I to trust you know the location of my container? And how am I to trust you are here alone?”

  “My dad gave me the real location earlier today.” I stand up and back away from Kedrov and my father. “He said to use it in case anything happened to him.”

  “I see.” Kedrov raises his eyebrows at the first guard, who reemerges from behind the stack of crates. The guard shakes his head.

  “And I am here alone,” I say.

  “Keep looking.” Kedrov glances at the other guards and tilts his head toward the crates. “We did just meet again after many years, Sara. Trust returns with time.”

  All three guards disperse into the maze.

  “Sara, I want you to leave right now.” Trenton’s voice remains firm, detached.

  I keep my eyes locked on Kedrov. “I will take you to the container. But I want medical attention for my father first, and I want Mr. Merrick and his men to go free.”

  “No!” Trenton wriggles against the restraints. “Damn it, Sara, do as I say.”

  “Medical attention for your father will be called when you bring me and my men to the container and I ensure it is the proper one, not some decoy. Mr. Merrick’s men will also be free to go, unarmed, at that time.” Kedrov chuckles and glances at their unconscious bodies. “Or when they see fit to wake up. As for Mr. Merrick, he stays with me. I will not give up Wall Street’s golden boy so soon.”

  I shake my head. “Then we don’t have a deal.”

  “Then your father can die!” Kedrov’s face burns crimson.

  “You will not do this, Sara,” Trenton says. “Get out of here now.”

  I glare at him. “I’m not leaving my father and I’m not leaving you.”

  “Oh, how did I not see it earlier?” Kedrov places his hand over his heart. “Lovers!” His head falls back as his whole body convulses with laughter. It bounces off the concrete walls and echoes through the steel rafters above us. Once he catches his breath, he blinks away tears and polishes his glasses on the sleeve of his sweater. “Well, Sara, do we have a deal?”

  “Tell him no, Sara.” Trenton’s eyes, glowing through swollen lumps and bloody skin, match his hard tone.

  “Yes, we have a deal.”

  Kedrov cups his hands around his mouth and bellows something in Russian. His three henchmen reappear from the maze of crates, their rifles shouldered. One cuts the chain that holds Trenton, Sean, and Chris against the pole. The other two grab Sean and Chris beneath their arms, drag them into the empty shipping container, and lock them inside.

  Kedrov smirks. “Feel free to come back and release your men when we’ve concluded our business, Mr. Merrick.”

  Trenton pulls his feet beneath him and rises as drops of blood slide over his chin and land on his filthy suit jacket. “You won’t make it out of the port with that container, Kedrov.”

  “A bold prediction, given your current state.” Kedrov gestures to the exit. “Shall we?”

  A guard flanks me on each side as our group walks to the door. One pulls the gun from my waistband and slips it into an empty holster on his hip.

  Kedrov and the third guard accompany Trenton. He’s shoved ahead each time he glances over his shoulder at me and tries to speak.

  Outside, early morning stars twinkle above a dark red streak glowing across the horizon. Two black Land Rovers sit next to the warehouse. Kedrov climbs into the passenger seat of the lead SUV. One guard climbs behind the wheel while another guard binds my wrists with a plastic tie. He herds me into the backseat and slides in beside me. Trenton sits down on the guard’s other side, his hands still bound.

  “Follow closely.” Kedrov tosses the third guard the k
eys to the other Land Rover and shuts his door.

  An ominous silence fills the car on our drive. I keep my eyes trained through the windshield. Trenton’s battered and bloody presence remains a haunting reminder that I’m in way over my head.

  We pull up to the gate of Pier 70. The driver exits the car, approaches the gate that Randall, Denim, Kelly, and I stole through a short time ago, and thrusts it open. Tommy’s body is gone. Either he woke up with a splitting headache and made a run for it, or Randall dragged him somewhere out of sight after leaving the warehouse.

  Kedrov looks at me over his shoulder. “The coordinates please, Sara.”

  “What’s to stop you from killing us both right now if I tell you?” In my peripheral view, I search for signs that Kelly and Denim are watching us from the window of the mobile trailer, but it looks as dark and abandoned as the rest of the buildings. “I’ll direct you from back here.”

  Kedrov’s malicious smirk makes another appearance. “Prudent girl.”

  The guard returns to the driver’s seat and we pull through the open gate. The Cadillac I arrived in is gone. I exhale, relieved that they got out all right, though what that means for the success of my mission, I’m afraid to know.

  The Land Rover thunders down the road alongside the port. It’s virtually empty now, with only a few late-night stragglers heading home to grab what little sleep they can and morning go-getters making their way to their offices, coffees steaming in the cup holders next to them.

  “Make a right here,” I say.

  The driver steers onto Third Street and we cross a narrow bridge leading to another section of industrial parks. Kedrov scans some street markers, pulls his phone from his pocket, and finds our location using a map on his screen. He pushes a button, and latitude and longitude coordinates appear at the top of the interface. The numbers change as we continue down the street.

  I recalculate the algorithm in my head and feel reassured when I end up with the same container number I calculated back at the safe house: AKVU5056496. I hope it leads us to the correct location at the port or else Trenton and I are as good as dead—or perhaps we are regardless.

  Another right turn leads us through a slight jog and up to another gated chain-link fence. A sign across it reads Private Property: No Trespassing. The driver stops the car and looks at Kedrov.

  Kedrov glances up from his phone and growls something in Russian. The driver motions to the gate through the windshield and says something back. Kedrov’s voice turns menacing, his next words slow and icy. Sheepishly, the driver opens his door and runs up to the gate.

  “Threatening the lives of your men’s families—well played, Kedrov,” Trenton says in his own menacing tone. “A fine display of leadership.”

  “As opposed to leading men to their capture and torture.” Kedrov regards Trenton around the passenger seat’s headrest. “That’s your style, yes?”

  A chuckle follows when Trenton grits his teeth and doesn’t respond.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Merrick? Nervous that they’re not here for you to hide behind?”

  Trenton’s jaw clenches tighter. “I don’t hide behind anyone, Kedrov.”

  The driver opens the gate and returns to the Land Rover. A yard of crumbling, gray asphalt tattooed with wide circles of tire burns lies before us. Multiple signs displaying No Parking Anytime decorate each section of the fence.

  The lane narrows between two decaying storage houses pocked with smashed windows and sheet metal siding so rusty we might need tetanus shots if we get any closer. The exterior of the building on the right has been completely removed, offering a view of the collection of graffiti-covered cube trucks and panel vans inside missing wheels, windows, and even doors.

  “You’re a little undermanned, aren’t you, Kedrov?” Trenton’s tone drips with sarcasm. “Do you expect these three men to help you carry the container out of here?”

  Kedrov raises his cell phone to his ear. “Nearing location now. Stand by for transmission of exact coordinates.” He turns around to face Trenton again. “You’ll have your answer soon enough, Mr. Merrick.”

  We inch down the laneway and round the back of the storage house. My mind swirls with déjà vu. A small yard of stamped concrete stained with brown patches of dried oil and strewn with a few parts of old machinery act as the final barrier before a mass of jagged stone rises high above it, marking the beginning of the seawall overlooking San Francisco Bay.

  I recognize the two flat-topped boulders at the peak of the seawall where my father and I sat when I visited him almost every weekend so many years ago. There, at the far end of the yard, as unassuming as every other rickety contraption, sits a metal sea container.

  Even with the armed guard sitting next to me and my life in danger, I still manage a slight smile.

  I promise I won’t fail you again.

  You didn’t, Dad.

  Kedrov thrusts a bony finger in the direction of the container. “There!”

  The driver steers the Land Rover into the lot and lurches to a stop. The second Land Rover pulls up next to us. Kedrov and both drivers open their doors and spring out of the vehicles.

  The guard sitting between Trenton and me pulls out the gun he took from me earlier and smacks the barrel against Trenton’s shoulder. “Get out.”

  Trenton lifts his bound hands to the door release, pulls it, and nudges the door open with his right shoulder. I push across the seat and throw my legs out onto the concrete behind the guard, who points the handgun at Trenton.

  The red streak across the horizon rises into the darkness above us, swallowing the low-hanging stars. My breath fogs in the chilly air.

  Kedrov grins. “I give your father credit, Sara. Hiding the container in plain sight, yet tucked away like a forgotten piece of junk. Perhaps he possesses some intelligence after all.”

  The guard who opened the decoy container retrieves another set of bolt cutters from the car and cuts through the locks on the door. With another heave, he throws the door open and shines his flashlight inside. He smiles, nods to Kedrov, and enters the container.

  “Call the ambulance for my father now,” I say. “Give them the location: Pier 70, warehouse—”

  “I must make another call first.” Kedrov lifts his phone to his ear. “Exact coordinates are as follows.” He reads a series of numbers off the screen. “Be here in two minutes.”

  I repeat my instruction. “Call an ambulance, Kedrov.”

  Kedrov dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “I plan to as soon as my men and I have left the area. You do not need to worry about your body being left here to rot.”

  “Rot?” I utter the word through a sudden parched throat.

  Then I realize what he means.

  Trenton rushes toward Kedrov.

  “Leave Sara alone.” Panic and desperation overwhelm his voice. “Take my life in exchange for hers.”

  My eyes widen. “No!”

  The guard standing next to me slams the barrel of Tommy’s handgun into my back. “Kneel!”

  “Don’t listen to Trenton!” I fasten a pleading gaze on Kedrov. “This is my mess, not his.”

  Kedrov laughs again. “Americans. So melodramatic.”

  “Let her go!” Trenton’s scream blasts throughout the port as he’s restrained by Kedrov’s third man.

  With another jab from the handgun’s barrel, my knees hit the concrete. A pebble digs like a jagged razorblade through my left pant leg, but I don’t lift my knee to set it somewhere else. Painful as it is, in a few seconds, I won’t feel anything.

  “Kill me!” Trenton’s plea sounds miles away. “Damn it, Kedrov! Kill me, not her!”

  Stiff bay breezes billow over the seawall. Waves lap the shoreline on the other side, calming my headache. I give one last look at the rocks where my father and I used to sit.

  The cold steel barrel presses against the back of my head. Its hammer cocks into place, everything slower and louder now.

  I look up at Trenton, kneeling
at his feet like he recently did at mine.

  “I love you.” The words tumble over my lips, weary and unsteady, when I want them to fly. “I love you so much, and I’m so sorry.”

  Trenton stops struggling against the guard’s restraint and stares down at me, unblinking. His expression conveys shock, gratitude, and most heartbreaking, sorrow.

  Kedrov chuckles. “Very sweet, Miss Peters—fittingly the last words Mr. Merrick will hear from you.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  The next sounds that come are not the blasts of gunshots, although they’re just as chilling. They begin as a familiar jumble deep in the container, and echo through the open door, spilling out over the concrete one by one: crack . . . hiss . . . gurgle . . . choke.

  My eyes fly open. The guard who unlocked and entered the container crawls back through its open door. His arms land on the concrete, forearms rigid, elbows braced against the edge of the container as he drags himself forward. His eyes look panicked, his mouth a giant hole that gasps for breath.

  As he pulls himself out of the container and onto the concrete, his neck dips, revealing the handle of a knife planted between his shoulder blades. He chokes on a river of blood that surges out of his mouth.

  Trenton breaks free from the other guard’s hold and throws himself toward me. “Sara, get down!”

  I push my right shoulder as far forward as I can, avoiding a full-on face plant onto the concrete. Trenton’s body covers mine as the still morning shatters in a hail of gunfire. Through the tangled web of hair blanketing my face, I see Randall appear in the opening of the container, the dead guard’s rifle in his arms, the barrel blazing.

  The windows of the Land Rovers explode and shattered glass rains onto the concrete around us. Shards bury themselves in my hair and prick my skin. Trenton’s weight bears down on top of me, his spicy musk buried in the salty, metallic odor of sweat and blood.

  “Stay down, Sara!” His yell permeates the deafening spurts of gunfire.

  Kedrov and his remaining guards dive behind the closest Land Rover. Bullets clank against the car’s body. Tires pop and hiss. As suddenly as the gunfire erupted, it stops. Randall ejects the rifle’s empty magazine and tosses it to the ground as he ducks back into the container to reload.