Frontline

by Alexandra Richland

  “Now!” Kedrov shouts, pulling a gun from his belt. He and his two remaining guards leap from behind the Land Rover and riddle the container with bullets.

  Randall flinches as shells ricochet off the steel beside his head.

  Trenton presses his lips to my ear. “When Randall fires back, crawl toward him!”

  I struggle to speak through my heaving breaths. “What about you?”

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Kedrov drops and reloads his gun. Randall rolls out of the container, the rifle tucked against his chest. He rotates twice over the ground, stops on his stomach, and his legs unfold behind him.

  “Go!” Trenton yells.

  Randall slams the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and opens fire. The bullets burst beneath the Land Rover and rip through one guard’s shins, knocking him off his feet. He lands on his back, screaming, his thighs jutting straight up in the air, jagged stumps spewing blood.

  Kedrov, sheltered behind the Land Rover’s back wheel, grabs the guard’s vest with both hands and drags him out of the line of Randall’s fire.

  Sharp stones tear my forearms as I plough toward Randall, my wrists still bound, my pants ripped, and my knees scraped raw against the concrete. Shells pop from the side of Randall’s rifle and coat the ground beside him.

  Trenton crawls at my side, maneuvering the same way, the sleeves of his suit jacket torn at the elbow, the white cotton of his shirt underneath peeking through. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals bloody prints from our forearms and knees stamped on the concrete behind us.

  “Keep going, Sara. We’re almost there.”

  Randall stops firing and raises his eyes over the gun sight. A loud clattering, like a rock skipping over pavement, fills the air.

  “Get back!” Randall shouts as a grenade rolls to a stop about five feet in front of him. He pushes off his knees and dives toward the container’s entrance.

  A white flash scorches my eyes. Waves of heat sear the air around me, sucking the breath from my lungs. The gunfire from Kedrov and his men, once so loud and grating, sounds as small and tinny as a BB gun.

  I don’t realize I’ve left the ground until I hit it. The back of my head bounces off the concrete and everything around me blurs. Horns blare through my ears, the breakneck thud of my heart drums beneath them.

  “Trenton!” I reach out with my bound hands and brush them over the ground. The tips of my fingers meet soft fabric. I tighten my fingers around it and pull, but it doesn’t budge. I pull again, harder, until the muscles in my arm seize. The fabric yields.

  Trenton rolls to my side. His distant eyes blink through gushing torrents of blood flowing from open cuts on his face.

  “Are you okay?” My voice sounds like it calls from another room behind a closed door.

  Trenton mouths a response.

  “Are you okay?” I ask again. “Do you see Randall?”

  Another rush of wind gusts around us, stirring clouds of dirt and pebbles. A black helicopter hovers in the brightening sky overhead. Three long cables attached to its underside meet at a pulley above a large metal plate. The plate lowers toward the container and lands on top of it.

  “It’s a magnet!” Trenton shouts. “They’re gonna fly it out of here!”

  Trenton rips the knife out of the back of the remains of Randall’s first casualty, who landed near us after the explosion, and cuts the ties that secure my wrists together. He hands me the knife after I’m free. It cuts easily through the rigid plastic tie binding him as well.

  Kedrov peeks from his shelter behind the bullet-ridden Land Rover. He yells something into his phone, tucks it inside his jacket, and glances at Trenton and me, crumpled in a pile against the seawall. His last guard and only backup lies dead a few feet from him. With his gun trained on us, he bolts from behind the Land Rover toward the open container as it lifts off the ground.

  Trenton struggles to his feet and throws himself into a quick, limping stride after Kedrov, his left leg dragging behind him like it’s attached to a ball and chain.

  “Trenton, don’t! Come back!” My plea dies amongst the commotion.

  Kedrov leaps through the open container door as the helicopter cable pulls it into the air. He laughs and yells something to Trenton when he sees him stumbling over the concrete. Then he raises his gun and aims.

  The helicopter’s blades labor overhead and a sudden dip in the container’s liftoff throws Kedrov onto his back and allows Trenton to spring from his one good leg and grab hold of the bottom of the container’s entrance.

  Kedrov crawls to the edge, raises his fist, and slams it down on Trenton’s left hand. Trenton cries out and pulls his hand back, hanging onto the container by only his right.

  Sliding onto his left knee, Kedrov brings his right foot up, aiming it at Trenton’s remaining hand. The container hovers about thirty feet off the ground, too high for Trenton to make a safe landing if he falls.

  I scream. “Trenton! Watch out!”

  Trenton yanks himself upward and catches Kedrov’s foot with his other hand just before it lands a direct hit. They struggle against each other. Kedrov reaches back into the container and grabs a hold of the nearest crate. Trenton hoists one leg over the lip of the container’s entrance and climbs inside. As soon as he does, the container shoots upward on its cable and swings out over the seawall as the helicopter flies over the bay.

  I wipe the blowing dust from my eyes and limp toward Randall’s body. He lays facedown, the back of his coat and shirt burned away and the edges scorched. His exposed skin spews blood through open blisters. Thankfully, he’s still breathing.

  “Randall!” My voice is parched with dust. Tears stream over my cheeks.

  Squealing brakes announce the arrival of a familiar black Cadillac as it speeds into the lot. Kelly throws open her door before the car stops behind the decimated Land Rovers. She and Denim race to my side while Chris and Sean dash to the top of the seawall. The helicopter’s blades whir in the distance.

  Kelly surveys Randall’s unconscious body. “Oh my God, is he gonna be all right?”

  Denim kneels next to me. “Sara, we gotta help him.”

  I grab her wrists and press her hands to Randall’s wounds. “Keep them there. Apply pressure to help control the bleeding.”

  With Denim’s hands firmly in place, I make for the top of the seawall next to Sean and Chris. The helicopter rises and dips, fighting the container’s shifting weight beneath it and the winds over the water. The container swings back and forth like a pendulum.

  “It’s not gonna hold!” Sean squints at the water. “Where the hell is Trenton?”

  I point in the direction of the helicopter. “He’s in the container with Kedrov.”

  We watch as the container spins and lists like a ship tossed by wild waves. Three wooden crates spill from its mouth and crash to the water, throwing white spray into a giant plume.

  The helicopter sputters and dips again. The container swings harder and four more crates spill out. Two human bodies, tiny shadows in the morning’s first murky light, launch into the air, arms and legs flailing.

  “That’s them!”

  The crates crash into the bay; chunks of wood crack off on impact and fly through the air. Trenton and Kedrov land clear of the wreckage and disappear beneath the surface of the water.

  Chris skitters down the embankment, trying to keep his balance over the rush of loose stones. He reaches the shore and plunges beneath the waves. Sean is quick to follow. The two of them battle the choppy surf. Chris works his way to the nearest floating crate, takes a deep breath, and dives under the water.

  A thick cloud of black smoke billows from the helicopter’s tail rotor. With a final swing of the container, the steel cables snap, the top halves shooting back to the underside of the helicopter, the lower halves trailing the container’s hulking mass. The helicopter shoots into the sky like a kite that’s broken free from its string.

  “Chris! Sean!” I fling m
y hoarse voice against the raging winds. “Look out!”

  The container hovers in the air for a second before crashing to the bay in a hail of white foam. Water surges in through its open door. Waves shoot from beneath it, throwing Sean up against the jostling crates.

  Chris resurfaces beside the crate Sean clings to. He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and disappears again. Sean releases his hold and follows Chris beneath waves. The swirling wind roars through my ears. Aftershocks rip through my heaving chest.

  Kelly joins my side. “What’s happening, Sara? I saw the container fall!”

  A pool of foam froths at the mouth of the container as it takes its final breath, dissolving into a distorted ripple as water washes over the top.

  I strain my eyes for any indication that they’re safe. “Trenton’s in the water . . . Chris and Sean are looking . . . diving . . .”

  “Where are they?” Kelly asks. It’s the first time I’ve seen her cry. “They can’t possibly hold their breaths for that long!”

  “I have to help!” I rush down the embankment toward the water.

  “Sara, stop! Please!”

  I hear the rocks crunch under Kelly’s feet as she starts after me.

  The sun, halfway over the horizon but masked by a lone black cloud, splits the sky with thousands of white beams. They streak across the bay, gleaming against the white spume, tinting the water’s cold gunmetal gray to a warm golden hue.

  Three heads erupt through the surface and bob in the waves. Chris and Sean swim on either side of Trenton, each holding one of his arms over their shoulders.

  I throw my arms around Kelly as she arrives at my side. “They’re safe!”

  We jump and hold each other, both of us screaming in relief.

  Trenton, Chris, and Sean emerge from the bay, hair matted to their heads, tattered clothes clinging to their trim forms and dripping with water.

  In an instant, I’m in Trenton’s arms, sobbing. His hands caress my back like he never wants to let me go.

  “You stupid, stupid girl,” he says. “What were you thinking putting that gun to your head?”

  I look up at him. “I couldn’t let Kedrov hurt you.”

  Trenton brushes his hand to my cheek, staring into my eyes as if he can’t believe I’m actually here. “Damn it, Sara, I’ve never been so afraid in my life.”

  My chin quivers with the arrival of more tears. “I know I don’t deserve you. I’ve treated you so poorly, but I hope one day you can forgive me—”

  “There’s nothing you could ever do that I wouldn’t forgive,” he says softly. “I love you, Sara.”

  “I love you, too, Trenton.” I hold him tighter. “I’ve loved you since our first meeting at the hospital. I was just too stubborn to acknowledge it.”

  Trenton’s lips meet mine. The passion in our kiss and the way our hands grab onto each other solidifies our words.

  Our celebration is cut short due to more pressing matters. The five of us climb over the embankment and return to Denim and Randall.

  Denim launches herself at Chris, her hands coated with Randall’s blood. “Thank goodness you’re okay!”

  I crouch beside Randall. He’s still breathing, but also still unconscious.

  “Did you guys get Kedrov?” Denim asks.

  “He’s at the bottom of the bay.” Sean opens his suit jacket, revealing a knife. “I made sure of it. Now all we gotta do is get out of here. It won’t be long until the police show up.”

  Chris jogs over to the Cadillac and returns with a cell phone.

  “Hurry, please,” I say. “We need to get Randall and my father to the hospital.”

  Chris and Denim trade hesitant glances.

  “What? What is it?”

  Sean bows his head.

  Kelly’s chest deflates with her long exhale. “Sara . . . your father . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The emergency room at San Francisco General Hospital isn’t very busy. Rows of empty plastic chairs line the walls and stretch through the middle of the polished tile floor. Magazines sit on coffee tables in neatly stacked piles. An administrator plucks handfuls of multicolored file folders from a cart and shoves them into large metal drawers behind the admissions desk.

  It’s quiet enough that I can concentrate on each separate pain I feel, trace them back to their sources, and find out exactly how many places I’m wounded. Thick gauze covers my elbows and knees. There won’t be any skin on them for weeks. In my right ear, continuous high-pitched ringing blares deep inside the canal.

  I stay close to walls and railings when walking as my balance is all but gone. Other than some burns on the left side of my body from the grenade explosion, a twisted ankle, a concussion when the back of my head hit the concrete, and numerous other scrapes, bruises, and cuts, I’m no worse for wear.

  I didn’t notice any of these injuries until I limped through the emergency room doors. Nothing felt more important this morning than ignoring my own state and praying with everything I am that everyone else would be okay.

  My own wellbeing has never taken a backseat to the needs of others in my personal life. It never had to. I had no siblings growing up, only a few good friends, and my mom and dad took care of everything else. After all these years of being sheltered, my time to put myself in harm’s way for people I care about finally arrived. Despite the pain each injury brings, and the lasting scars, I’d do it again. Scars earned defending the people you love are badges worth bearing.

  I hobble along the corridor, trying to keep out of everyone’s way. Doctors, nurses, and volunteers rush past me on their way to patients much more in need of their help than I am. If they’re unconcerned about me, I know to take that as a good sign. There might be a life after this whole crazy ordeal after all.

  Can the same be said for my father?

  I slide open the glass door to his room and limp inside. A battery of machines surround his bedside; glowing digital displays measure a series of ever-changing numbers, each one gently beeping or clicking as they all work together to keep him stabilized.

  He sits propped against a thick pillow. A white plastic neck brace cushioned with an interior of soft black foam clamps to his shoulders, surrounds his neck, and spreads beneath his jawline and chin. Bandages circle the top of his forehead, cover his hair, and stretch over the side of his face struck by the butt of the rifle, masking his ear, eye, and even part of his nose. His other eye stares ahead, open, but unfocused. I wonder if he even knows I’m here until I squeeze his hand and feel it squeeze back.

  “How are you?” I’m tempted to whisper so I don’t startle him, but I’m afraid he can’t hear me. I can barely hear myself.

  “Never better.” A smile emerges beneath the bandages. We share a chuckle.

  I squeeze his hand harder and choke back the lump in my throat. My prolific tear ducts are parched from being emptied so many times over recent weeks. And really, what is there left to cry about?

  “Where is everyone?” he asks.

  “Trenton is in a room down the hall. Chris and Sean are with him. Kelly and Denim checked into the hotel across the street so they could get some sleep.”

  “So everyone’s okay, then?”

  “Randall took a lot of shrapnel and he has a bad burn from a grenade. He’s in surgery right now and isn’t due out for a few hours.”

  “A grenade. Jesus.” My father sighs. “Any word from your mother?”

  “Trenton sent a plane for her. She’ll be here pretty soon.”

  My father tries to shake his head, but the neck brace keeps his posture locked. Even dry, shallow coughs cause him to strain against its tight hold. I lift a cup of water from the bedside table and aim the straw between his lips. He relaxes as the water races up the red-striped plastic tube into his mouth.

  “I’ll go get you some more,” I say when he drains the cup.

  “Let the nurse do it.” He winks his one good eye.

  “You’ll die of thirst waiting f
or these ones. Though they seem very competent, it’s like they’re on vacation around here.”

  “We west coasters are more chilled out than you New Yorkers.”

  “I forgot just how much.”

  I notice a jug of water refreshed with ice sitting on the table at the foot of his bed that I didn’t see when I walked in. I refill his cup from it and lift the straw to his lips again. He gladly drinks more and then releases the straw, stifling a hiccup.

  “I’m sorry I made such a mess of everything, kiddo.”

  I set the cup down on the bedside table. “Trenton is going to take care of it, Dad. Everything is going to be okay.”

  “No, it’s not. You said your mother was on her way.” My father only manages a half-hearted laugh before his face darkens. “Sara, I broke the law. I worked with a terrorist to help smuggle weapons into the country. That’s not something Merrick’s money can make disappear.”

  Every reassuring thought that passes through my head sounds like something we both need to hear, but one by one, they fail the most important criteria: None of them are truthful.

  “We can’t have come this far only to lose now. Kedrov was the hard part. He’s gone. That’s over. If we can take down a terrorist, we can handle the FBI, right?”

  It might be the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever said, but my father does what I knew he would all along: He pats my hand and stares at me out of his one good eye, hiding all the doubt he feels deep inside of him, far away from me. “You bet, kiddo.”

  So much for my dry ducts. Tears stream down my face, igniting each cut and scab under their salty touch.

  “Don’t cry, Sara. We’ll make it, like you said. We always do.” My father’s voice sounds weak now and his eyelid droops, the medication from the IV pulling him back into unconsciousness.

  “Why can’t you let me be the strong one this time, Dad?”

  His grip weakens around my hand while his breathing softens into a slow, easy rhythm. “I’m your father, Sara. That’s my job.”