“My name is Breanne Sullivan and I’m with Drew Scott. Two days ago we were passengers on the maiden flight of Innovation Airways headed to California when the plane went down. Contrary to what has been reported by the media, the plane did not crash. It was safely landed by the pilot at the location where the plane was found. Almost all the passengers died prior to the plane landing from using the oxygen masks but thankfully ours didn’t deploy. The pilot and three others survived as well, but they were gunned down when they tried to flee. Drew and I narrowly escaped after the gunmen set the plane on fire and we have spent the last two days hiking through the woods with limited food and no cell reception. We are alive and miss our families desperately. We are being pursued by the gunmen and are on a train somewhere just outside of Pittsburgh. We need your help. We beg you, please, someone, contact the FBI or local police. We are in grave danger and so are our families. Please, help!”
In less than two minutes we have completed this last ditch effort. Using my contact list from my email we send our video to well over a hundred people including my agent, important people in the Red Sox organization, ESPN and anchors from other media outlets. We also send the video to my family and Breanne’s, as well as post it to several different social media sites.
Like hawks we watch my email, waiting for any kind of response. On her phone she pulls up CNN and nervously rolls her pendant between her fingers and counts out loud as time ticks by. One minute passes by and anxiety attacks my body, causing my chest to ache. I mentally apologize to everyone I’ve ever mocked who said stress hurts – it fucking kills. Two minutes pass by and I realize this could be the last time we are alone together – the pain caused by this realization hurts even worse than any of my injuries. Three minutes go by and my email begins to ping repeatedly with each message that comes in. Another minute ticks by and she looks at me ecstatic!
“I think it worked!” she cries, turning and squeezing me hard around my shoulders.
“Who responded?” I ask as she’s still holding my phone.
“Brett is first, followed by journalists from NBC and ESPN but more are coming in as we speak.”
“Open Brett’s email and read it to me,” I instruct. I could easily take my phone back and read through the emails myself but I would much rather hear the excitement come through her voice and hold her while she does.
“He says he’s on hold with the FBI and that he’ll call you once he gets through to someone. He’s also overjoyed beyond words to learn you are alive,” she paraphrases.
“Anyone else yet?” I ask. It’s only been five minutes but with the way news travels I would have expected more responses by now.
She returns to my inbox and her mouth drops. “You have forty-three new emails!” she screeches. “Oh my God! The video has already been re-tweeted 1,397 times!” She turns to face me, “that’s good, right?”
“That’s awesome!” I say. Telling the world our story was probably the best thing we could have done. Having everyone know something horrible happened increased our chances of getting home safely by a lot. “Read some of the messages.”
She scrolls through them and jumps when her phone rings. She bends forward to pick it up and freezes once it’s in her hand. I tilt my head to get a better view and find her biting her lip. She hesitates with her pointer finger hovering over the screen that displays the name ‘dad’. It’s as if she’s turned to stone. Not wanting her to miss this opportunity, I hit the button for her and hold the phone to her ear.
“Dad!” she cries. “Dad? Are you there? Can you hear me?” I hold her tight as she sobs, “I love you too!”
They talk for a few minutes before she pulls the phone away and puts the call on speaker.
“He wants to speak with you,” she tells me.
“Hello,” I say, nervously.
“Drew,” a shaky voice says from the other side of the phone. “Words can’t explain the gratitude I feel for you saving my daughter, but I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you know.”
“Having her safe is all I need, sir. Besides, I should be the one thanking you for having such a strong daughter. She saved me,” I tell him, not really sure what else to say. Her father sniffles a few times and clears his throat.
“Let me get the kids,” he says.
There’s a lot of crying. Mostly happy tears, but it’s obvious they’ve been through hell over the past few days. I try to tune out of the conversation to give her some sense of privacy. I’d walk away but I can’t bear to let go. While Breanne and her family reconnect I replay the last few days, specifically today and my conviction of Dosdell’s involvement.
I wonder if he killed her husband. I meant what I said earlier about their knowledge of Mark and us; that they probably put a lot of effort into finding out details about us when our bodies were unaccounted for. But it’s too much of a coincidence. She has to see that too. Dosdell is the only link. He’s in Breanne’s life because of her husband’s investigation. His name was said on the plane. He claimed he’d try to “help” us and we almost got killed. So what’s the real connection between Mark’s death and the sabotage of the plane?
I want to talk this through with her, but after the way she reacted earlier I won’t go there. I guess I didn’t handle it that well. Seeing that look on her face was crushing. I’d take a dozen kicks to the ribs to avoid making her feel that way again. But it’s going to come out eventually. We’ll have to talk about it. When that happens I’ll just have to figure out how to talk to her without pushing her away…because next time she’ll have the option of leaving.
“Are you ok?” I ask after she finishes speaking with her family.
“Getting there,” she replies folding into me. “My poor father. I’ve never heard him cry before.”
My phone rings. “It’ll be in the past soon enough,” I say looking at the caller ID.
“Who is it?” Breanne asks.
“I have no idea,” I tell her before answering it on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Drew Scott?” the caller asks.
“Yes, who’s this?” I ask.
“My name is Timothy Patterson. I’m the Director at the FBI headquarters in Pittsburgh. I just spoke with your sports agent who gave me your number. I saw the video of you and Ms. Sullivan and want to help you two get home. Can you tell me where you are?”
I put the call on speaker so Breanne can hear. We get more information from Patterson and when we’re comfortable he’s legitimately on our side we tell him what we know about our location. I tell him the address of the so-called safe house and describe the train we jumped aboard. He tells me that he’s arranging for aerial and ground assistance in tracking us down and assures us that he’ll be there when they find us.
“It’s finally going to be over,” Breanne exhales, curling back into my lap.
“Yeah,” I sigh in disbelief and shift to get more comfortable.
She pulls my arms tighter around her. “Don’t let go.”
“Never,” I promise and squeeze her tighter. Minutes tick by without a word and I wonder if it’s in response to what I’ve just said. “What are you thinking?” I ask her hesitantly.
“That I really want a bath,” she laughs to my relief. “And an obnoxiously large glass of wine.”
“Hmm. A bath and alcohol sound perfect. Did I mention that I have an obnoxiously large tub?”
“You didn’t,” she says. “I hadn’t pictured you as a bath man.”
“I’m not but you could persuade me.” I rub her arm and she shakes her head.
“I don’t think you need my company to enjoy a bath,” she tells me.
“Like I said, the tub is really big. What if I drown because I’m all alone?” I reply.
“I doubt it’s as big as the lake you grew up on. You know, the lake you loved to swim in?”
“I had no idea you were really listening,” I quote her reaction from a few days ago.
“Every word,” she whispers.
Breanne shivers and I rub her arm to keep her warm. “It definitely feels like fall. I can’t believe Thanksgiving is only a month and a half away.”
I wish I could stop time and keep her here forever. It will be a circus once we’re back and who knows when or how often I’ll get to see her. I understand her family needs her but I don’t know what I’ll do without her and it scares me to death. These last few days have been the best and worst days of my life. I don’t wish death on anyone and I certainly never want to see her harmed again, but this tragedy brought us together, binding us forever and for that I can’t help but be grateful. As much as I want this ordeal to be over, I don’t want our time together to end.
“Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday…not too many things can compare to being with family, eating comfort food and watching football all day. I would take it over Christmas or any other holiday.” I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to spend a holiday with someone that I’m in love with…what it would be like to celebrate a holiday with Breanne. “I miss upstate New York. The summers are great but fall is the best time to be there. One day I want to live there again...I have property in Hammondsport overlooking Keuka Lake that I’ll build on eventually. I can't wait to show it to you...you'll love the view.” In my mind it’s not a question of whether or not I’ll bring her there, it’s a matter of time and I hope it’s sooner than later.
Breanne pulls her head back and gazes at me with confusion. I kiss her forehead and move on. To my surprise she settles her head back against my chest without a word.
“I've never been as angry as I was today. I wanted to kill those assholes for what they did to you. I promise you I'm not a violent guy. I'd never hurt you.” I wonder if she knows that she’s the only reason I stopped. “It doesn't happen often but when I get pissed I go to the batting cage to get out my aggression. Most people don’t think pitchers can hit but I'd tear it up in the National League if I ever got traded. Anyway, I went every day for two weeks after my sister died…a lot of times in the middle of the night. I've had a hard time sleeping since she passed away. That is, until I met you. I don't know what I'm going to do without you. You've taken my pain away and reminded me how to be happy. You make me happy.”
I haven’t told her the three words I am growing more certain of, though what I’ve just divulged comes pretty close. I feel relieved that she knows at least this much.
For a long time we sit quietly. Breanne is tracing a pattern of some kind on my chest with her pointer finger while I leisurely rake my fingers up and down her back.
“Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, too. My birthday is a close second...and before you ask, yes I think of birthdays as holidays. Not just mine and not because of presents, but because it's important to celebrate life.” She momentarily shops fidgeting and places her hand flat against my chest and over my heart. “I would love to go to New York with you sometime as long as we can drive and you don't mind three kids and me singing Boys II Men the entire way.” I laugh. I really need to make her a CD. “I know you'd never hurt me, Drew. I worry more about what you’d do to protect me. I wish I had a good outlet for stress relief. I used to run occasionally but it’s been a long time...maybe I should start again. It’s healthier than keeping everything bottled up which is what I have a tendency to do. Maybe I'd sleep better,” she sighs. “Until you held me I haven't slept well either. It's going to be hard without you.” Her voice cracks slightly and it literally causes my heart to ache.
Breanne takes my right hand in her left, fiddling with my fingers the way she plays with her necklace when something is on her mind. “I can’t wait to get home,” she sighs. “But…I’m going to miss you.”
I nuzzle my nose into her hair and kiss her forehead. She nuzzles right back and a soft purr escapes her lips. It’s not enough. I need more of her to reassure myself that this isn’t the end.
“Good thing I don’t plan on saying goodbye.”
With the tip of my finger I tilt her chin up and claim her mouth with mine.
Chapter Seventeen
Interrogation
Breanne
Not twenty minutes go by with us simply holding each other when the train starts decelerating. The screeching sound that tipped us off to the train’s existence and the sensation of being pulled forward confirms that the train is coming to a stop. I grab a box for stability as I try to stand. With Drew right behind me we make our way up the aisle to the door. The train rocks back to a halt and I have to brace myself against the crates of food to keep from falling.
From outside I hear several strange, repetitive thudding sounds. We haven’t been on the train terribly long so I can’t imagine where we are, although I’m growing increasingly curious. Drew sneaks past me and pulls the sliding door to the boxcar ajar and the sounds grow louder.
I have to squint due to a forceful gust that literally takes my breath away. I stumble forward into the doorway only to be blown backwards. Drew yanks my hand and holds me tight to his side while his other hand clenches a steel rod that’s part of the boxcar’s frame. With my free hand blocking the wind I understand the cause of the steady thunder-like percussion. Overhead, there are several helicopters.
Two choppers are embossed with FBI on the side. By way of a loudspeaker, someone within the more central FBI helicopter is warning the others to move back. The four other helicopters that are reluctantly being kept at bay have the logos and local station names of the major news outlets flanking their doors. From where we stand it appears that the FBI agents are trying to keep the media from intruding, or maybe they are just trying to land first. Either way, I’m elated with the idea of our rescue being televised so my family can see that I really am safe. It also serves as a big ‘screw you’ to the assholes that took down the plane and tried to make sure our story never got out.
The central FBI helicopter lands in a field about a hundred yards from the train. Drew nudges my shoulder to get my attention and points out two black mini-buses with tinted windows pulling up near the chopper. Two people get out of each vehicle and huddle briefly before running against the wind of the propellers that are still swirling, towards the train. When they reach our boxcar they climb inside and I nervously cling to Drew. As if it’s in his DNA to protect me, he sidesteps to position himself in front of me.
A clean cut man of average height, in his mid-40’s with dark blonde hair that’s slicked to the side, dressed in pressed black pants and a jacket that identifies him as an employee of the FBI, steps forward. “Ms. Sullivan, Mr. Scott,” the man says. “I’m Agent Patterson, we spoke on the phone.”
He reaches in his pocket and presents us with his badge for our inspection. He then introduces us to his three colleagues – one woman and two men.
“Now that we’re acquainted we need to get your statements. I can imagine that you’re eager to get back home as well so I’ve arranged for us to get statements from you while on the road,” Patterson says while looking us over. “Both of you have sustained injuries. We have a medical team that will come in here for your privacy before we head out.”
“Thank you,” Drew and I say in unison.
Patterson looks around the crowded boxcar. He gives instructions to one of the agents and then sends him outside. Moments later three men in coveralls and work boots hop into the boxcar and begin removing some of the crates, presumably so that the medical team has room to enter and patch us up.
Two gurneys are set up in record time, as are IV’s to treat our possible dehydration. A doctor and team of nurses are assigned to each of us. They offer to put up a divider for privacy but we both tell them it’s not necessary. I pretend not to notice the curious glance shared between two of the nurses at our refusal. I don’t care. I can’t stand the thought of Drew being out of sight, even if he remains in the same room.
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