Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

by Unknown

  Martell leaned over to look at the tiny map on her phone. He became immediately aware of three things.

  One, she smelled kind of like a man, with a not unpleasant trace of a product—deodorant or maybe hair gel—that Martell had smelled before, used in too-large quantities by some of the guys at the gym. And that probably meant that she had a boyfriend. A manfriend—excuse him—this was not a woman who dated boys. A full-grown, adult male friend—whose products she’d borrowed, most likely after a night of creative, athletic, inspiring lovemaking.

  And wasn’t that disappointing?

  Two, his face was now mere inches from that magnificent shelflike presentation of the top hemisphere of her bosom. Keep his eyes on the map, keep his eyes on the map …

  And three, the address she’d been texted wasn’t that far from the intersection of Clark and Beneva, which, in turn, wasn’t all that far from where they were right now.

  So Martell backed away from Deb, from her exposed boobtops and her regret-inducing man-smell, as well as her GPS map, and he put his POS into gear.

  “I’m pretty sure Ian Dunn had Phoebe call to negotiate first and foremost because he wants money,” Martell said as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed back south on 41.

  “Bet you your shirt you’re wrong,” Deb said, picking up his cell phone from the cup holder. “What’s your passcode?”

  He looked at her in disbelief.

  She held out the phone to him. “Or do it yourself. I need to use your Internet. I want to Google the address so we don’t go in there completely blind if it’s like, I don’t know, property owned by one of the Dellarosas maybe …?”

  Martell keyed in his code. “Why would Dunn seek out the Dellarosas? And what do I get if I’m right and I win the bet?”

  “You get to keep your shirt,” Deb said, frowning at his phone. “Property is owned by someone named S. Jackson, which sounds like an alias to me. The title changed hands around a year ago. It’s a four-bedroom house on a double lot.” She glanced up. “Take the next left.”

  “Is it me,” Martell said as he did just that, “or is there suddenly an overabundance of police cars in this ’hood?”

  The patrol cars weren’t just idling at the sides of the road—they were parked. And yes, the SWAT team was already here.

  Uniformed officers were out of their vehicles and were crawling damn near everywhere.

  In fact, one of them—much too young to have been on the force back in Martell’s day—stepped out into the street and signaled them to stop.

  Deb already had her FBI ID out. She started to lean forward, to talk to the officer through Martell’s open window, but then stopped, no doubt thinking xylophone.

  Definitely thinking xylophone. She met Martell’s eyes and smiled wryly, handing him her ID instead. “Tell him to come around to my side.”

  “Good plan.” Although he would ask instead of tell.

  “I’m gonna win your shirt.”

  “Not sure I ever agreed to that bet.”

  “Your silence was implicit agreement.”

  “I don’t believe I was silent. Good afternoon, Officer.”

  One look at Deb’s ID, and the uniformed cop sputtered and quickly moved, not to talk to her, but instead hurrying to find his boss.

  Martell meanwhile parked since it was clear that they could drive no farther. All kinds of emergency vehicles were blocking the road.

  Deb got out of the car and he followed as the junior policeboy came back with Sarasota’s newest lieutenant, who was, happily, an old friend of Martell’s.

  He leaned in closer to Deb to say, “Lieutenant Lora Newsom. Transplanted here in Florida as a uniformed officer, originally from someplace where they grow a lot of corn. She’s the real deal. Earned this job the hard way. Be as honest with her as you can, and she’ll be an ally.”

  Deb nodded.

  The blond-haired lieutenant’s eyes widened very slightly at her first look at Deb’s attire, but other than that, she didn’t blink. She just nodded tersely to Martell, as if not at all surprised to see him with an FBI agent. She handed Deb’s ID back to her. “Why do I already hate this? That’s a rhetorical question, Martell. You don’t have to try to answer that.”

  “Nice to see you, too, Lora.”

  Deb jumped right in. “Twenty-four Monteblanc?”

  Newsom sighed and nodded, leading them back past the rescue vehicles. “That’s our crime scene. It was quite the Wild West shootout.”

  “Anyone dead?” Deb asked.

  “Miraculously no,” Newsom reported. “But we’ve currently got something of a standoff. An unknown number of perps have taken shelter in some kind of dedicated safe room on the first floor of the home. We’re confident they can see us via camera access. I’ve got people holding up a handwritten sign with a phone number in front of their video cams, and a negotiator standing by, but so far no contact. Are there hostages? We don’t know. The car out front belongs to a lawyer named Phoebe Kruger. We’ve found her phone number, but she’s not answering our calls.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “So what can you tell me?”

  “We’re pretty sure this incident is related to an important national security case I’m working on,” Deb said. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than that. I’m hoping the people inside the safe room are mine. If they are, it’s best if they remain anonymous for now.”

  Clearly unhappy, Newsom nodded as she glanced at Martell again, obviously wondering what kind of SNAFU he’d gotten himself involved with this time.

  But then, holy Jesus God on high.

  They rounded the last SWAT truck, and 24 Monteblanc Circle came into view.

  Martell had thought Lt. Newsom was exaggerating about that Wild West shootout thing, but the place was trashed. Nearly all the windows in the house had been shattered, and the walls riddled by bullets that had left behind lines of gray holes—chips and gouges in the painted stucco.

  And there was Phoebe’s new car. It had gotten the shit shot out of it, too. Windows broken, tires flat. Finish dented and pierced in those same telltale automatic-weapon-fire lines.

  Martell could see the security camera positioned near the front door. It seemed intact, so he took out his phone as he approached it. And then he took off his button-down super-lawyer dress shirt and he handed it to Deb.

  She was right behind him. She tried to hide her smile but failed. “Thanks,” she said, as she put her arms into his sleeves and buttoned the damn thing up to her neck.

  Martell held out his phone and pointed to it as he stood there in his white beater and smiled cheerfully up into the camera.

  Any second now, his phone was gonna ring.

  “Ah, shit,” Ian said on an exhale.

  And Phoebe looked up to see Martell Griffin standing—and smiling—in front of the video camera that was positioned right outside the front door.

  “We knew this might happen,” she told Ian, even as her own heart sank. “I mean, his client is the FBI. It actually gives me a sense of renewed hope and security that they, you know, found us.” She pumped a fist through the air. “Yay, Team America.”

  The face he made said, Are you kidding me?

  Aaron, meanwhile, looked up from where he’d been sitting on the lower bunk, head in his hands. He’d been grimly quiet ever since his brother had told him that Martell Griffin was the liaison to a government agency who wanted Ian to lead a rescue op.

  “Kidnapped children,” Aaron had said, incredulously repeating what he’d heard Phoebe say just moments earlier. “How many kidnapped children—and please don’t say a busload.”

  “Two,” Ian had told him. “Their mother’s a nuclear physicist—she’s believed to be the real target. Intel puts the kids inside a foreign consulate in Miami. They need someone without any government connections to go in and get them out.”

  Aaron took that news relatively calmly. “So what happened? You took this meeting with this Griffin guy, and with Manny’s heart attack putting him in th
e hospital, crazy Davio was suddenly in charge, and he immediately thought you were doing some kind of double cross?”

  “That’s as good a guess as any,” Ian had said, obviously intentionally leaving out the part where he’d been approached about this “job” while serving time in prison.

  He’d also failed to mention to his brother that he had a connection to the alleged dangerous kidnapper, Georg Vanderzee, AKA the Dutchman. Phoebe had noticed that, too. Was it because Aaron didn’t know the man, or because he did, and he would’ve exploded at that news?

  Since they were all still trapped in the tiny panic room, where there was no privacy, she hadn’t gotten a chance to ask Ian about that.

  After making the initial call to Martell, they’d gone into wait mode—both brothers preoccupied with their own dark thoughts.

  Phoebe had tried to engage Aaron in a conversation—“So, you and Shelly were high school sweethearts?” But he’d answered monosyllabically, so she hadn’t pushed for more information.

  Still, there was a story there, and Phoebe suspected it was a good one.

  But now Aaron joined them at the monitor, looking over Phoebe’s shoulder at Martell Griffin, who was still smiling expectantly into the camera.

  “Who’s that?” Aaron asked, pointing to a woman with jet-black hair—clearly it was dyed—who stood slightly behind Martell.

  “I don’t know,” Ian said. “But she’s … certainly interesting.”

  As they watched, the woman—whoever she was—covered her interestingness with Martell’s shirt.

  “We still hold a powerful hand,” Phoebe reminded Ian. “They need your help to save those kids. Now. Not in a week or two. We have plenty of food in here. We can certainly wait—”

  “We’re not going to wait,” Aaron said. “We have to find Shel, fast, and—”

  Ian cut his brother off. “I know.”

  Outside the house, Martell continued to gaze up at the camera, with that expectant half smile on his handsome face.

  “Jesus, he’s gonna kick my ass, and love every minute of it,” Ian finally said. He turned to Phoebe. “Do it. Call him. You know what I need.”

  She punched Martell’s number into the panic room’s phone. “Need as opposed to want,” she clarified. She nodded. She did know. Ian wanted the money and the equipment and the high-tech support.

  But all that he needed was guaranteed safety—witness protection program level—for his brother, and for his brother’s family. He needed full amnesty for Aaron, which would give the younger man a clean slate. He also needed the federal authorities to dismiss any potential aiding-and-abetting charges against Sheldon and his sister Francine, who’d helped Aaron hide from the police for all this time.

  And Phoebe knew that she had been right in assuming that the three of them, Aaron, Shelly, and Francine, worked with Ian—that they were, indeed, part of his team. Doing God knows what—anything was possible, from contracting out as private-sector spies for the CIA and FBI, to actually being a gang of international jewel thieves. Bottom line, Ian had asked for full immunity for all of them, in connection to the impending rescue mission.

  In other words, they would not only be cleared of any past charges, but the authorities also wouldn’t arrest them for helping Ian break into the Kazbekistani consulate.

  Ian’s own immunity, however, was not a need. He’d made that very clear. His own immunity and safety were negotiable.

  Ian caught Phoebe’s arm before she pushed the button that would connect the call.

  “A detail you need to know: We need to walk out of here,” he told her, again using that word. “Aaron and me. No questions, no stopping us. Towels over our heads so the legions of cops out there don’t see us. Free and clear. We’ll need a vehicle, and I want you to be the driver. No one follows, no tracking devices, no surveillance.”

  “Um.” She chose her words carefully. “What if I … don’t want to be the driver?” she asked.

  “Deal’s off,” he said. He smiled. “I should’ve said need, not want. I need you to drive, which works out nicely since you, apparently, need to help save those poor, unfortunate, helpless, frightened little kids. Win/win.”

  Phoebe looked at him. “Desperate,” she said. “You left desperate off your list of adjectives. Forlorn. Vulnerable. Terrified.” She’d intended to mock him, but realized that instead she was talking herself into it.

  And Ian knew that. “Exactly,” he said.

  She sighed and placed the call, circling her shoulders and stretching her neck from side to side as prep for the impending legal boxing match with Martell.

  “Well, hey there,” the other lawyer said, way too cheerfully as, still on camera, he answered his phone. “Let’ssss … make a deal.”

  * * *

  Clearwater, Florida

  Ten years ago

  “But you’ll lose your scholarship,” Sheldon told Aaron as they stood shivering in the night, in the shadows of the wall surrounding their private high school.

  Aaron had sneaked out of the Brentwood dorms, and Shelly, a day student, had walked all the way over from his father’s house on the other side of town. He hadn’t dared drive, for fear someone would recognize his car.

  It was late and it was cold—freezing for Florida—but Aaron had been adamant that they have this conversation in person. Tonight. And Shel had never been very good at telling Aaron no.

  “Fuck my scholarship.” The wind off the Gulf was sharp and damp, and Aaron’s shoulders were hunched against it, his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he glared back at Shel. He never had gloves, or if he had them, he never wore them, even on the coldest winter nights. “What about you? What happens when your father finds out?”

  This nightmare had started last weekend, when they’d realized that someone had seen them together.

  Not friend together. Together together. Romantically together.

  And suddenly, what had been one of the loveliest evenings of Shel’s short life—a beach blanket, a secluded stretch of dunes, a gorgeously setting sun, his wonderful, beautiful boyfriend Aaron in his arms, whispers of I love you, too—became a reason to panic.

  It was bound to happen. Sooner or later.

  He should’ve known it wouldn’t last—his ridiculous happiness and his sense of finally belonging. In fact, it still seemed surreal.

  It had started mere months ago, when Shelly got hired as a math tutor for Aaron Dunn, one of Brentwood’s star football players. He’d expected to have to feed stolen test answers to a gorilla, but instead had found a smart, articulate friend.

  He and Aaron watched the same movies, the same TV shows. They liked the same books. Aaron may have been math-challenged, but his writing skills were excellent, and he read more than anyone else on campus. Maybe even more than Sheldon.

  They’d started hanging out together outside of tutoring time, and they’d talked and talked. And talked.

  And then, miraculously, one day, a few months ago, Aaron had leaned in and kissed him.

  Turned out Shel wasn’t the only kid at Brentwood hiding his sexual orientation from the world.

  Turned out Aaron had been crushing back on Shel for months.

  It was like The Wizard of Oz, where a world that Shel hadn’t even realized was in drab black and white suddenly exploded in amazing Technicolor.

  But then, last weekend, they’d gotten careless on the beach, and today, the shit had hit the fan.

  Today, they’d found that someone hadn’t just seen them together, someone had taken video. Of them. Together.

  He and Aaron had found this out at the exact same time as the rest of the students at Brentwood—when the video was posted to the school’s social message board on the Internet.

  True, the video was crudely made. It included about a dozen still photos of Sheldon and Aaron on campus—some quite blurry, and none at all incriminating—simple shots of them hanging out together. Those pictures were edited—badly—into a montage with pirated clips of some poor
ly produced gay porn from the 1980s. The hairstyles alone were blindingly awful.

  It would’ve been easy to shrug off as a joke, or as an attempt at bullying—Shel had had plenty of experience with that—except for the fact that the actual incriminating footage from their beach blanket encounter was tacked on to the end.

  Yes, it was alternately grainy and blurry, with the colors completely washed out. But that was definitely Aaron. Shel was harder to identify. In fact, he could’ve been anyone in a T-shirt and jeans—male or female, blonde, brunette, or redhead, truth be told. Anyone with short hair, that is, since the camera only caught the back of his badly lit head and the exposed nape of his neck.

  But then, whoever had crept up on them and shot that footage had pulled back, right at the end, to include Shel’s car in the frame. And there it was. His license plate clear as day as, in the shot’s background, he went down on his boyfriend.

  Aaron wanted to throw himself on the grenade. He wanted to step forward and publicly admit that, yes, that was him on tape. His plan was to announce that yes, he was gay, and to say that he’d borrowed Shel’s car to have this rendezvous with his boyfriend.

  He wanted Shel to pretend he knew nothing, and even to condemn him.

  What happens when your father finds out? Aaron was still waiting for Shelly to answer his question.

  “I don’t know,” Shel finally said. And it wasn’t just his father’s reaction that he was worried about. No one knew his secret. Not even his sister Francine.

  But if Aaron took the blame, he’d not only lose his scholarship, he’d be kicked out of school, out of the dorms. He’d have nowhere to go with his mother dead, his father in prison, and his older brother in the Navy, serving overseas.

  “I can’t let you do it,” Shel said. “I can’t.”

  “Yeah, you can,” Aaron said softly, almost gently, as he looked at Shel, his heart in his beautiful hazel eyes. “When I said I love you, I meant it.”

  “I love you, too,” Shel whispered now, past his heart in his throat. “Which is why I can’t—”