by Cecilia Tan
To keep my brain busy I go over the details of my fire team’s former operations. Assess, plan, replan, execute. One of our deployments involved a ship that had been laying mines in the Persian Gulf. It looked like a freighter, but it was no innocent cargo ship. Unlike some, this operation involved every aspect of SEAL training, including diving and underwater demolition. It sounds like a simple plan—blow big holes under the waterline and let the fucker sink—but what sounds simple requires thousands of decisions to plan and execute. How will the insertion take place once the target is acquired? How will stealth be maintained? What type of explosives? Where on the hull would they do the most damage? What contingencies are in place for meeting resistance? And so on. That operation was a success. Maybe that’s why my mind settles on that one: a smooth execution, a perfect outcome.
Or maybe it’s because it was the last big operation the four of us were part of before discharge.
I really wonder where those guys are now.
The last time I saw Cass was in Virginia, after the final word came down. Garrett and Ruiz had already left, getting out before the military could change their mind and charge us with something worse, I guess.
Cass was packing up his things at his hotel, placing paired socks neatly into a suitcase on the bed. He’d started letting his hair grow, glossy and feathery brown as a starling. He had a touch of Texas in how he spoke, not an all-out drawl but a soft-spoken way of clipping his vowels short. “Ain’t nothing to do about it now.”
“You could come stay at my place for a while,” I said. “My mother’s a great cook. We can catch Amtrak right from—”
“No offense, Eric.” He didn’t look up from his packing. “But the last thing I want to do is hang around in the city right now.”
My mother lived in the suburbs, but that close to New York counted as “city” to Cass.
I sat on the edge of the bed. I’d been inseparable from the three of them for years. I was having trouble imagining what life was going to be like without them.
“Hey.”
I looked up. Cassidy was standing still, examining me. “They could’ve thrown the book at us, you know. It could’ve been a lot worse.”
I knew. The brass had threatened us with jail and dishonorable discharge. They had settled for slightly nicer ways of kicking us out, but so-called “honorable” discharges under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell weren’t the slightest bit honorable. I felt like my life was over.
“C’mere.” He beckoned me into a hug. My breath grew suddenly short as I tried not to cry.
The next thing I knew we were devouring each other, the suitcase and socks knocked to the floor as we wrestled each other out of our clothes on the bed. Mouths and tongues met genitals and hindquarters. I came while he was eating my ass, and he deposited one last load between my cheeks—not inside me but on my tailbone. I wouldn’t have cared if he’d put it in without a condom that time, but old habits die hard.
And then we were lying there, side by side, panting like we’d sprinted a fifty. “You could . . .” I tried again, “still come and stay for a couple of days. I mean, if you haven’t figured out what’s next.”
He hugged me hard enough to crack my spine. “Eric. What’s next is you go out and fall in love. Everything from now to then will just be a blur. You’ll meet that guy—or girl, I don’t judge—and everything else will go poof into the past.”
He was telling me goodbye. I knew it but I didn’t want to hear it. “Okay, but what do I do with myself until then?”
Cass heaved himself off the bed and dug around in his things. He flicked me a business card. “Call this guy. He can help you find work. Security, bodyguarding, that kind of thing.”
I tucked the card into my wallet and gathered up my clothes. I got into the shower. When I came out, Cassidy was gone.
Six months later I was working for Aiden Milford.
Driver yawns and gets up to pace. When someone radios him, he doesn’t bother to go into the hallway to talk. “Yeah, of course I’m upstairs. Can’t exactly leave this goon alone.”
He nods as he listens through his earpiece to whoever’s talking to him. “I’m really not worrying about the party guests. If the senator shows up, he’ll have his own security. The rest of them? CEOs and lobbyists and a couple of town aldermen. The biggest security risk in that crowd is some wife accidentally putting on someone else’s mink. You’ve already screened the caterers, right?”
More nodding. Then, “Okay, fine. Have Rick give the carolers a once-over when they get here. They’re due to arrive at 7:30, perform at eight.”
So that’s what’s at 2000. Joy to the world.
Time stamp: 1900
Time for the changing of the guard. Curly comes in with an exasperated look on his face, carrying a shopping bag.
Driver chuckles. “What, are the aldermen’s wives giving you guff?”
Curly shakes his head. “I hate rich people.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Christmas gifts for my kids.” Curly lets out a long-suffering sigh and sits down in the chair. “Keep an eye on Milford, will you?”
Driver puts his jacket on and buttons it. “Drinking too much punch again? Last year he was like a petulant four-year-old who didn’t like his bedtime.”
“Exactly,” Curly says. “Keep him out of here especially. Aiden’s pet cop is coming for this guy tomorrow, and then we can all forget this happened.”
“Too right,” Driver says and leaves. They’re both clearly ready for this whole incident to be off their records.
Curly checks his watch and locks the bedroom door. He places the shopping bag in the bathroom, checks his firearm, and chambers a bullet. Then he gets a knife out.
He moves behind me. “I don’t trust you,” he says. “But I trust Chase, and this is what he wants.”
The momentary idea that he might shoot me in the back of the head flashes through my mind, but there’s no fear. “I’m okay with whatever Chase wants.”
“Good. Here’s how we’re going to do this. I’m going to cut a rope or two and then step back. You’re going to free yourself the rest of the way, go into the bathroom, and put the clothes in that bag on. You’re going to keep the door open so I can see you, and if you even twitch aggressively, I’ll just fucking shoot you. Clear?”
“Loud and clear,” I answer. The focus that sharpens when an operation is underway is a blessing. My heart is in my throat, but I don’t care. I feel the tension on my arms go slack. I work my wrists free and then for the first time in many, many hours, my elbows are in front of my body.
It takes everything I have not to scream as my shoulder tendons are forced to move. Especially the left. After a few moments, I’m able to move my right arm but not my left. I rub the left shoulder with my right palm, trying to get it to come back to life. The scar from the bullet feels like a lima bean under my skin, and I remember almost tearing this arm from the socket while I was trying to keep from submerging in the water on the island. I wiggle my fingers, but I can’t raise my arm higher than my chest.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Curly prompts.
“Working on it.” I get my legs free and flex my good ankle. The bad one—well, we’ll see. I stand up slowly, my weight on the good leg, and shuffle forward. I won’t be running any sprints anytime soon, but I can at least make it to the bathroom.
“Wash your face,” he barks as I flip on the light. “Try to look presentable.”
I see why when I dig the clothes out of the bag. A tuxedo jacket and pants, white gloves—a caterer’s uniform. The tighty-whiteys look familiar. Chase’s? No, wait. I’m pretty sure they’re mine, and they’re not the ones I was wearing when I left the island. Chase must have taken them when he fled. There’s a lump in my throat, but I can’t think about that right now.
In the medicine cabinet, I find some medical tape. I tape my ankle to stabilize it as best I can and then slip the black dress sock on over it.
“If
you really want me to be hard to recognize, I should shave off the goatee,” I say.
“There a razor in there?” Curly asks from behind his gun.
“There is.”
“Do it.”
I shave my face for the first time in two years. I’m lucky not to have a black eye. My lips are a little swollen but not enough to attract attention. The tuxedo is a bit tricky to get on with one arm not working right, but the really hard part is the bow tie. Thank goodness it’s a clip-on.
In the bottom of the bag are shoes. They fit.
“Comb your hair,” Curly says, sounding every bit like a chief to an underling. I slick it back with some gel from the medicine cabinet. He snorts. “You look like you’re on the way to a wedding.”
“Better than a funeral,” I say.
With the gun, he motions me toward the watch on the dresser. Next to it is a folded piece of paper. I unfold it.
There’s a map of the mansion and grounds. Chase’s handwriting is achingly familiar. He’s marked coordinates for me. A rendezvous point.
“You’ll go at twenty-hundred,” Curly says.
I put the watch on and wind it. “What time is it?”
He checks his own. “Four minutes till.”
I adjust the time on the watch as he motions me to sit again.
I shake my head. I’m too nervous to sit. I go to the barred window instead, and he doesn’t shoot me. I want to ask him what Chase plans to do at the rendezvous, but maybe he doesn’t even know that. Instead I ask, “What’s your name?”
“Briggs,” he says, lowering the gun, but still holding it ready. He’s not taking any chances on my sanity or my faith in the plan. I can’t say I blame him.
A chorus of voices breaks into “Adeste Fideles,” the sound coming right through the floor. “That is some group of carolers,” I remark.
“About twenty of ’em,” Briggs says and steps back further from me. “Time to mo—”
A triple knock comes on the door. He goes to it immediately, and I back against the wall where I can’t be seen, just in case.
He opens the door for Chase, who rushes in, breathless, carrying an empty metal tray. He stares at me a moment—maybe shocked at my appearance—then lets the tray fall to the carpet as he grabs me by the face and kisses me.
When he lets me go, my mouth doesn’t work. “You . . . That . . . I . . .”
Briggs says what I can’t manage to. “I thought you were angry enough to kick him in the nuts.”
“I was. I am,” he says to me. “But I got a chance to slip away and had to come see you. The second I saw you . . .” He shrugs. “Let’s get out of here.”
I pick up the tray with my good arm. “What happens to Briggs when it turns out we’re gone?”
Briggs snorts. “You think I’m planning to keep this job even one more day after this bullshit?”
Chase straightens my bow tie. “You sure?”
“I’m not afraid of your papa,” Briggs says. “Don’t you worry about me, Chay.”
“All right.” He turns to me. “Rendezvous on the far side of the mower shed.”
I need to know more of the plan, though. “And from there?”
“Hoof it down to the convenience store and get an Uber, like always,” Chase says.
Briggs curses under his breath. “This one’s not hoofing it very far. Here.” He pulls a car key from his pocket and hands it to me. “It’s the Range Rover parked by the guardhouse at the bottom of the driveway. Ditch it when you can.”
“Why are you giving the keys to me?” I ask, feeling like there are still things about this operation I don’t know.
“Because Milford didn’t want Chase to learn to drive,” Briggs says. “Now, get going.”
Chase does two more things before he goes into the hall. He slips my burner phone into my pocket. Just in case, I suppose. And he kisses my cheek. “See you at the shed.”
He precedes me into the carpeted hallway and heads down the main staircase toward the festivities.
I head for the servant’s staircase at the other end of the hall, holding the serving tray by one handle. I make it to the bottom of the stairs by taking gentle steps. My next goal is the kitchen, which has a back exit door. The kitchen is to the right from here, on the other side of the dining room. I wonder if the metal tray would stop a bullet if I had to use it as a shield?
It’s better as camouflage. I can only hold the tray level when I tuck my bad arm against my ribs, but that looks all right. I’m carrying it down the hallway when two elderly men emerge from the parlor. Behind them I get a glimpse of the crowd of partygoers facing the Christmas tree at one end of the room, the carolers arrayed in front of it. The scents of spruce and candle wax send a sudden ache to have Chase in my arms all the way to the ends of my fingertips. One of the old men puts his empty champagne flute onto my tray and asks where the nearest restroom is. I indicate the hallway to one side, and then I duck into the dining room.
Nothing’s changed in here since the day Aiden fired me—not the antique wood table large enough to seat twenty, not the glass chandeliers or the clinging scent of rancid cigarette smoke. I want to gag.
I push through to the kitchen, where a woman in chef whites grabs the tray and empty glass from me and hands me a full tray of canapés without even looking at me. She’s already reaching for a whipped cream canister as she barks, “I don’t care if they’re still singing. Get out there before these get cold.”
Back into the dining room I go, intending to set the tray on the table and slip out through the French doors. I can walk around to the mower shed from there.
The singing trails off suddenly as furious voices come from the direction of the foyer— Chase and Aiden flinging words at each other. Adrenaline surges through my veins, and I barely feel my feet as I leave the tray and rush toward the foyer. I hunker behind the archway while I assess the situation.
“No appreciation!” Aiden growls drunkenly. “No appreciation for anything I’ve done for you! Ungrateful!”
Chase is backing away from him, and Aiden follows him right into my line of sight as the full assembly of partygoers turns to watch the new spectacle. “Done for me?” His voice wavers with emotion, like he barely has enough air to speak, but he’s determined to get the words out anyway. “You mean like lock me up here in the house like a prisoner?”
Aiden’s voice is a blast from a volcano blowing its top. “Where do you need to go? You have everything you need right here! You’re still a child!”
Chase is shaking but indignant. “I’m twenty-two years old!”
“You’ve got no education!”
“Because you wouldn’t let me!”
“You never would’ve survived college,” Aiden insists matter-of-factly. “You couldn’t even make it through fourth grade.”
Chase’s shoulders fall back as he clears his throat and stands tall. His voice gains strength as he says, “Maybe if you’d given me a chance to mourn my mother instead of erasing her from our lives, I might have.”
Aiden’s red face goes pale. “You dare.”
Chase sees me, his gaze locking on mine. “I do. I’m not the weakling I used to be, Dad. Not anymore.”
A white-haired woman with more diamonds than an engagement-shop window pushes her way out of the staring crowd. “Aiden, what is the meaning of this? You’re intoxicated and embarrassing the family.”
“Don’t you start now, Mother,” Aiden says. “You were happy when I made the rule prohibiting the mention of certain people.”
Chase seizes her hand suddenly. “Grandame. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“What is it, child?”
“Dad’s gone nuts. He’s telling people I was kidnapped when I went to Maine with my boyfriend.”
I hear sharp gasps from various people in the crowd. Chase keeps hold of his grandmother’s hand and pulls her in my direction. He’s holding out his other hand. Toward me.
I step into the foyer to gra
sp his fingers.
“This is Eric,” he says. “Eric, this is my grandmother.”
I don’t dare look at Aiden. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Milford,” I say.
“Milford-Harrison,” she corrects icily. “I remarried. Chase, dear, you know I’ve never approved of Aiden’s way of raising you. But are you sure?”
“Sure of what?”
“Are you truly attached to this boy? Or is he merely a convenient rebellion against your father’s wishes? I won’t sanction you playing with people’s hearts.” At that pronouncement she glares in Aiden’s direction.
It’s the click of the hammer being drawn back on a gun that makes me turn toward him at last. He’s regained his color—well on the way to a full purple rage. The pistol pointed upward looks like a Ruger .38, small but easily lethal at this range. “I am the head of this family,” he declares. “And you will do as I say.”
“Put that thing away,” Grandame Milford-Harrison scolds.
Aiden pulls the trigger—the shot sending a shower of glass chandelier bits down onto us—and the majority of the partygoers hit the deck, their hands over their ears, the grandame included.
Chase barely flinches. He still has my hand in his. “Put the gun down, Dad.”
“You don’t tell me what to do. Nobody tells me what to do,” Aiden growls.
“Put the gun down now, and everyone will go home with a story about that one time Aiden Milford got drunk at his own Christmas party and shot a hole in the ceiling,” Chase says. “Any other choice and you’re going to jail, Dad.”
Aiden aims the gun at Chase, and I put myself between them.
Aiden clucks his tongue. “You just made my decision for me, cocksucker,” he says. “Say goodb—”
Briggs drops on him from the railing of the grand staircase, and the gun goes off.
Time stamp: 2024 Saturday, Milford Mansion, Duxbury, Massachusetts
