Frontline (35 page)

Randall pushes some of the newspapers around on the desktop and uncovers a remote control. He points it at the television. Black and white images with a time code running at the bottom of the screen replace the news anchor. Every three seconds, the image changes: a lone forklift parked next to three steel drums; a wider shot of a yard taken from a higher vantage point; stacks of four shipping containers lined side-by-side, stretching for miles next to the bay; the dim interior of a giant warehouse with hundreds of wooden crates placed in rows.

Randall drops his satchel onto the desk and pulls the computer tablet from it. He turns it on and hands it to me. “Point to the exact location where your father told Trenton he hid the container.”

I point to the row of warehouses lining the bay.

“And we’re here.” Randall moves his finger across the screen only a short distance. “They must be somewhere close by . . . Now point to the location you say the container is after doing all those calculations.”

I point to the proper place on the tablet.

“Look!” Denim points at the television screen. The image changes as soon as Randall and I follow the direction of her finger.

“What did you see?” Randall asks.

“Some guy walking around with a gun,” Denim replies. “Watch. It’ll
Watch, a
come back.”

The cycle repeats and the interior of the warehouse appears onscreen again. The vast room with all of the stacked crates sits empty.

“I swear he was there! He had a gun strapped around his neck and he was walking past that pole to the right.”

“Do we have any idea what that place is?” Kelly asks.

“Some interior of one of the buildings at the port, I presume.” Randall peers through a hole in the dusty Venetian blinds by sticking his fingers between the closed slats. “At least ten warehouses line the shore running east along the bay. Is there any other identifiable marking in the image? Look closely when it reappears, ladies.”

We crowd around the screen. When the camera feed returns, it’s just a big room with a bunch of crates.

“It could be any one of those warehouses,” Kelly says.

“That makes time even more precious. We’ll have to check every single one.” Randall pulls his fingers from between the blind slats and opens his satchel again, producing a small black case. He flips the lid and pulls a plastic device from it that he pushes into his right ear. Tapping it on the side, a faint blue light blinks. He then pulls a tiny lapel microphone no bigger than a pinky finger from the case and hands it to Denim.

“Say something.”

Denim leans into the microphone. “You’re going to leave us here in the office, aren’t you, Randall?”

“You’re of much more use to me here, ladies. Watch the camera feed and talk to me through the microphone. I need you to be my eyes and ears. If Tommy wakes up and finds you here, or you feel you’re in danger in any way, escape to the car and leave the port.”

I step forward to protest.

“Except you, Sara,” he says. “I know you’ll just argue with me and probably put us both in more danger by following me anyway, so you might as well come along.”

I hand Denim the car keys and she throws her arms around my neck. Kelly joins in our hug. We pull apart when Randall opens the door and peers through the crack.

He gives the thumbs-up and the two of us fly out of the trailer, down the porch steps, and across the gravel path between the trailer and the wall of the nearest warehouse. I crouch against it as Randall pulls a different gun from a holster inside his jacket. This one looks vintage, with a long barrel, and from what I can tell in the darkness, an eagle carved into the wood handle, its wings outstretched, sharp talons at the ready.

He peeks around the corner of the warehouse wall and looks up and down several times before turning back to me. “We’ll make our way like this all the way down and I’ll hoist you up to check the side window. Stick to the shadows. Move quickly. Follow my every move.”

I run gingerly on the balls of my feet, trying to move as smoothly and silently as Randall. When we arrive at the window, I duck and push up against the wall again. He cups his hands in front of his knee and I place my left foot inside. I need only a slight boost to glance through the glass.

“All I see is darkness.”

“Not it, then,” Randall says as he lowers me back down. “Let’s continue.”

He counts to three and pokes his head around the corner of the warehouse, down the gravel laneway to our next destination. We check the next four warehouses the same way and find nothing but smashed glass or thick cobwebs guarding black interiors.

“Still nothing, Sara. Let’s keep going.”

As quickly as Randall whispers his orders and I make ready to follow, he shoots his hand in front of me, blocking my way. He shoves me back behind him and brings his hand to his earpiece. “What’s wrong, Miss Jacobson?”

The yard is so quiet, I can hear Denim’s tiny voice echo in his earpiece. The look of alarm on his face throws a new wave of anxiousness over me.

“Very well. Keep me updated.” Randall presses the button on his earpiece and scans around the corner again.

“Randall, what’s wrong? What did Denim say?”

“We need to move faster. Keep up.”

We round the corner and dive into the alley beside the next warehouse, crouching alongside a steel dumpster overflowing with trash bags. Thistle weed and tall blades of grass sprout from the gravel. My heart thuds in my burning chest, its impact against my ribcage reverberating up my neck and worsening my headache.

Randall must be cursing his luck. He works with highly trained military/FBI personnel and he’s stuck with me as his backup. The fact that he didn’t even argue with me when I insisted on accompanying him to the port, and that he let Denim and Kelly come along, too, proves how desperate he really is. All I can do is try my damnedest not to let everyone down.

Thin beams of light shine from the interior of the warehouse through tiny pinholes in the sheet metal siding. They’re too small to look through, but they at least provide a hint that something’s going on inside, contrasting with every other warehouse’s abandoned look.

“Your friends figured out a way to move the camera around inside of the warehouse,” Randall says. “They said they can see Trenton and Christopher.”

“Are they okay? What about my dad?”

Randall taps his ear and speaks softly. “Ladies? Can you hear me? Any updates?”

A long pause follows as he listens.

“Very well.” He looks at me. “They can only see the two of them, but they’re sure there are more men inside. This must be the place.” He points to the tiny light beams. “Trenton and Christopher are both bound and chained to a steel pillar in the middle of the room. If we can get inside without being discovered, we may be able to set up an ambush.”

I peer through the darkness down the alley behind us. The gravel ends at the edge of the seawall and drops into San Francisco Bay. Beyond it, the glow of Alameda and twinkling headlights of a handful of cars crossing the Lincoln Highway Bridge provide the only light for us to see.

“Maybe a back door?” I motion down the alley.

Randall glances around and up at the moonless sky before offering a tentative nod. “I see no other way.” He pulls me back as I make for the rear of the alley. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Sara?”

“What choice do I have? They’re in danger.”

Randall reaches beneath his coat and pulls Tommy’s P-96M from his belt. “Take this.”

I shake my head. “I’ve never shot a gun before. I’d be useless.”

“What kind of rescue do you anticipate mounting, Sara? A suicide mission? Take it.”

The pistol feels lighter than I expect, its cold steel grip falling comfortably into the contours of my right hand.

“There are only ten shots,” Randall says, demonstrating how to disengage the safety. “Make them count.”

He skirts in front of me and we snake down the alley, pausing briefly with our backs to the wall while he peeks around the corner to survey the rear of the warehouse. He holds his hand in the air next to him and shows me two fingers.

Fuck.

The grip of my pistol is already so soaked with sweat, I’m afraid it might slip from my hand as soon as I raise it.

Randall places his hand on my forearm and shakes his head. I lower my gun while he returns his own handgun into the holster beneath his coat, bends, and pulls a long hunting knife from the inside of his boot. The steel glints in the reflection of the lights across the bay; a bright, fiery hue that engulfs the blade. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his chest puffing beneath his coat. His eyes reopen as he peeks around the corner one more time. Then he vanishes.

It all happens in a flurry of short, jumbled noises. One gasp, the thick crack of a snapped bone, a shriek, the click of a cocking gun, a whistle of steel, the hiss of a blade slicing flesh, pops of fluid splattering like water poured onto pavement. Gurgle. Choke.

Silence.

The lights across the bay, so crisp just seconds before, blur into a solid wall of white light as tears fill my eyes. My headache intensifies
—temples pulsating, blinding bolts searing my head as if my skull has caught fire.

A large shadow looms over me. Randall wipes dark speckles from his face with his sleeve. Droplets fall from his knife blade into the parched gravel at his feet.

“Let’s go, Sara. It’s safe now.”

The back entrance of the warehouse sits next to two giant loading doors. Its rusty hinges creak and Randall opens it only a small way, enough for us to squeeze inside. Musty odors hit me immediately; stale air infused with dust and mold.

Randall moves swiftly, his gun lifted in front of him, approaching each corner and doorway as if Kedrov himself stands on the other side.

We skip up stained concrete stairs, past walls ravaged with holes, exposing rotted wood framing and copper pipes. The top of the stairwell opens into a vast room filled with thousands of large wooden crates
—some stacked as many as four and five high. I recognize it immediately from the video feed. Thick steel poles stand throughout the room, rising high above us, jutting past shattered windows that line the top of each perimeter wall before they meet the ceiling. A halo of soft lamplight glows in the center of the room. Low, murmuring voices float on the still air.

Randall taps his earpiece.

“We’re close,” he whispers.

We enter the labyrinth of crates, making our way toward the light. Perspiration trickles down my back and my hair feels matted to my forehead.

Our feet leave prints in the thick coating of dust on the floor, my tiny sneaker soles next to Randall’s massive boots. After a few more turns, the murmurs become clearer and the lamplight glows brighter on the tops of the crates stacked around us.

Randall throws his hand up, motioning for me to pause, when we near our next turn. I peer through the empty space between two stacked crates, where drivers insert the forks from their lifts.

Trenton, Chris, and Sean sit with their backs against one of the thick steel supports extending high above them to the roof. Their hands are bound with plastic ties. A heavy chain, wrapped tightly around their chests, fastens them in a circle around the pole. Sean is on the far side of the support, which explains why Denim and Kelly couldn’t see him on camera. Next to them sits a giant steel shipping container.

Chris and Sean slump forward against the chain, unconscious, their chins on their chests. Trenton’s forehead glistens with blood, his suit coated with dust and dirt. With his jaw set, he glares straight ahead.

“You have your crate, you have Merrick, and you have me. What more do you want?” My father’s voice sounds thin and strained.

I move to another stack of crates on the other side of Randall. My vantage point now expands to include my dad. His face and hair are soaked with sweat and blood and he kneels in front of three more men armed with semi-automatic rifles. To my father’s left stands Kedrov. He purses his lips and nods slowly, seemingly contemplating my dad’s question.

In person, Kedrov is the same menacing figure from Kelly’s photographs and the glimpse I got of him on the television onboard Trenton’s plane: a tall, stocky figure with deep wrinkles lining his face, gray hair, gray beard, and calculating eyes, which are decorated with the only new addition to his appearance—glasses.

“Indeed. What more do I want?” Kedrov removes his glasses as casually as an elderly man sitting on a park bench, reading the newspaper on a summer afternoon. One by one, he breathes on each lens and polishes them between two folds in his sweater, then slips them back on his face. “I will tell you something, Mr. Peters: There is no end to what I want. But there is an end to what I need.” He motions to the shipping container. “Shall we?”

One of the three men standing around my father shoulders his rifle and walks to the far end of the container. He picks up bolt cutters from the floor and wraps them around the lock at the bottom of the container’s double doors. He cuts the lock’s latch, twists the two steel poles running vertically up the middle, and releases them.

With a heave, he pushes the left door open. It rotates on its hinge, slamming against the side of the container. He sets down the bolt cutters. His footsteps echo as he climbs inside. A flashlight clicks and the interior illuminates.