Frontline (29 page)

I shake my head. “I know it’s the logical thing to do, but what am I supposed to tell them? Trenton kept me in the dark about everything. All I want to do is forget what happened and move forward with my life.”

Kelly nods. “All right. We can always talk about it later when you’re feeling better.”

“Thank you both for listening,” I say.

“So I guess this means a timeout from New York’s dating scene.” A hint of a smile plays on Kelly’s lips.

I giggle through my tears. “Permanent timeout.”

Denim pulls a tissue from the box next to the couch and hands it to me. I dab it beneath my eye
s and wipe my nose.

“No, Sara,” Denim says. “There’s someone out there who’s perfect for you. Just like there’s someone perfect waiting for me and for Kelly. We’ll find them.”

Kelly rolls her eyes. “Excuse Denim. She’s on a permanent timeout from the real world.”

“Come on, don’t be so cynical.” Denim’s smile widens. “Sara, you’re here, you’re alive. And best of all, you’re wiser. Next time will be easy compared to what you just went through.”

“Sorry, but I can’t even think about a next time right now. I just want things to go back to normal. I want to rewind the last ten days and erase everything.”

“I hate to say this, Sara, but Denim is right,” Kelly says. “It sounds crazy, but you’ve learned something really important about life in New York. You knew Merrick was bad news right from the get-go. I know that can be a total turn-on, but you’re a smart girl and you have to trust your instincts.”

Denim nods. “And trust your friends.”

I hold back from reminding Denim that on Saturday she was fully supportive of me seeing Trenton again.

Kelly stands and offers her hand. I take it and she pulls me to my feet.

“Let’s go out and have an early dinner,” she says.

I wipe my eyes on the sleeve of Trenton’s hoodie. “I’d just like to stay in, if you don’t mind.”

Kelly tugs on my arm. “No way. I will not allow you to waste away in this apartment. It’s time to toast to a new life without men.”

Denim gasps. “Only temporarily, though, right?”

Kelly rolls her eyes again.

I sigh. “Okay, let’s go.”

Kelly looks me up and down. “Are you gonna ditch the soccer mom duds first?”

I remove the hoodie and toss it on the coffee table. Getting rid of Trenton’s clothes is the final step in purging him from my life for good.

“Let’s stop by a Salvation Army on the way and make a donation,” I say.

Kelly and Denim nod.

I pull my hair back into a ponytail and decide on a makeup-free look after changing into a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and sneakers.

Kelly and Denim smile as I unplug my cell phone from the wall, pluck my handbag and keys from the coffee table, and stride across the room with the extra confidence I muster to mask my underlying sorrow.

Our girl-power momentum stalls as soon as knocks sound from the other side of the door, loud and insistent, hard enough to shake the door to its hinges.

My eyes widen and shift back and forth between Kelly and Denim, who stand frozen in place as if we’ve just walked into a minefield. The shadow beneath the door lingers. More knocks, harder and faster. A throat clears.

“Sara, open up.” The sound of Trenton’s stern voice is as welcome as a car alarm blaring outside my window in the middle of the night.

I toss panicked glances at Kelly and Denim. I can’t see Trenton again. I can’t. My wounds are too fresh . . . it was difficult enough to leave him the last time.

Kelly’s jaw tightens and she steps toward the door. I grab her shirt, tugging her back. Her stare burns through me, but she holds her tongue.

“I know you’re in there, Sara. Open up!” Trenton accompanies his order with more thunderous knocks.

I place my finger over my lips and look at my friends. Denim holds her cell phone up and shows me 911 typed into its digital display. Her expression begs for permission to complete the call. I shake my head.

Another barrage of knocks thuds against the door. Then Trenton mumbles something and a second shadow appears. Five short beeps sound off; the click of the lock as it disengages follows.

I launch myself against the door as the knob turns. My purse and keys falls to the floor. Kelly and Denim are beside me in an instant, their backs pressed to the particleboard. The security chain bounces from my hands as a hard shove from the other side almost blasts the three of us across the room. I grab the tip of the chain and slide it to the lock position. Another hard push comes, but the chain holds the door in place, offering only a small crack for Trenton to peer through.

“Sara, open the door. We need to talk.” His blue eyes look dark and unyielding, a far cry from the tenderness they exuded as he kneeled before me last night.

I turn away from him and push my back firmly against the door. “We have nothing to talk about. Get lost or Denim is calling the police.”

“Denim is in there?” Christopher says from somewhere in the hallway.

Denim’s face brightens. “Chris?”

Kelly glowers and elbows her in the ribs.

“Trenton, I mean it,” I say. “I’m telling you for the last time to leave me alone.”

“Sara, if you don’t release the chain, I’ll break down the door. Either way, we’re getting inside the apartment. I have new information and you need to hear it.”

I gather my courage and look at Trenton through the crack again. Although I can only see a portion of his face, it looks healthier than yesterday. His skin has lost its sickly yellow shade. His jawline is straight and prominent now that it’s clean-shaven.

Stay strong, Sara.

“You’ve had enough opportunities to explain. Why does it always have to come to a fight before you give me the truth about anything?”

Kelly sneers. “Because he’s controlling and psychotic!”

Trenton grits his teeth.

Sean appears behind him, chuckling. “Takes one to know one.”

Kelly’s eyes widen. “Sean?”

“Hey, Sheridan.” Sean’s suave bravado elevates the words from a simple greeting to a bold invitation.

To Kelly’s credit, her smile makes only a brief appearance before her tough demeanor returns. “Don’t
hey
me, Mavis. You jerk. How dare you show up here after what you put Sara through!”

“And Christopher Maida, what’s with not calling me?” Denim shouts. “That’s so tremendously uncool.”

“I’ve, uh, been really busy,” Chris says sheepishly.

Kelly huffs. “Yeah, busy almost getting our friend killed and then keeping her prisoner.”

“Sara, stop this absurdity and release the goddamn chain.” Trenton shoves his uninjured shoulder against the door, but the three of us don’t budge. “You need to hear me out.”

“Whatever you have to say, you can say it from the hallway.”

“This is sensitive information. I’m not going to relay it through a crack in the door.”

Seconds pass. I look at Kelly. Her nod tells me to let them in. The budding journalist in her cannot resist hearing a good story, which, I’m sure, is what Trenton is going to try to sell me. I look at Denim. She smiles and nods eagerly.

So much for girl power.

They both move away from the door.

Here we go again.

I unlatch the chain and Trenton steps inside. The s
leek CEO is back
—
the power, prestige, and confidence all evident in his poise
—
though he holds his left arm against his body gingerly.

For the first time, I wish I lived in a penthouse as big as his. Even as I walk to the far end of the room and take refuge near the bed, the distance between us is not enough.

Sean enters the apartment and cocks his chin at Kelly. “Nice to see you again, beautiful.”

Kelly throws her hair behind her shoulders and looks him up and down with an arched eyebrow. Sean’s grin never wavers, beaming a frenetic energy that melts her resolve like a blowtorch held to an ice sculpture. Finally, her head bows, barely hiding a small smile and deep red cheeks.

Chris pokes his head around the doorframe and finds Denim staring back at him, her eyes wide and her hands entwined in front of her.

“Hey, Chris!” she says.

Chris gauges her warily, as if trying to determine if it’s safe to approach—this coming from a guy whose skill with a machine gun rivals that of Rambo on super steroids.

He drops his guarded expression and steps inside the apartment. “Hello, Denim.”

“So, you were going to call me, right?” She rocks back and forth on her heels. “Like, if you hadn’t been involved in a shootout?”

I roll my eyes. My friends can flirt with Trenton’s Tin Men all they want
after
Trenton leaves.

“What did you want to say to me, Trenton?” I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him.

A moment passes, locking us in a time and place where amorous declarations and desperate, tender touches are all that we remember. Then his face hardens, and I know those memories alone are not enough to save us.

“Sara, I understand your concern about everything. What happened this weekend was completely unexpected and entirely my fault. You were put in harm’s way due to my negligence and
—”

“You’ve said all this already, Trenton. I don’t want another apology. I want an explanation.”

Trenton purses his lips and looks around the room. “Sara, I told you before, I can’t explain everything to you.”

His continued evasiveness unleashes my fury, my assertiveness
—the parts of me that know I deserve better than to be humiliated by him again.

“Who were those men?” I march toward him. “Why were they trying to kill us?”

“That’s not for me to explain.”

“Then why the hell did you come here?” Tears sting my eyes. I step forward and cock my arm to launch a slap across his face, but his right hand jumps up and catches my wrist.

“But I brought someone who can.” Trenton steers his chin over his shoulder and nods to Sean. Sean disappears into the hallway.

A moment later, a familiar face appears in the doorway.

My hand flies to my mouth. “Dad?”

My father’s presence in my doorway sends my head spinning. His eyes look darker than when I last saw him, his hair thinner, his smile a weak imitation of the big, beefy grin he wore so often.

“Hello, Sara.”

“Dad, what are you doing here? Where’s Mom?”

My father lopes into the apartment as if he carries the weight of all of New York on his shoulders.
I throw my arms around his neck. He holds me weakly, as if only courtesy-hugging a long-lost acquaintance.

“Are you okay?” I hug him tighter. “What’s going on?”

I look at Trenton, wondering if this family reunion is some strange attempt at reconciliation on his part, but he shows no sign of sharing the joy I feel at seeing my dad after so long.

“Sara . . .” A long sigh smothers the rest of my father’s sentence. He steps back from our embrace. “I, uh . . . it’s great to see you, kiddo.”

“Your father has come to shed some light on recent events, Sara.” Trenton nods and focuses on my dad, lips pursed, lines burrowed deep into his forehead. “To bring you up to speed on everything that’s been going on.”

If my father is aware of recent events, it’s obvious Trenton is the informant. I shoot him the most menacing glare I can muster. I expect my dad to yank my suitcase from beneath my bed and fling the contents of my closet into it.

If you can’t act responsibly on your own in New York . . . if you can’t restrain yourself from being shot at, kidnapped, humping strange billionaires against walls, and enjoying hair pulling, then your mother and I think it’s best for you to come home.

But instead of taking charge the way he always does, my father sweeps his eyes over the tiny room, looking everywhere but at me. His hand drums against his right thigh and he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Allan,” Trenton prompts.

“Uh, can we, Sara?” My father motions to the couch.

I settle onto the same cushion I sat on a few moments ago with Kelly and Denim, when things seemed to be getting back to normal. Now with my dad standing in my apartment, and the notion that he and Trenton seem to know each other, things couldn’t be further from it.

“Dad, is everything okay with you and Mom?” I ask as he lowers himself onto the couch next to me. At this point, I don’t know what would be worse: him being here because something horrible has happened in San Francisco or because of what’s transpired in my life in New York.

“Everything between your mother and me is fine.” He clears his throat. “Sara, uh, your friend, Trenton, and I have been talking since my arrival this morning. He sent his plane for me ’cause . . . I owe you an explanation.” My father pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and closes his eyes.

Kelly pulls Denim toward the door, but Chris shakes his head and closes it in front of them before they can exit. They turn back into the apartment, looking as confused as I feel.

“Dad.” I grip his shoulder and shake him. “Look at me.”

He pulls his hand away from his face and his eyelids open. Red, wiry veins web across his white pupils like cracks through a smashed windowpane.

“Talk to me, please. What are you doing here? How do you know Trenton?”

Seconds tick like a countdown to a firing squad.

“Sara, do you remember Don Gibbons?”

I nod. “He was your best friend for, like, ever
—right up until his heart attack. Of course I remember him.”

My father looks back at Trenton, his expression pleading, as if he’s worried his next words might cause the whole world to implode.

Trenton nods at him, his stare unyielding. “Continue, Allan.”

The words seem to fill my fathe
r with more dread than courage.

“Don didn’t die of a heart attack, Sara. He was murdered.”

I feel all the color drain from my face. “Murdered? By who?”

“Well, that’s where things get even worse.” He rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “In the late 1990s, Don was approached by a man about an opportunity to help slip some cargo through the Port of San Francisco. Illegally, of course. He accepted the job. No one knew except me. I didn’t agree with what he was doing, but I kept it a secret. He was my best friend and he was going through a rough spell at the time with the divorce, alimony . . . Anyway, the man was a Russian by the name of Alexander Kedrov.”

Kelly and Denim inch closer, shock and intrigue stamped on their faces. The tense grip of my father’s hand on my knee keeps my attention.

“Kelly showed me some photos of Kedrov taken in Moscow
—surveillance photos.” I feel Trenton staring at me, but I don’t dare look at him. “Afterward, I had a dream. I was shaking his hand . . . he knew my name . . .” I shudder at the recollection. “When I woke up, I tried to figure out why the dream felt so real, but . . .”

“You met him once when you were very young. At the port.”

“The port?”

He nods. “Kedrov doesn’t oversee the smuggling at the port directly
—he has men for that. But every now and then, he’ll come by to check up on things personally. You were visiting with your mother, bringing me lunch, and he showed up to talk to Don. It was the first time I’d ever seen him. Don always said he seemed like an okay guy, just business oriented, a man of few words, that sort of thing, but there was something about him . . .” My father frowns.

“Anyway, the stuff Don smuggled in was counterfeit goods
—mostly knockoff designer bags and clothes from China, you know, fake versions of the stuff women pay a ton of money for. Don would slip the containers through and Kedrov’s men would sell the goods to shops in the Fisherman’s Wharf area.

“After 9/11, the smuggling slowed and then stopped altogether. Don didn’t hear from Kedrov or his men for a long time. Then, nearly a decade later, Kedrov stopped by, as if they were long lost friends, and propositioned him again. It was more money this time, and Don jumped at the chance. Once the smuggling got back to how it was, shipments got bigger, and Don got me in on it
—at my request.”

I groan. “Oh no, Dad.”

My father winces. “Sara, this was at a time when there was nothing but trouble between union and dock management. Strikes and lockouts threatened all the time, remember that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how was I gonna support my family on strike pay?”

An answer can’t find its way through the lump in my throat.

“At the time the smuggling didn’t seem like any kinda big deal. Some months passed, gradually the shipments started getting even bigger, more frequent. Don thought Kedrov was in deep with the Russian mob just based on stuff we’d overheard from his goons. We didn’t ask any questions, though, ’cause he paid us decently and what harm could a few fake purses and clothes cause?

“One day back in October of last year, a real heavy wooden crate fell off Don’s forklift. It broke open when it hit the ground and a bunch of fancy clothes fell out. We picked ’em up and tossed ’em back into the crate, but there was a false bottom to it. We opened it up and found grenades and guns.”

He shakes his head. “Don was angry. I was, too. Handbags, clothes . . . they were one thing. Grenades and stuff—that wasn’t what we agreed to. Don was always the hothead out of the two of us. He had words with two of Kedrov’s men at the port, but got the brush-off. Things got real heated. Then, one night later that week, Don and I went for a beer after work. A bunch of Kedrov’s goons were waiting by Don’s truck when we walked out and roughed us up a bit, warning us to mind our own business.”

“That night you came home with bruises on your face and said you were mugged, but refused to file a police report?”

My father nods. “Don and I promised to shut up and continue doing our jobs, but then Don told me when he dropped me off that he was going to tell the foreman everything. I told him not to on account that we’d get fired or worse, and that maybe if we put our heads together, we could come up with a way to leave the operation and convince Kedrov to get some other guys to do his dirty work. It wasn’t the honorable thing to do, pass the buck instead of notifying the proper authorities, but I was worried about the repercussions for my family.

“Don, as usual, when his mind was made up about something, wouldn’t listen. He said not to worry, that he had everything under control.” My father bows his head. “The following week, I found him dead in the empty shipping container.”

“Jesus, Dad.” I blink back my tears. “Poor Don.”

My father shrugs, but the grief over losing his best friend shows in his hunched shoulders and clenched jaw. “After Don’s death, I wanted to pull out of the operation more than ever, but Kedrov’s men put the muscle on me, so I had no choice but to keep on helping them. That’s why I encouraged you to come here to New York. I didn’t want you anywhere near San Francisco after what they did to Don
—not until I could find a secure way out. I would’ve sent your mother, too, if I thought she’d go without asking questions.”

“So how is all this connected to Trenton and I being shot at the other day?”

Trenton steps toward us from the kitchenette.

My dad hooks a thumb in his direction. “This is the part of the story where your buddy, Merrick, comes in.”

Trenton takes a seat on the edge of the coffee table across from us. His knees almost touch mine, but his frowning mouth and narrowed eyes look so callous he might as well be a million miles away.

“Sara, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

“That seems to be the theme of the day,” I say, glancing at my father out of the corner of my eye.

“As the CEO of Merrick Industries, I oversee trillions of dollars daily that belong to different companies worldwide.” Trenton’s voice sounds calculated and formal, as if he’s addressing a roomful of stockholders. “I grow that money by investing it in stocks, bonds, and venture capital opportunities. Unfortunately, in the beginning, I wasn’t very particular about who I dealt with.”

My father sighs. “I know the feeling.”

“The truth is, I did a lot of work and a lot of investing for companies who came by their money in, let’s just say, less-than-honest ways. I had a narrow vision for my company and very lofty goals. I didn’t care how they earned their money as long as I got what was owed to Merrick Industries.”

I roll my eyes. “That was very responsible of you.”

“I was young, ambitious . . . and admittedly a tad foolhardy. It wasn’t until my trip to Haiti after the earthquake that I awoke to all the damage being done and all the ways I could help. Here I was playing with trillions of dollars on a daily basis, most of it legit, but a large percentage earned by men who made their money from dealing guns, trafficking drugs, financing wars, causing misery to millions of others. In Haiti, people lost everything they had. Just a small portion of the money I see every day could make a world of difference to them.”

Denim giggles. “And to me.”

Kelly elbows her in the ribs.

“When I returned from Haiti, I immersed myself in charity work, but none of it yielded any significant results. I figured if I could start to tackle things at the root of the problem, I might be able to help make some changes. I had access to a lot of information on the companies for whom I invested. I could trace their illegal activities plain as day. So I took some of it to the FBI, thanks to Chris and Sean’s military connections, and offered my services. I’ve worked with them ever since.”

“So you’re James Bond and my dad is a smuggler. Is that how you two know each other?” I shake my head and stand. “This is too much for me to process right now.”

The fresh spring air wafting into the apartment from the open window helps cool my temper, but my mind feels cluttered. The hum of the busy city below can’t drown out the pounding of my heart in my ears.

“Not entirely,” Trenton says. “Your father’s suspicions were correct. Kedrov worked his way up in the Russian mob over the last several decades. His main line of work is to move Russian arms across the Pacific on Chinese tankers. He then uses his connections at places like the Port of San Francisco to smuggle them ashore where they make their way onto the streets in Los Angeles, San Diego, and down to Mexico. But a large number of them have been turning up in Haiti. The earthquake left a lot of opportunities up for grabs down there, and the politicians are linking up with men like Kedrov to arm their own militias and take control of the country.

“I spent weeks trying to restore some semblance of hope in the lives of these devastated people, and now he and his men are running guns, contributing to the escalating violence, and profiting from it all. It makes me sick. In order to put a stop to this, I’ve met with Kedrov several times to convince him he’d be better off running his operation through a different shipping company I partially own.”

“That explains the photos my friend dug up of you and Christopher with Kedrov in Moscow,” Kelly says.

I turn from the window and lean against the sill. The breeze feels even cooler against my back and I realize I’m covered in a thin film of sweat.

Trenton glares at her over his shoulder. “That leak has been plugged.”

Kelly scowls, but retreats next to Denim, who has been ogling Chris since his arrival. “Yeah, no kidding. Poor Mike the Journalist now serves lattes to beatniks in the Village.”