Page 21 of Anchor (First to Fight)
I hang up the handset and turn my attention to Chloe, whose hands are now knotted around the wheel.
Before I can give her directions, she says, “Where do I need to go?”
The determined pull of her mouth almost makes me smile. Almost.
“We want to get him as close to the coast as possible. Say whatever you have to say to convince him.”
Then she flattens me when she says, “What if I suggest the police need us closer due to the storm and radio signal?”
I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, that’ll work.”
She looks away, then back at me. “What about…what about you?”
My first instinct is offer comfort, which I neither have the time or the ability to do at this point, so I try for honesty instead.
“I’ll keep low until we meet with the rescue team.”
“And if he doesn’t let the hostages go? You’ll give yourself up to him? This isn’t a game.”
“Trust me,” I tell her as I back through the door. “If it was a game, I’d be playing to win.”
Chloe
I’ve never known what a privileged life I lead until one choice threatened to take it all away. Slices of memories race before my eyes as I stare, unseeing, through the window in front of me.
My parents, who’ve lived on opposite sides of Florida since their divorce, love me—in their own off-handed sort of way. My two sisters fought each other—and me—the entire time we were caged under the same roof. Since we all moved out and moved on with our own lives and worries and ambitions, we’ve never kept the tight bond I’ve seen most other families cultivate. But I love the lot of them. Much as I’ve complained over the years, I’d give anything to see all of them one more time.
As the ancient clock affixed to the wall next to me ticks off the passing time with maddening regularity, I remember each of their faces. My mother, whose dark hair has recently become threaded with gray. The last time I saw her was during her Christmas visit and we stood in the aisle in the middle of the drugstore as she contemplated whether or not to buy hair colorant. After a heated debate about two brands of the exact same shade of blackish-brown, she’d decided to get it done at a salon instead.
At the time, it made me want to throw a tantrum like a five-year-old right in the middle of the store, but now, I’d repeat that moment a million times over.
The same goes for any of the countless, meaningless fights with my sisters. They take after my mom when it comes to looks. Impish little faces and straight falls of identical black-brown hair. Two and three years younger than me, they always banded together against me, leaving me the odd man out.
I take after my father and I can see him in my reflection in the window. Sharper, stronger features. A tough chin and full, expressive mouth. Unlike my sisters, my hair doesn’t know which shade it wants to be. It’s predominantly brown, but in the right light it takes on an auburn hue.
I picture his face as I stare at my own and I can hear him lecturing me about checking my oil or hurricane-proofing my apartment. He likes to show his affection by doling out maintenance advice and Mr. Fix-It services. When my ex broke up with me, he offered to caulk my tub. If I get out of this mess, I bet he’ll be willing to build me a house from the ground up.
A flash of white in the window catches my attention and I realize I’m smiling at the thought. My reflection makes a hysterical giggle bubble up in my throat and threaten to burst free.
Clearly, I’m not cut out for this kind of stress.
The urge to laugh fades and the icy weight of terror returns to lodge in my stomach. Long after this night ends, if it ever does, the sound of boots coming up the stairs will send a shot of fear down my spine. I’ll never be able to hear that sound and not think of this man walking up behind me, gun at the ready.
His face appears in the window beside my own. For a moment he doesn’t say a word. He peers out into the blackness like he can see things in the shadows and dark I can’t.
After a tense silence, he says, “Did you do as I asked?”
I release my bottom lip from between my teeth. “Yes, they said he’s on the way, but we’re starting to get out of range of their radios. If you want to speak to Gabriel, we’ll have to angle back toward the coast.”
I suck in a long, slow breath to calm my rambling, then peek at him next to me to gauge his response. He’ll either flip his shit and blow me to bits, or he’ll demand they come closer.
The muscles in his strong, jutting jaw clench and release, then he says, “Idiots. Would lose their heads if they didn’t have a fucking map to find them. Fine, yeah, follow their heading and then let me know when they have Rossi on the radio.”
Behind us the captain is coming to with a loud grown followed by a series of grunts. I flick a look between the both of them, then take the plunge.
“Um,” I start, “Mr.…?”
“Call me Jones,” he says as he turns to face me with furrowed brows.