Page 18

fueled by coffee and rage

Ayla

It’s too loud. I wouldn’t think I could say that with my ears ringing like they are.

Sirens wail.

Alarms whirl.

Footsteps pound. Some run toward us. Others run away.

And the screams… they bounce from the walls, vibrating back to me in an eerie echo that may haunt me forever.

When my body is lifted from the floor, I flail. Everything moves in hyper speed. All the while, my brain moves in slow motion.

“No. No. No!” I thrash, fighting the arms that hold me, throwing my weight against the body of whomever is trying to kidnap me, herd me, or hurt me. I don’t know and I don’t care.

“I need to get you to safety.”

“Don’t touch me.” I hope it comes out on a scream. I hope my voice has fight in it. I can’t determine if I’m a tigress or a kitten at this point. I push against the arms lifting me but am useless against the man.

“Mrs. Barone, please.”

Fitz? I look up into the face of the man I barely know. “Christian. Help Christian.”

“I am. Your safety has always been his priority. More so after…” his gaze drops to the hairline above my ear. “Please cooperate so I can see to him.”

That’s enough. I acquiesce. He carries me through the house and into my dark room, setting me on my feet. In two strides, he has us in front of a shelving unit full of chemicals on one side, pressing a button on one of the bottles, flipping open a hidden panel.

“I’ll be back. Stay here.” With those five words, he leaves me in a room I’ve never seen. Come to think of it, I bet not many have. It’s a safe room, entirely hidden within the house.

It’s utilitarian, not comfortable. There are a couple of chairs, a table, and a wall lined with … well, I don’t know what. It looks to be glass

The other walls are wood or metal, many with doors. They’re cold to the touch as if no one cared to heat this room. The fall chill permeating the space seems to creep from the foundation instead of being insulated by the walls surrounding it.

I could laugh at my life. I’m a woman who’s forgotten everything of the last couple of years, standing in a formal red gown and heels, surveying a safe room in a house I don’t recognize, while my husband, whom I do not know, suffers with a gunshot wound in our garage.

I could laugh.

Or I could cry.

There’s no in between.

I need a distraction. I open the first set of double doors. It’s full of basic supplies, including bottles of water, granola bars, cans of soup. And that devious man—there’s a Keurig in here. Georgio the Italian espresso maker is impressive, but I can’t handle him. I can handle this.

I slide out the drawer the single serve coffeemaker sits on and load a pod, crack a bottle of water, and pretend not to cringe at the powdered milk. At least it’s something.

While that hisses and spits, I go to the next set of doors. They open on the largest safe I’ve ever seen in my life. The large round wheel on the front is almost big enough to steer a ship.

The next set of double doors is slatted.

A gentle hum that emanates there reminds me my coffee must be ready since there’s no other sound to break up the monotony in the room other than my breathing.

Behind these doors is a wide metal rack of computer electronics.

Colored wires, taut cables, and antennae are everywhere.

The last set of doors on this wall opens to a low-ceilinged bathroom. At least there’s that. I hadn’t thought of it, but it will be nice if I’m here longer than the few minutes it’ll take for Fitz to return.

I grab my coffee and drag one of the chairs toward the electronics closet.

There’s warmth emanating from it, and it’s soothing as the damp chill in the room creeps across my skin.

I curl up in the chair, wishing for a blanket and a book or TV or my phone or to be out of this God-forsaken room and know what the hell is happening.

Instead, I stare at the wall of glass in recognition. It’s just like the one in my bedroom. Maybe it is a TV, and I can deal with the boredom if I need it. “If I were a remote, where would I be?”

I’m talking to myself, aloud. That’s not good. I haven’t been alone long enough to do that.

How long have I been alone? And how is Christian?

I want to stand and pace. Instead, I search. The remotes around here aren’t the ones that come out of the box with a television or a cheap Blu-ray player. They’re high-tech tablets. Or I can assume they are.

There’s nothing in the closets I’ve already scoured.

My gaze flickers to the table. There’s probably another hidden panel—an option I can no longer rule out—since my dark room concealed this space.

I’m sure there’s more to this room than meets the eye.

The table is metal and cold to the touch.

I’m over the chill that permeates this room.

You know what? Fuck this. I did what they asked, but I’m no weak woman.

Anything that could’ve gone down after that shot was fired must be done by now.

Long enough for me to be hauled away. Long enough to make coffee and explore this room.

Long enough for Christian to be at the hospital or at the very least for the ambulance to be en route .

I return to the secret entry to the safe room and push. Nothing moves. I try to find a switch or latch that I can pull to escape. What the hell? I’m trapped. No way in the world I’m taking this sitting down.

I beat on the door and yell.

But the only thing that greets me is silence.

I drag my fingers over the wall near the panel.

It’s flawless. Everything in this house is.

Which means that glass wall is no wall. From where it’s located, I can’t imagine it’s a two-way mirror or a fake wall.

No need for a safe room inside a safe room.

Which means it’s a TV or some kind of communications device.

That server rack wouldn’t be needed if it weren’t.

I hike the gown above my knees and crouch to look under the table, the damp concrete floor digging into my bare knees. Underneath is pristine… and holds one button. I press it and a drawer slides out. Bingo!

Inside is a tablet remote.

And a pistol.

I’ve seen Mr. and Mrs. Smith , but I’m no Angelina Jolie. There’s no thigh holster in my future. Hell, I don’t know a thing about guns. I eye it suspiciously and leave it where it is while removing the remote and beginning the sequence as Christian showed me in our bedroom.

What I find is jaw dropping.

Black and white squares comprise the wall. Camera angles of every room in the house, save one… my husband’s office isn’t anywhere to be seen.

Nor is there a person visible anywhere…

Not one.

The house is eerily quiet and so still to the point it unnerves me.

Fueled by coffee and rage at being trapped in a room when there’s zero danger outside, I grab the remote and check out the apps. There’s one that is missing from our tablet in the bedroom. It’s gray and black with a simple eyeball logo. There’s no name or description below it.

I tap and a password firewall pops up. How the hell am I supposed to know this? Even before my current memory issues, I wasn’t great at remembering all my logins. How would I know this one? Had I known about this room before?

I grab my coffee and toss back half of it, wishing I hadn’t waited. It’s lukewarm and the powdered milk seems to have congealed on top, sticking to the lip and oozing back down. I’ll stop complaining about Georgio. His espresso drinks never do this.

There must be a clue. I flip through the tablet. It looks standard enough, but there’s no messaging, no phone, no video conferencing apps. The eyeball taunts me.

I try Christian and should know how insecure that is.

Incorrect. The password box shakes side to side as if disappointed in my failure. I tap my fingers together around the coffee cup as if the movement will spark a memory that can break the surface of my brain and grant me access.

Movement catches my eye, and I watch Fitz exit Christian’s office.

Odd that I couldn’t see him.

Odd that he isn’t with my husband.

What’s more odd is that he looks around and then leaves the house via the patio doors, the opposite way from me in this room.

The metal and diamond from my wedding ring on my right hand perform in staccato on the mug and echo in the room as I watch the back of the house for Fitz’s return.

He doesn’t.

Thirty minutes pass until headlights paint the house in a bright swirl as if a car passes too slowly. It cuts its lights and pulls behind the tree line. Two figures stalk around the backyard, looking ghostly in the night vision.

What these guys are not is untrained or unaware. Every time they get near a camera location, they turn, putting their backs to the lens. It’s an odd waltz with our security system. I’m enthralled as they outmaneuver the state-of-the-art system.

Black jackets and black gloves round out their wardrobe of black pants and black boots. Sunglasses cover what could be seen of their flesh through the black hoods that cover their faces. To my novice eye, there’s nothing that would indicate their identities.

And our head of security is nowhere to be seen.

A snick of a latch sends cold panic through me and has me jerking awake.

My body is stiff and cold. The beaded straps on my dress are the same and have rubbed me under my arms until I have chaffed, red marks. My neck screams at falling asleep in a stiff chair.

The sound, though, triggers the fear I was fighting when I first got into this room.

That is, until the adrenaline left my system and left me weary, eventually allowing only fitful, wretched sleep.

I reach for the gun that slid down my lap during the course of my nap.

I may not know much about it, but like any new cell phone camera, there’s no doubt it’s point and shoot.

I look over my shoulder for one brief second to the wall of videos showing me the house and see absolutely nothing. They want to be sneaky? Okay, try me.

I lift the cold metal in my hands and force them to stop shaking with nerves. I aim for the secret door panel that became my unwitting jailer however long ago that was and rest my finger on the trigger. When the door swings open and the hulking form pushes in, I don’t think twice.

I fire.