“Is she breathing?” A child’s voice chirps through the air.
“Better call 911.” An older, deeper, mature quip plays out over the boy’s words.
“Where did she come from? Give me your jacket, cover her up, it’s cold this morning. Are they on their way?” a female tone shrieks in panic.
The roar of sirens, faint in the distance, pulls me from the fog; my eyes flutter open, focusing on a young boy’s face peering nose to nose at me. A sharp stab along my aching ribs throbs as I shift, forcing a groan out and startling the young voyeur. The familiarity of the brick structure and wooden cubbies on the wall above me awaken my curiosity to the dugout bench I currently lie upon prone, cold, and uncomfortable.
“Where am I?” My throat, dry and raspy as my question floats away from the young boy still invading my personal space, toward the grown, bearded man behind him. Focusing through the chain link fence of the dugout, my clear line of vision lands upon a man riding a lawnmower in the distance.
Ah, the hum matches the pounding in my head.
“Heritage Baseball Park. I’ve a game startin’ in an hour. My dad’s the coach, and we found you sleeping here. Are you homeless?” The speed with which the boy speaks exceeds my comprehension abilities at the moment.
“No, I’m not homeless. I have no idea how I got here.” The shuffling of feet and white noise vibrates off the walls of the dugout. The boy steps away while a man in uniform kneels, taking my wrist in his hand.
“Good morning, I’m Rory, an EMT with the Oceanside Fire Department. I’m here to take some vitals.”
“Okay.” I shut my eyes for a second, hoping when they open this has been all a dream.
“You’re pretty bruised up. Any recollection how you got those?” The man in uniform starts writing things down while measuring my pulse and taking out a stethoscope, rubbing it on his chest.
“Last thing I remember I was in a pharmacy, in a town—New Jersey, where I was visiting. Did you say Oceanside?” I adjust my arms in an attempt at lifting myself off the bench, but he places a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down.
“Do you know your name, Ma’am?”
“Umm, Sam. Sam Sawyer. I’m from Pacifica. Do you have a phone; I’m pretty sure people are worried about me.”
“Let’s get my partners and help you onto the gurney.” Rory smiles and waves his guys over, allowing them access to sweep me onto the gurney for a ride.
“An officer will meet us at the hospital. You need checked out by a doctor.”
“Do you have a phone?” My eyes search the bench I was on, but there is nothing.
“You’re pretty banged up, but your vitals read pretty solid.”
“Wait, an officer? What’s going on, I—”
“Don’t worry, this rig will get us to the hospital. We’ll keep you safe.” I blink hard and pause, deciding not to reopen my eyes. There’s no sense in making connections when the world is falling out from underneath me, and I have no idea what is real and what is not.
A gasp escapes me as Director Fielding meets my entourage of EMTs and firemen at the sliding doors to the ER. He looks less than pleased—what’s new?
Over the course of the past few months, I’ve learned the smart move is keeping my head down and not directly staring into Fielding’s eyes. The last time we spoke was when I put my tail between my legs and placed my trust in the CIA’s hands. I’m sure whatever is going on must be my fault. I don’t need him to belittle me right now.
“Please wheel her into the private room. Thank you for your assistance.” Fielding directs his comments toward Rory. I mouth a thank you and Rory nods his head in my direction with a hint of a smile.
I’m wheeled into a room where another woman, who mirrors me, stands in the corner.
She shoves new clothes into my hands along with a wig. “Quickly, you need to put these on.”
I wince, and tears fill the corners of my eyes as the pain jabs my torso, but I follow directions.
“I’ve got her dressed. Move.” The woman changes into my clothes and takes my place on the gurney.
Within minutes, I’m walking out with another man, unfamiliar to me, into an awaiting vehicle. Before long, the vehicle drives through a chain link fence and the air sock waving in the distance helps clue me in that we’ve arrived at a small airstrip.
The click of the door locks shifts my attention and out of the window a simple sign stands bolted, indicating our arrival at Palomar Airfield.
“Your seat, Miss Sawyer.” An agent in dark glasses gestures toward the leather back seats. His dark hair and sunken cheeks appear familiar, unlike the man who escorted me to the plane. Everything in my head sits clouded and jumbled and out of sync, but this man I know; it raises the hairs on the back of my neck. No one else speaks to me, and within minutes we’re off in the blue skies.
Disembarking the jet after the short flight, Sierra and Rocky bolt from a familiar Hummer, happily greeting me and immediately falling into officer mode upon a deep verbal command. Blake, JD, and Tessa stand shoulder to shoulder as per usual, watching me walk in their direction from the tarmac. The pounding of my heart and sinking feeling in my stomach with each step closer to them, parallels me as a teen, missing curfew.
At least back then I knew why. Shit.
Blake’s eyes follow each heavy step as I slip into the back seat and buckle up without a word. My thoughts remain hazy about why I’ve missed twenty-four hours of my life and ended up in Southern California, on a bench, in a dugout, and the uneasiness of the security team only makes this worse. The puzzle of my life shifts—nothing fits into place as my mind mulls over the facts.
Flashes of standing in a pharmacy taint my thoughts, but no reason pops into my mind for being there. I recall breakfast in Jersey yesterday, yet no huge details stick out as unusual. In fact, the last major thing I vividly recall is a conversation with my mother about when Julia, Pete, Blake, and I will arrive for Thanksgiving dinner. Try as I might, nothing else springs up to clear the fog.
“Are you with us, Sam?” The low militant snap of Blake breaks my concentration. “Doctor Wisner and his team wait for you at the medical facility. They want to double check a few things before we head over to the field office for a debrief.” The worry in his eyes from the rearview mirror alarms me. His painful gaze strikes my chest hard as I slither back into my own thoughts, attempting to provoke any trigger of a memory over the past twenty-four hours.
Dr. Wisner and his team scurry around with gloves, tubes, swabs, and other tools scraping my nail beds, searching for fibers possibly stuck in my hair or on my skin, and other mysterious tests searching for clues associated with my disappearance. The more poking and prodding by the doctors, the less I imagine myself a helpless victim. The fighter in me simmers, starving for information relative to solving this new dilemma. The monitors strapped on my chest register a rise in my heart rate, my temperature shifts a degree, and the alarms buzz and rattle in the sterile room.
The nurse hits a button on the wall while fidgeting with the gadgets attached, and multiple white jackets descend on the room. Each examining the charts, the wires, the skin contact points, and then grumbling amongst one another. Doctor Wisner clears his throat. “Good news and bad news. Which would you like first?” He taps his chin with a pen, waiting for an answer.
“Let’s go bad, I need to look forward to something!” Dr. Wisner’s somber expression shoves my attempt at humor right back down my throat.
“Bad news—whatever they used putting you out is going to produce some heavy burdens on your short-term memory for the moment. It appears it also causes some adrenaline surges which raise your metabolic rates without your control.”
“Well, the good news then.”
“Good news—since the initial blood results from the ER this morning, the drug is moving out nicely, and we only anticipate another forty-eight to seventy-two hours of this outlier in your system. This should also resolve the short-term losses happening with your memory. And your ribs are bruised, not broken.”
“Okay, what do I do in the mean time?”
“Drink lots of water, rest, and let’s meet Monday after the holiday.” He squeezes my shoulder and barks out a few orders as the staff starts removing things from my body.
“Doctor Wisner, one last question, can I run Thursday in the warm-up race? It’s my lead up to the full marathon in December.” This one question, if not answered correctly, might crush my spirit forever. I’ve worked hard for the past year, and I’m not ready to throw in the towel.
“As long as you don’t try reaching for a personal best time, I think by Thursday you’ll be ready to go. You know your body, and as long as you fuel it properly and take it easy today and tomorrow, I see no issue.”
“Thank you.” I wrap my hand around his white coat and pull him in for a hug.
“Just doing my job!”
I’m dressed and back in the SUV on my way to who knows where. Blake continues behaving like a tight ass. His flat facial expression leaves me confused and empty.
Perfect, he’s drifted away.
He offers me a water bottle as I settle myself in the same conference room from several months ago. He’s distant and distracted which raises the alert flag deep within me. I’m spotty remembering yesterday. I don’t recall a fight or any reason for the pharmacy, but his oil and vinegar attitude doesn’t jive.
My mouth rattles off, “Hey, what’s the problem?” before I can think of whether this is a good idea or not. I need answers, regardless of our personal growths, or lack thereof, over the last few months.
His shrug and grim stare only light my fuse like a firecracker on the Fourth of July.
“What happened yesterday and the few days prior is really messed up in my brain. I woke up in a dugout in Southern California, with bruises in the shape of hands on my forearms and ribcage. My ankles are circled with rope burns and my wrists look the same.” I shove my arms in the air in his direction. “My brain feels like it’s a cloudy fog of pea soup and it’s throwing my game a little here—”
He stills but remains speechless with his schooled expression intact.
“I need a little help sorting out why you’re angry, and what I did this time to provoke the beast within you.”
He shifts his weight and clears his throat. “Do you recall anything from breakfast with Tessa and Adriana?” His hand reaches behind his neck as if squeezing it tight will reduce all the built-up tension.
“Vaguely. I know we worked out, but concrete information eludes me right now. In fact, I am not sure my memory reflects yesterday or just the routine established over the past few weeks with them.”
“What do you remember?”
“Running—making breakfast, it all kinda blends together. I know we drove to the drugstore, but for what, I can’t recall for the life of me.” Doe-eyed staring up at him, I pray he has more answers.
His long sigh and deep breath in reassures me little. “Adriana had girl issues, and you asked for pain reliever. Anything opening up for you?” The stress writhing from his body language shows no sign of letting up as he swallows down his frustrations.
“No—” The defeat inside me whispers out and my hands fold together, holding tight as I desperately try connecting any sort of coherent and logical reasons why I would leave the girls at the pharmacy. Nothing makes sense. His frustration only exaggerates the problem. I thought we were past this passive aggressive arguing.
“Everyone should be here in ten minutes. Please let me know if you need anything. I need to go make a few calls.” The door snicks closed behind him.
My heart crumbles with his brush off. The attitude seems uncalled for if we weren’t in the middle of an argument yesterday. I continue struggling to piece everything together as I sip from the water bottle, running mental gymnastics in my mind.
The familiar faces of the agents’ filter into the conference room. Each one dressed in dark suits, walking methodically, and wearing the same ‘stick up your ass’ expression as they settle themselves into the large conference table seats.
How long does the asshole facial expression training take?
Smirking inwardly at the thought, I too slide into a chair and await the meeting. The quiet ambiance prickles and creeps up my neck as they settle in around the table. I understand something terrible happened under their watch, but nobody is hurt, and I’m here of my own free will, without fighting with anyone. I clasp my hands together, placing them in my lap, bracing myself for the unknown.
Fielding closes the door gently, turns and distributes a note sheet. Everyone receives the cheat sheet—everyone but me. Using all my manners and self-control, I raise my hand but retract it with the dirty stares I receive from the team members. Blake shifts his paper between us, sharing as a kind gesture, sedating my fury a bit.
“As we’re all aware, Miss Sawyer’s situation was compromised—again.” His jaw clenches, and he pauses, glaring at each member of the team. “I’m frustrated with how easily this situation escalates with one simple directive in protecting one little lady. Anybody prepared to answer?” Fielding waits impatiently.
I register the expression of disappointment and frustration on each agent’s face. Their distraught demeanor, a direct reflection resulting from my problematic troublemaking behaviors. Guilt sweeps over me when the realization of Blake’s conduct the past hour or so directly correlates with my misbehavior. Everyone in this room resonates with the same heated disappointments.
“Director Fielding.” My voice squeaks as I begin. “This group of fine men and women aren’t at fault for the past few weeks’ incidents. I made rash decisions based on my insecurities and unwavering sense of independence which further subjected these agents to danger and disappointments which they are not responsible for—I am.” I pause and glance around the table.
“Miss Sawyer, what you fail to realize is they are trained agents. Their job requires them to deal with difficult people. Whether it be criminals or protective duties, they are required to out think and out smart, whether friend or foe, for the safety of themselves, their clients, and their country. Make no mistake, you are quite the study, Miss Sawyer; however, I still ask each and every one of you what’s the bottom line?” Fielding taps his pen on the paper agenda, waiting irritably for any agent to offer up an answer.
“Sir, it’s my belief we felt comfortable in New Jersey, and this led to allowing one agent to tend to two protection details.” Tessa stays fixed on Fielding who raises an eyebrow to her response.
“My partner here suggests we felt one agent could handle the quick shopping trip and this was against our better judgement.” JD gestures in my direction. “Miss Sawyer exudes an independence rarely experienced in our field work, and it fed a false sense of security to our team. The fault solely rides on our shoulders, but Miss Sawyer’s strength, while an attribute, also blindsided us as a team. No excuses make this better. We still feel she’s an asset who could help us knock these folks out.” Blake’s jaw tightens as he stands up, fists clenched at his sides.
“Sir, while I agree with both Tessa and JD that Miss Sawyer is persistent, independent, and self-assured which created some false sense of security. Our own instincts failed us. However, I would disagree to her being tossed out and used as bait in this case.”
I pop up with a grunt from my seat as I digest the idea of me termed as bait.
Blake glances in my direction but shows no readable expression. “It’s far too dangerous, and she has been through enough. I understand this plan of using her as a lure may appeal in the short term.” He pauses. “But as an agency, we think about long term residuals. Each of us invested time and energy into this, and we continue getting closer. If we resume baiting with trained female agents, rather than civilians, less innocent people will be needlessly harmed. Please consider this as an option.” Blake sits, tension stiffening the normal fluid motions of his muscular frame.
I interrupt Fielding, “If I may ask, since we are talking about my involvement here, what type of plan exists pertaining to the capture or surrender of the people who have poisoned me on multiple occasions now? I’m tired of hiding. If I can help, I want to help. These people handcuffed my life for no reason. If using me to bait them, as you suggest, remedies the situation, then so be it. My life needs untangled from this situation or these people. If my participation and cooperation leads to their ultimate destruction, then yay, team, I’m in!”
Fielding continues tapping his pen with his focus zoomed in on Blake, who’s grinding his teeth together with his hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly.
Blake shows his frustration as he roars out, “The job laid out in the plan intentionally brings danger upon you! The kind of danger which could very well be your ultimate demise. It requires a very public presence; one you’ve hidden away from your entire life. Adriana, our hidden gem for the past few years, would also be exposed. Capella wants her blood. He plans an end to her bloodlines once and for all. This proposal depends on very specific compromising situations. You better think long and hard about your ability to compromise before you commit to something over your pay grade, rookie.” Blake’s eyes burn through me. I shift my focus back to Fielding, but the uneasy tingles and shivers continue up my spine.
“Miss Sawyer, let me be clear, the danger involved is high. The commitment beyond anything you’ve done before. The patience required demands one hundred percent focus on the execution of the plan. Unless you’re willing to give us your soul, do not choose this option.” Fielding and Blake shift to an eye pissing match amongst themselves.
“Director Fielding, Agent Angel, please stop with the mind games. The day the man attacked me in the shower, I sold my soul. I’ve been living in fear and hell for the past several months, so lending a hand in the capture and incarceration of these people would satisfy dilemmas swirling around in my head. I may look weakened and run down, but trust me when I tell you, I’m more than motivated to participate in this take down process.” My response is unexpected as each agent bobs their head between me then back to Blake, waiting for a reaction. I remain stoic, homing in on relaxing my breathing and controlling my heart rate. Over the course of the past few months, I’ve learned a few things about handling Thor.
One little note, tucked in my playbook, screaming loudly in my mind now, is always stay calm and even-keeled when presenting a logical argument before him.
“Sam, can we have a minute to discuss this among the task force?” Fielding’s voice fades as Tessa scoots herself out from the table, opening the door and showing me out into the hallway. Chills crawl up my spine as I pace up and down the corridor, wondering what discussion requires me leaving rather than being an active participant.
Shit, I hate this.
Without a phone or watch handy, I lose track of time, wandering outside the ominous closed-door meeting. A few voices mumble through the door louder than others. The bark and bite of Thor’s voice seems to overpower the others, or perhaps I am simply attuned with his tones. Either way, being on the outside leaves my brain untamed and running wild. I’m motionless when the knob turns, and the dark-haired agent from the plane waves me in. I still can’t place him, and he gives off an uncomfortable vibe I can’t shake off.
“Miss Sawyer, as the head of your little situation, it has been decided by a team vote that you may, if you choose, be used as a bit of a dangling lure for catching Capella and regaining your freedom. However, this does come with more discipline and control on your part. It also requires a few changes to your present schedule at school as we will need a few hours of training to ensure you are a help to the team. There is no room for you to act outside of our directives should you choose this path.” Fielding’s directness and cold, harsh delivery does not distract, but rather ignites my desire for freedom.
“With all due respect, Sir, to both you and the team, I’d sure like my shot at making this happen. My day to day is messed up either way. I’m tired of sitting on the bench and watching things happen to me. I’d rather have a chance to take a swing at these guys to regain my freedoms. Where do I sign?” While I am more than proud of myself for staying strong, Blake’s white-knuckled grip on his chair and pronounced sinew of muscles clenching from his jaw line demonstrate his disappointment in my choice.
The relief in my heart knowing I can help is enough to justify why I need this to end.
I am part of the solution.
I repeat this to myself as we exit the conference room.
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