by K. A. Gandy
At the end of the hallway, Atlas pushes through a doorway without knocking. Inside is a large, well-appointed bedroom. Light, lacy curtains on the windows speak of times gone by, while the gleaming metal I see through the open bathroom door hint at modern comforts.
My mind is quickly distracted from the amenities, as Patrick cuts straight to business. “Atlas, what is going on? Tell me you didn’t drop us in the Resistance’s lap without our knowledge or consent.”
He’s silent for a beat, and then gives an arrogant shrug of his shoulder in response. “You wanted out, didn’t you?”
My anger, which had been simmering low in my gut, boils over at his unapologetic words. It’s as though I’m watching someone else when I cross the two steps between us, pull back my fist, and slam it straight into his too-smug jaw.
“What in the world!” Nell half-shouts.
At the same instant, Patrick barks, “Sadie!”
But I barely hear them, as I’m so focused on Atlas’s unruffled expression. Infuriatingly, Atlas barely sways at the impact, and I’m tempted to take another swing. However, what might not have physically moved him did have the desired effect. He tossed up both hands in surrender. “I’m giving you that one, Sadie, since this was a crappy day. Will you let me explain before you go for round two, at least?”
Patrick’s hand on my arm drags me back to his side, and my hand, still clenched into a tight fist, is trapped against him. Nell flutters at Atlas’s side, as if trying to figure out what to do with her hands. Seeing that he’s unhurt, she turns wide eyes back to me.
Satisfied that I’m not coming out swinging again, he lowers his hands slowly, and then rubs his jaw and thumbs the edge of his lip, checking for blood. “For a small woman, you pack a lot of temper, you know that?” He pauses, eyeing me thoughtfully. “Are you ready to hear me out now, before you go for the jugular?”
My anger somewhat in check, and curiosity piqued, I nod once.
Nell, wide-eyed at my outburst, interrupts, “Can we sit? I’m exhausted and this doesn’t sound like a short story.”
Atlas slips a tattooed arm around her shoulders, and leads her to a loveseat against the far wall. We settle into two wing-backed chairs across from them, but I can’t relax.
Atlas leans forward, forearms on knees, and dives right into his explanation in a low voice. “Yes, I called the Resistance. No, I did not tell you. No, I had no idea they were going to kidnap us all today. You asked me to find a way out that didn’t incriminate us and, despite my connections, there are only two groups that have the ability to pull that off. To my mind, the Resistance might not be friends, but they’re friendlier than the extremists.” He makes eye contact with Patrick, who gives a single, reserved nod for him to continue.
“When I called, they asked for three things; a list of the people we wanted extracted, our schedules for the next two weeks, and a bargaining chip. The price of admittance to the Resistance is something to further the cause. So, I told them about our discovery, and they said they’d get back to me.” He spreads his hands wide, tension evident in his broad shoulders. “I had no idea when they were coming, and I certainly didn’t expect a full-on abduction with no advance warning. Since I know Helena,” he says with a bitter tone, “it’s not a complete surprise. She said it would be in the next few weeks, but you and I haven’t had any time without company since I placed the pick-up call to fill you in.”
Now that he’s said his piece, he leans back against the cushion, and falls silent. I churn his words in my mind, parsing it all. Atlas hasn’t betrayed us, after all. I don’t approve of his having kept us in the dark, but I see that this wasn’t entirely his decision. Grudgingly, I turn to Patrick to gauge his opinion on the situation.
He’s silent, leaning back in his seat, his dark expression a strange juxtaposition for the dainty floral chair. After a moment he lets out a ragged sigh, and runs a hand through his hair with a weary expression. “So, what now? I assume you had an exit plan when you decided the Resistance was our best way out.”
At that, Atlas grins. “Yes and no. I have a plan, but not only for an exit. With the Resistance, we can regroup, get our proof, and make a play to stop this. Here’s what I had in mind . . .”
Utterly exhausted by the day we’ve had, I listen as long as I can to the men’s strategizing before I succumb to the sweet lull of sleep. The last thing I see is the first hint of pink on the horizon peeking through the oaks out front, and then darkness consumes me.
Breakfast of Champions
I’m awoken from a dead sleep by movement under my cheek, followed by a tickling sensation of dust in my nose. I sneeze, and then crack open one eye to see bright, mid-day sun pouring in the windows. My next breath fills my nose with the scent of an unfamiliar pillow, and I sit up to see the bathroom door click to a soft close behind Patrick. As the information slowly filters into my exhausted brain, the events of the night before wash over me in a jumble.
Patrick’s okay. Atlas didn’t betray us. We’re with the Resistance. By the time I’ve caught back up to the present, Patrick walks back into the room.
“Sadie! I’m sorry, I was trying not to wake you up.” He smiles that lazy smile of his, and warmth settles in my stomach. No matter what mess we are in the middle of, at least I’m not in it alone. I stand stiffly, and cross the floor to wrap my arms around him. Breathing in his familiar scent, I feel grounded again. It’s amazing how quickly this man, and not a location, has become my home.
I lean back, and he brushes a strand of hair back from my face with a gentle touch. “You’re so beautiful in the mornings. It’s like all of the craziness is washed away in the night, and each day, here we are again and you’re so perfect for me. I lo—” His soft murmur is cut off by a swift pounding on the door.
We both turn, the moment ruined. A deep male voice I don’t recognize comes through with stern undertones, “Meeting on the back balcony in forty-five minutes. Up and at ‘em, sleeping beauties.” Terse, heavy bootsteps traverse the hall, and the mystery man repeats the pound-and-deliver-the- message routine at the next room.
Shaking my head, I wander into the bathroom, still drowsy.
✽✽✽
Ten minutes later, refreshed from a good tooth brushing and a clean set of borrowed clothes—in all black, of course—we pad down the hallway to the stairs hand in hand. Patrick stops me, and we both listen to the sounds of the house’s inhabitants stirring around us. Whatever he was listening for, he’s now satisfied, so we step quietly down the stairs, and peer around the stately room. It’s well maintained, but lost in time. The decor is heavy and rich, as if from a century gone by. Bright red wallpaper adorns the walls, in one of those endlessly scrolling patterns that gives me a headache.
Patrick leads me through a doorway. “There’s got to be a kitchen around here somewhere,” he mutters under his breath.
We twist and turn through the large house, and each room is similar to the first—sumptuous, and ancient. Heavy wood furniture with scrollwork detailing, and gently fading brocade fabrics greet us in each room. A shiver crawls down my spine. For a moment, the hot chamber feels as if the former inhabitants are still lingering here, watching us in disapproval.
Finally, we push open a swinging door to find bright, modern overhead lighting and an immaculate sparkling kitchen. There, leaning against a glossy countertop is the Maverick. Her conversation with a man in an apron stops abruptly as we enter.
“Well now, if we don’t have Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming in our midst,” she observes in a sarcastic tone before taking a sip from her mug. “Come on in, don’t be shy on our account. Do you like coffee? Get yourself a cup. Rex hea’ will have breakfast ready in a jiffy.”
The smell of coffee permeates the room, and Patrick is already scanning the counters for the coffee maker. He spots it, and crosses to grab a mug and help himself to a cup. I stand awkwardly inside the doorway, watching as Rex turns back to the industrial-sized stove and gets busy cracking e
ggs. Patrick rejoins me a moment later and lets out a contented sigh after his first sip of coffee.
“This is good, thank you.” He takes another hearty swallow.
“None for you, little lady?” Maverick asks.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t drink coffee. Thank you, though.” The words are barely out of my mouth before Rex procures a glass from a cabinet overhead and pulls a glass pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator. He fills the glass with a flourish and passes it to me without a word.
“A’right then, why don’t we wait outside so we won’t be in Rex’s hair? He’s more of a sole operator than a chatty Cathy.” She nods towards the ornate French doors, and we follow her out onto the back porch.
In the daytime, the view is spectacular. More oak trees line the back way, and the lush greenery of the swamp surrounds us while bird calls and amphibian croaks blend with the constant breeze to form a natural soundtrack.
“It’s beautiful here,” I comment as we walk to the railing.
“Beautiful, and sad too,” Mav says in the most solemn tone we’ve heard from her yet. I follow her gaze, and notice the nearly rotten remains of three smaller, wooden houses towards the tree line that are barely more than a few slumped, shadowy forms after time has wreaked its havoc on them.
“Are those . . . were they slave houses?” I ask, my tone now matching hers.
“M-hmm. It shore is easier to forget the problems of the past, but in my opinion that will just bring ‘em back round again, once people forget.” She taps her fingers on the intricately carved banister, deep in thought. After a long silence, she continues, “Feels like they are about here, in a way. It’s real disturbing, what you all uncovered.”
My blood chills at the thought of the women strapped in those beds, years of life stripped from them with their own flesh and blood, and I have to agree with her—it’s not the same as the past, but in no way acceptable for the future. Anger rises in me once again and stiffens my resolve. I might not have planned to be here, surrounded by these tepid allies, but at least we’re in a better place to act, and to change something.
“We’re going to free those women, and we’re not going to let history repeat itself.” Patrick’s voice is insistent. His dedication to my cause makes my heart beat a little faster in appreciation.
How did I get so lucky?
“You’re a’right, you know that?” Mav looks over at him and gives him a cocky half-grin. “For a rich boy, anyways.”
We all chuckle at her not-so-subtle dig, but before he can respond, the French doors open and we all turn to see Helena and Brock walk out onto the balcony like they’re storming enemy territory. “Good morning, everyone.” Helena speaks first, tone icy. “Or afternoon, for the rest of us.”
Ahh, nothing like a condescending overlord to get your blood pumping in the morning. Oh, excuse me—afternoon. I roll my eyes internally but keep the sarcasm to myself.
Patrick, ever the diplomat, answers without any ruffled feathers, “Good afternoon to you, Helena, Brock. This is a beautiful safe house, and we appreciate your hospitality.”
Brock’s only response is a slight incline of his head before he takes a seat at the long picnic-style table at the end of the veranda. Helena sits next to him and gestures for the three of us to follow.
“Everyone else is on their way up, and Rex is nearly finished preparing the food. We’ll make it a working brunch, so we can move on to phase two.”
As if on cue, the doors open again and a stream of black-clad Resistance members pour out onto the porch, trailed by Atlas and, finally, Nell, rubbing sleep from her eyes and giving me a bleary look as she settles into the heavy chair next to me.
“Oh, where did Patrick get coffee?” she asks on an exhale. “I would kill for some coffee.”
“Rex had a pot going in the kitchen,” Patrick tells her with a small smile.
“I don’t suppose you’d just give me that cup, would you?”
“Not a chance.” He smirks and takes a long swallow.
“I’ll be right back.” Her grumpy tone says it all, but she manages not to slam the door on her way back into the house.
While most groups of this size would chatter, everyone sits in silence, and once again the eerie resonance of the wind through the trees offers the only break in the silence.
After an extended pause, Helena claps twice to get everyone’s attention, and jumps right to the point. “Okay, everyone, great work yesterday with the extraction. Today’s a new day, however, and there’s new work to be done. We’ll be setting up our four newest members”—she glances at us dismissively as she talks—“in a family home on the west side of the compound. There’s less foot traffic there, and we’re hoping they can stay out of the limelight. Since you won’t all be needed for that, half of you will be staying here awaiting the transport to the next job.” She gestures to Mav, who inclines her head in acknowledgement that she’ll be ferrying them around. “Brock will hand out the assignments.” She runs a hand down Brock’s bicep possessively, and the sight bothers me for some reason.
“Karin, Leo, and James, you’ll be on their security detail in the compound—” Brock rattles off names efficiently, and I zone out almost immediately. In all likelihood, I’ll never see half of these people again after today.
Nell slides back into the chair next to me, and the smell of coffee assaults my nose, making my stomach churn angrily. What is it with the smells lately? Ugh.
“What’d I miss?” she asks under her breath.
“Nothing yet.Just splitting up the security detail so far,” I answer in a hushed tone. I can’t help but lean away from the offending mug, and bump Patrick’s arm. He gives me a quick kiss on the top of the head, and then focuses back on Brock. I try to focus too, and ignore my angry stomach. It’ll get better once I’ve had some breakfast.
“Okay, we’ve decided to keep things simple to set you four up as a poly-family. That way, there won’t be any questions, and nobody is going to think you’re who you are, since they would never suspect the new prince and princess of the NAA to be joining us. To make matters better, though, we need to alter your appearance a bit. Since you’re clean shaven, we ask that you grow a beard. And ladies, you’ll need to alter your appearances as well. How do you feel about colored contacts?” She looks down her nose at us, and I simply shrug in response. If it keeps us safe, I’ll do it. I I don’t give two cow patties what color my eyes are.
Nell raises her hand, like a kid in school. Helena rolls her eyes, and answers archly, “Yes?”
“What is a poly-family, exactly?”
I forgot Nell hadn’t already gotten the rundown on this from Pierce, like I had back at the NLC. “A poly-family is any familial grouping involving three or more adults.” Her tone is crisp, as if daring Nell to object.
Nell raises one eyebrow, and asks cautiously, “And this is . . . common where you live? I didn’t think that was legal.” She looks at Atlas, but he just slips an arm on the back of her chair around her shoulders in lieu of a response.
Brock sighs in annoyance. “You really think any way of living outside the NAA’s rule is legal, Nell? Would we be in the middle of this god-forsaken nowhere swamp at a safe house if you were allowed to live where you wanted and marry who you wanted? No. Think.”
Nell leans back, as if slapped by the outburst of irritation from this near-stranger. Her eyes narrow and she starts to lean forward again, the retort clear in her gaze when Atlas shifts to put a subtle hand on her shoulder.
“You’ll have to forgive us Brock, none of us have had time to debrief on the situation, given the rather abrupt method you chose for extraction.” His sarcasm rings clear in the morning, and Brock’s jaw ticks in anger.
“Would you like to go back, because that could be arranged just as abruptly—" he points an accusing finger at Atlas, but is interrupted from his building tirade by Rex pushing through the balcony doors.
“Grub’s up. Can I get a few hands to bri
ng it all out?” He drops a platter of bacon with a clang to the middle of the table, and a few members of the security team rise and follow him back in.
Helena cuts in before the men have a chance to take the argument up another notch. “Brock, I don’t think she meant any judgement. She’s young, and new to our lifestyle. I’m sure once they see the compound, they’ll understand.”
He still looks bristly, but his shoulders unclench at her words, and he lets it drop.
Throughout the entire exchange, I was riveted to my seat, and only the wafting smell of bacon and the abrupt end of the conversation frees me from watching the back and forth. Patrick reaches across me to the platter, and drops two pieces onto the white plate in front of me, and two on his own.
I chuckle. “In a hurry, Mr. O’Roarke? There’s enough bacon there to feed an army.”
He shrugs without apology. “Sure, but in case you didn’t notice, we’re sitting with a small army. You snooze, you lose.” He punctuates the sentiment by taking off half a piece in one bite. He gestures to my plate, and I grab a piece to take a nibble.
The savory flavor is delicious, but doesn’t sit well in my stomach. I set it back down, and hear a rumbling noise behind us. Turning, I see a dusty white van bumping out of the woods over uneven ground, and heading straight towards us.
“Uhm, Patrick . . . that’s not the NAA, is it?” My hand tightens on his arm in reflexive fear.
“Of course not,” Helena snaps. “It’s the last member of your party.” She gives a vague gesture down to the rear yard where a side door opens, and a short, bespectacled man with unruly hair tumbles out, and then promptly vomits into the bushes.
The sound nearly makes me do the same, but, thankfully, he stops quickly and wipes his mouth. When he turns toward the porch where we’re all sitting and raises a hand in cheerful greeting, we see it’s none other than Glitch.