Eight Years: A Novel (Trident Trilogy: Book One)

by Donna Schwartze

  “I’ll be fine. Just point me in the right direction.”

  “The right direction to where? The transport plane? God, you’re seriously going to get lost just trying to find the plane that’s taking you to Bosnia.”

  “Raine, I’ve never been here. How would I know where the planes are?”

  “Maybe, just maybe, you might have noticed them when you drove up to the building. They’re pretty big.”

  “Will you please turn down the snark and just show me where it is?” I say, laughing.

  She grabs me by the arm, and starts pulling me toward the door when Mason looks over. He sees that we’re laughing, but his face is deadly serious.

  Raine straightens up quickly. “Hey, Mason. I was just going to show her where the plane is.”

  “I’m walking over there now. I’ll show her. You ready?” He looks at me and then back at Raine, like he’s about to give us after-school detention.

  “Yes. Ready,” I say as seriously as I can. It seems Work-Mason and Play-Mason are two entirely different people. “I’ll see you later, Raine. Thanks for the help.”

  Raine walks away oddly quickly. I’m getting the feeling people don’t like to be in Work-Mason’s presence any longer than necessary. Mason motions me to follow him. At least, I think that’s what he’s doing. I look around for help and see Hawk.

  “Am I supposed to follow him?” I ask.

  “I probably wouldn’t. The last person who did is dead,” Hawk says, passing me.

  Someone grabs me by the arm and starts pushing me forward. I turn around to see Bryce. “I was the new guy a few months ago. You’ll get the hang of it,” he says.

  Bryce doesn’t stop pushing me until he’s shown me where to sit on the plane, and told me to strap in. I’m getting the feeling these guys are a controlling bunch. It’s weird because my dad wasn’t like that at all, at least not to me. Maybe he was different at work.

  After the plane takes off, everyone starts putting on their headphones and closing their eyes. I’m not tired at all, so I unbuckle and go over to what looks like the command center. I set up my computer and do some work until my eyes start blurring from the dim lights. I take a seat away from the others, shut my eyes, and try to sleep a little, but to no avail. When I open my eyes, I see Mason standing over me, handing me a cup of tea.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mason

  Sarajevo, Bosnia

  2019

  I’ve never been able to sleep too well on planes, especially when we’re on our way to a mission. My adrenaline is always pumping full force with anticipation, but today, it’s on overload with Millie on the plane. I look over to where she was sitting when we took off. She’s not there anymore. My heart jumps a little bit, thinking she’s gone. Like she jumped out of the plane or something. Man, she’s just messing with my mind. I survey the plane quickly and see her sitting alone on a bench, looking like she’s trying and failing to sleep. Against my better judgment, I grab her a cup of tea and head over.

  “Can’t sleep?” I ask.

  She looks up, her eyes full of fatigue. I just want to lay down with her right here and stroke her hair until she falls asleep in my arms. Instead, I hand her the cup of tea.

  “I’ve never been very good at sleeping sitting up. I’m a little too keyed up anyway,” she says, taking the tea. “Thank you.”

  “Clark has sleeping pills if you need them.” I sit down beside her, careful not to touch her. Culver came along on this trip, which isn’t usual. He’s probably viewing me through his scope right now.

  “Do they help? The pills,” she says.

  “Not really. I never sleep very well before a mission.”

  I tilt my head back and close my eyes. Maybe if I’m not looking at her, it will be easier to keep my hands off her.

  “So, I think I probably met your dad back in the day, but I’m not sure. I was a rookie when he was retiring, and stationed in San Diego, but I got to Virginia Beach for training a few times. I definitely remember the name, but I’m not sure if we crossed paths.”

  “Is this your attempt to get me to talk about him?” I hear a little bit of sass coming out in her voice, and it’s making me want to look at her eyes because I know they’re sparkling again.

  “Yes. Is it working?” I ask, keeping my eyes firmly shut.

  “I think the deal was that you tell me one thing about your mom, and then I’ll tell you one thing about my dad.”

  “I’m not sure we agreed on that order, but okay. Uhh, let’s see,” I say. “My mom had two kids, and she named us Mason and Dixon.”

  “Wait, like the Mason-Dixon line? That’s amazing.”

  She laughs. I have to look at her. I open my eyes, and she’s looking right at me. Yep, the eyes are like firecrackers again.

  “Yeah. She was born and raised in Alabama, and just Southern down to her core. I’m not sure she paid any attention to anything that went on above the Mason-Dixon line.”

  “She definitely would have gotten along with my grandma then,” she says, laughing.

  “Your turn. Tell me something about your dad.”

  “Wait, I thought you grew up in Texas,” she says.

  “I did. My parents met in college and moved back to Houston, where Dad grew up. I’m all Texas, but Mom was all Alabama. And, quit trying to get out of our deal. Tell me something about your dad.”

  The firecrackers die out. She takes a deep breath.

  “Okay, umm,” she says slowly. “He used to sing ‘Layla’ to me as a lullaby.”

  “Like Clapton’s ‘Layla’?”

  “Yeah. Well, into my teens. If something was upsetting me or I just couldn’t fall asleep, he’d start singing that, and I’d drop off like I had just been hypnotized. It always worked.”

  “He had good taste. I love that song. One of my favorites.”

  “Yeah, it used to be one of mine. I still have dreams about him singing it, and he’s always singing that same verse, you know ‘Make the best of the situation before I finally go insane. . .’”

  “‘Please don’t say we’ll never find a way, and tell me all my love’s in vain.’” I finish the verse for her.

  “Yeah. I always wake up sweating and startled. It’s not a good dream. It’s more like a nightmare,” she says in a whisper.

  I reach out and take her hand in mine. I don’t even care if Culver is looking. I want her eyes to look happy again.

  She smiles at me, and lets me hold her hand. “I thought you said this got easier.”

  “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it does, eventually,” I say. “Does your mom live in North Carolina?”

  “I never knew my mom. She died right after I was born. I lived with my grandma growing up, and my dad got down to see me as much as he could. The worst times were when he was on deployment. But, you know about that. Are you married? Kids?”

  “I was married, but we never had kids.”

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  “A while. I haven’t talked to her in years. You know when you don’t have kids, there’s not much of a need to talk. Are you married?”

  “No. Never been. I’ve been dating someone for a few years, but I’m not really interested in marrying him,” she says.

  “Does he know what you do for a living?”

  “He thinks I work for the State Department.”

  “I guess it’s kind of hard to have any kind of relationship when one of the first things you tell him is a lie. I’ve been there.”

  “Yeah. They always say not to date someone you work with, but maybe it’s easier. At least everyone knows the truth.”

  “Are you hitting on me?” I ask, sincerely hoping the answer is yes. Let’s just get on with this thing.

  “I meant someone else at the agency,” she says, laughing.

 
“Nah, man. You can’t date a spook.”

  “I am a spook.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the weirdest spook I’ve ever met.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Not weird. I mean, most unusual. Like most of the agents we get are skinny, and pale, and tired looking. Like zombies. You’re more robust.”

  “Robust? What the fuck? No wonder you’re divorced.” She takes her hand away from mine and slugs me in the shoulder with it. In honesty, she’s got a decent jab.

  “No, I mean, it’s a compliment! Like you look healthy,” I say, trying to explain myself by gesturing at her body. By the way she’s looking at me, I’m guessing that wasn’t the best idea.

  “Damn, I hope you shoot better than you communicate,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Wow, that’s how we’re playing. Okay,” I say, laughing as I rest my head back on the seat.

  We sit there in silence for a second, our eyes closed.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she asks slowly.

  “Anything.”

  “My dad told me once that when he drove down to see me, he’d give himself until the Virginia-North Carolina state line to turn his work side off, so when he got home, he was just my dad. Is that even possible for you guys?”

  I want so badly to tell her yes, but I don’t want to lie to her. “No, it’s probably not. I mean I’m sure he tried his hardest, but it’s not possible to turn it off all-together. It’s just not.”

  I look over at her. She’s nodding with her eyes still closed, but I can tell she’s sad again. I reach over and put my hand on top of hers.

  “Try to get some sleep, Millie,” I say quietly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Millie

  Sarajevo, Bosnia

  2019

  When we arrived at the U.S. Embassy in Sarajevo, Mason and the team left immediately to pick up Petrovic. Officially, the Bosnian government had not given us permission to take him against his will, but they had given permission for the team to detain him for a “voluntary” interview. I had asked to go along with them, so I could just interview him in his apartment. Culver had flatly denied my request.

  I’m waiting in the embassy garage for the team to return with Petrovic. I’d just watched them pick him up from his apartment on their body cam footage. He hadn’t resisted at all, which I thought was beyond odd. The truck pulls back into the garage, and Hawk, Bryce, Ty and Mason spill out. Bryce reaches back in to pull Petrovic out. He hands him off to the embassy staff who are waiting to take him to the interview room.

  “He was exactly where you said he’d be. No resistance at all,” Mason says like he has just come back from a walk in the park.

  “I know. I watched the feed. Impressive work. You guys are very efficient.”

  “It’s just what we do every day,” he says.

  “It might be every day to you, but it’s impressive, no matter how humble you want to be.”

  He shrugs, sincerely not needing the compliment. He knows they’re the best in the world.

  “I guess it’s time for me to do my work now,” I say, heading toward the interrogation room. Mason follows me.

  A guard stands blocking the door, arms crossed in front of him.

  “I don’t want you in the room with me,” I say to the guard.

  “It’s standard operating procedure, ma’am,” the guard says.

  “Well, my standard operating procedure is to be alone in the room with my subjects, so that’s how we’re going to do it,” I say.

  The guard looks at Mason for help.

  “Stand down,” Mason says. “We can react from here if necessary.”

  The guard immediately takes a step sideways to clear the door.

  “We?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I thought I’d stay and watch you work. You mind?” Mason says trying to be subtle. He clearly doesn’t trust me alone in the room with Petrovic. I guess he doesn’t know I’ve done this hundreds of times.

  “Knock yourself out,” I say, walking into the small, brightly lit room.

  I turn off the intercom system when I walk in so Mason can’t hear our conversation. I’m trying to honor George’s wish as much as I possibly can.

  Petrovic looks up at me when I walk in the room. He’s clean-cut and impeccably dressed. Not at all like my usual interviewees.

  “Where’s Sayid Custovic?” I say in Bosnian.

  Predictably, my question is met with silence, but he has already given me the answer. When you do enough interrogations, you notice everything about your subject—an eye twitch, neck muscles tensing, a head movement. With Petrovic, it was just a subtle widening of his eyes when he heard Custovic’s name. Many people wouldn’t have noticed, but to me it just screamed, “She knows he’s alive.”

  “Amar,” I say slowly. “I appreciate you volunteering to come in to talk to me today. It’s a great first step, but I really need for you to be forthcoming with me. Where’s Sayid Custovic?” I repeat.

  He hesitates for a second, but then says in English, “I don’t know who that is.”

  I continue in Bosnian, “You lived next door to him when you were young. Do you forget your childhood friends that easily?”

  Eye twitch. “My English is not good,” he says in Bosnian. “I meant to say I haven’t seen him since childhood. I heard that he’s dead.”

  “No, Amar. He’s not dead.”

  “I have not seen him,” he says, looking down.

  “That might be true, but I know you’ve talked to him. I’ve been following you for months now. All those burner phones you drop in the trash. I have those now.”

  He pushes his chair back from the table like he’s trying to distance himself from that information. He’s really not good at this.

  “I know you saw one of my colleagues grab your phone from the trash last week. He covered it pretty well, so you just let it go. You should have gone with your instincts. You could be in Afghanistan with Sayid by now.”

  He looks down again, staring at his feet.

  “Here it is, Amar. Your wife and kids are at home right now. Your neighbors saw you leave with us. Do you think that’s going to get back to Sayid? I’m going to say it will. And then what happens to your family? You’re his best childhood friend, so Sayid might not kill them, but he’s changed a lot since you knew him. So, I’d say there’s about a 60/40 chance that they’re dead before we’re even done talking. I have people standing by that can get them. Bring them here.”

  “I don’t know where he is.” He sighs as he looks up. I sincerely feel sorry for him, which doesn’t happen much. There’s something about him that I can’t quite put my finger on.

  “But, you have talked to him,” I say.

  “Yes,” he whispers.

  “And, you don’t know where he is?”

  “I swear I don’t. He doesn’t say, and I don’t ask. I don’t want to know. I haven’t see him in twenty years.”

  “But, he still calls you. Why?”

  “I don’t know. A few months ago, right after I moved back to Sarajevo, a man handed me a phone, and told me to answer it when it rang. I did, and it was Sayid. Until that moment, I really did not know if he was dead or alive. We talked about nothing that day—about childhood and things we had done when we were boys. When he was done talking, he told me to throw away the phone, and he would be in touch again. Someone has handed me a phone about every month since then. The people come out of nowhere. There’s no pattern. They just appear.”

  “And, he’s never discussed where he is, what he’s doing now?”

  “Never, not once. I don’t ask. He just reminisces. About childhood. Telling the same stories over and over again. I just listen. Like a therapist. I don’t want to talk to him. I know what he’s become. But, what choice do I have?”

  I’
m done. I have the information that I wanted from him—that Custovic is still alive. I believe he’s telling the truth about not knowing where he is.

  “I’ll have our people pick up your family. They should be here in a few hours. You’ll need to decide if you want to stay in Sarajevo or go somewhere else. I know it might be dangerous for you if Custovic finds out you talked to us. We can take you back to Spain or somewhere else if you want that.”

  As I start to stand up, he reaches suddenly across the table and grabs my arm. As Mason charges into the room, I just barely hear Petrovic say, “You know he looked for you for months. We all did.”

  Mason grabs him and throws him against the wall, pinning him there with his hand to his throat.

  “Mason!” I’m trying to process what Petrovic just said, while keeping Mason from killing him. “Mason, that’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

  “He doesn’t touch you, and that’s not your call,” he says as he eases up on Petrovic’s throat slightly. Petrovic gasps for breath when his throat is free.

  “I’m done here anyway,” I say, trying to stay calm as I walk out. The guard looks at me like I should have known better. I glare at him and keep walking.

  “Handcuff him to the table right now,” I hear Mason say to the guard as I walk away.

  “Millie,” Mason says, following me.

  I turn around to face him. “What the hell was that?”

  “He reached for you. I reacted. I thought he was going to hurt you.”

  “He reached over to touch my hand to thank me for bringing his family here to him.”

  “I didn’t know that. You turned off the sound. Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t have to explain my interrogation tactics to you. And, don’t you ever interrupt me like that again.”

  I’m pissed. I want to know what Petrovic said, and what he meant. But, that opportunity vanished when Mason almost killed him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says as he grabs for my shoulder to stop me from walking away.

  I shrug his hand off. “Look, Mason. This isn’t personal. I let you do your job. Let me do mine.”