Chapter 26
IS MY HUSBAND A CHAUVINISTIC PIG? I suppose, if you look at our marriage, he appears sexist. And yet, he is the father of an amazing fifteen-year-old girl. Who he personally taught to cluster six shots to center mass time and time again. Let alone, from the day of her birth, he’s actively spoken of Ashlyn’s future as head of the family firm. No need to try for a son. For Justin, from the moment he held his daughter in his arms, she was absolutely, positively perfect.
I always preferred to think of us as coworkers whose areas of expertise happened to fall along traditional lines. My husband works. He loves his job; he’s at his best when wrestling with a multimillion-dollar-contract issue. And I love my job, which includes creating our house, raising our child and crafting a lifestyle that reflects who we are as a family.
I’ve never thought of my role as lesser. I’ve never thought of Justin as the “one in command.” At least, not until six months ago. But even then, I didn’t view myself as the weak half of the marriage. I simply viewed myself as a failure. Because if part of my job was to meet the needs of the family, how well could I be doing, considering my husband had taken up with another woman?
Of course, I understand deep down inside that from the beginning, one of the things Justin had most loved about me was my independence. And eighteen years later, there wasn’t much of that left.
There is a breed of men out there, you know, who are attracted to strong women. They just don’t know what to do once they win us over.
So that’s how I view my husband, the strong man, driven to pursue a strong woman, then mostly at a loss forever after. If that’s patronizing, well then, maybe that makes me the chauvinistic one. Because given the family history, I can’t say I was totally surprised that my husband cheated on me. I was mostly ashamed for not figuring it out sooner. And hurt, because I had wanted us to be different. I had imagined myself to be special enough, attractive enough, smart enough, to forever hold Justin’s interest.
Love is risk.
I took it, and I got burned.
But someday, my daughter will take the same risk. And I don’t have the heart to tell her to take the easy road. Because there is a breed of women out there who are attracted to alpha males. We just don’t always know what to do with them once we have them.
JUSTIN WAS CONVINCED he knew how to handle Z. Let him do the talking, and we’d be ransomed out of our prison cell by the end of the day. Which meant the first thing Ashlyn and I had to do was talk him down. We’d tried fighting fire with fire. We’d made a stand, we’d even attempted rebellion. To date, it had gotten us Tased and battered.
If Z and his crew were former military, then warfare was their specialty.
We needed a different approach. One outside the alpha dog’s normal realm of experience. I had a few ideas on the subject, which Ashlyn seconded. Given Justin’s current condition, we slowly but surely wore him down. One of us, he might have dismissed. Two of us, he eventually gave way. My idea, our plan. We would execute as a team, our first family project in six months. And we would win. I was convinced of it. There was finally enough at stake.
The hardest part was waiting.
We sat, Ashlyn on the top bunk, Justin and I below. First rule of psychological warfare: He or she who initiates the discussion has by definition given up ground. We couldn’t afford to give up ground.
So we practiced patience.
My tremors were returning. My headache, the deep, dragging exhaustion, punctuated by moments of excruciatingly painful cramping. The pills, whatever Radar had given me in the middle of the night, seemed to be waning, placing me once more on the withdrawal express.
I could confess to Justin. Tell him once and for all what I’d spent the past few months doing. Just how great a spouse and parent I’d turned out to be.
But again, she who initiates the discussion has by definition given up ground.
So I held my tongue.
We had no sense of time anymore. Daylight outside. Constant fluorescent lighting inside. Morning, mid-morning?
Eventually, we heard footsteps. Steady, not rushing, but I found myself holding my breath, hands already forming into fists. On the top bunk, I saw Ashlyn ease into the farthest corner of the bunk, assuming the crouch position…
The steel door swung open. Z stood there, Radar beside him.
“Breakfast,” Z stated crisply.
And in that one word, I knew we could win.
PER PROTOCOL, JUSTIN LEFT THE CELL FIRST, hands secured at his waist. Z stood with him, while Radar came in to fetch me. Radar kept his back to the door, blocking the window and, I realized, the security camera, as he slid two round white pills into the palm of my hand.
No words were exchanged. I had a brief image of the flat white tablets, numbers stamped in the back, then I dry swallowed both pills without question. A millisecond in time, then he had the restraints secured around my wrists and I joined my husband in the dayroom. Radar followed with Ashlyn and we fell in line, Z leading Justin by the arm, Radar escorting me and Ashlyn half a dozen paces behind.
We offered no resistance, behaving as three dutiful hostages who’d just spent a long night learning their lesson.
Our captors were freshly showered. Their hair still damp, Z in a crisp new outfit of 100 percent commando black, Radar in a fresh pair of baggy jeans and a new dark blue flannel shirt. I tried not to hate them, but given my own rank smell, it was difficult.
In the kitchen, our wrist restraints were removed and we were once more tasked with cooking. I conducted a quick inspection of the pantry and walk-in refrigerator. No additional supplies. Then again, when would they have had the time to restock? The lack of refurbishment reassured me, however, spoke of a set timeline. Z and his crew didn’t plan to spend eternity here, just long enough.
I pulled butter, bacon and eggs from the cavernous refrigerator, then an assortment of dry goods from the walk-in pantry. I’d have to do the recipe off the top of my head, but after all these years, that wasn’t a problem.
I put Justin in charge of crisping bacon and scrambling eggs. Ashlyn already knew her assignment: She was to set a table. Use whatever she could find, but somehow create the impression of a real, honest-to-goodness kitchen table.
While I made homemade cinnamon rolls.
Z disappeared, leaving Radar alone. Our youngest captor took a seat by one of the stainless steel counters, paying more attention to Justin, who stood, with half his face battered and one eye swollen shut, over a sizzling frying pan. I prepared the dough, then sprinkled flour onto the stainless steel prep surface and started rolling out. Once I’d created a large, thin rectangle, I spread butter across the entire surface, followed by liberal handfuls of white sugar, brown sugar and cinnamon. I rolled it up into one long cinnamon-dusted snake, then sliced it into inch-thick sections.
The ends appeared ragged and ugly. Without saying a word, I trimmed off both, handing one doughy piece to Ashlyn, her favorite part of the cinnamon-roll-making process. The second, I handed to Radar.
He didn’t even acknowledge me. But he picked up the bite of dough and popped it in his mouth. Just like that.
Some negotiations are not a matter of heavy battery, but slow advancement. Gains made so subtly, your opponent doesn’t realize you’ve even moved until they’re forced to watch the victory dance.
I made two dozen rolls, given that men of Z and Mick’s size ate at a certain volume, let alone if one homemade cinnamon bun was a treat, then three to four was an act of gluttony destined to be followed by a state of satiated lethargy, if not an outright sugar coma.
This kind of yeastless roll, thin and flaky versus thick and doughy, was Ashlyn’s favorite. I’d evolved the recipe twelve years ago, when my three-year-old hadn’t the patience to wait hours for homemade baked goods. Turned out, basically using pie dough halved the prep time while still yielding plenty of cinnamony delight. Our family recipe, now being shared with our family kidnappers.
While the commercial kitchen filled with the warm scent of baking cinnamon and caramelizing sugar, I inspected Ashlyn’s table. My daughter has always been creative, and her latest efforts didn’t disappoint.
She’d taken over one of the rolling stainless steel prep tables. Given that the overall color scheme in prison had a tendency to be stark white, she’d placed six red cafeteria trays to serve as institutional placemats. Each red tray was topped with a plain white plastic dinner plate. Then, she’d taken smaller salad plates, centered each on a dinner plate and written, in brightly colored condiments, the individual’s name.
Z’s single initial was particularly impressive, standing out in bright red ketchup script. For Radar, she’d used yellow mustard. Mick got green pickle relish, and for a moment, my child and I shared a smile; Ashlyn loathed relish. Always had, always would.
In the middle of the table, Ashlyn had filled a glass bowl with multicolored layers of dried lentils, topped with an artful arrangement of three eggs, a wire whisk and a single piece of cooked bacon, stolen from her father’s pan. Add in the collection of plastic cups, silverware and rolled-up paper napkins, and the overall effect was rustic and charming. A piece of home.
The oven timer chimed. The cinnamon rolls were ready. Justin plated the eggs and bacon. We positioned the platters on the table, and just like that, showtime.
Z appeared five minutes later.
His own power play, I would guess, as he entered the kitchen in slow, measured strides, his face perfectly expressionless even as the wafting scents of fresh-baked buns and crisp-cooked bacon must’ve hit him like a wall.
Radar was already at the table, perched on the edge of a metal stool. He had a slightly glazed-over look on his face and was staring at the cinnamon rolls as if they were the last drop of water in a desert. But he remained still, hands at his side.
Z took in the table, still advancing steadily. Now his gaze flickered to me, where I stood next to my waiting stool, as did Justin and Ashlyn.
He smiled and I could tell he saw right through me, understood completely every step I’d just taken and why.
Z dished up first. Two rolls, half a plate of eggs, half a dozen pieces of bacon. He passed each platter to Radar, who filled his plate, then dished up a plate for Mick, presumably working the control room, before returning the remaining food to the middle of the table. I hadn’t been around last night, but Justin and Ashlyn seemed to be waiting for something.
“Eat,” Z ordered at last, and they each took a seat.
A reminder of who was in charge. I wasn’t concerned. Second bite of the cinnamon roll, Z’s eyes fluttered down, the quick rush of buttery pastry and gooey cinnamon sugar hitting his bloodstream, intoxicating his senses.
I wondered what he was remembering right now. A mother, a grandmother, even just a moment in time when Z had felt warm, safe and loved. The true power of comfort food. It didn’t just fill one’s belly, it evoked a mood. And now, my food was triggering Z’s memory, forming an association between my handmade rolls and his own sense of well-being that would be difficult to break. Hence the past eighteen years I’d spent making homemade treats for Justin and his build crew. Because nothing earned undying devotion faster than freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Then, even the toughest of the tough turned instantaneously into a little boy, savoring a childhood treat while gazing upon the provider of that treat with fresh adoration.
I could use some adoration right about now.
My family was already eating. I picked at my own food, avoiding the greasy bacon, nibbling on a single roll. I should eat to build my strength, but I didn’t completely trust my stomach yet. Not to mention Z and his crew had commandeered the majority of the food. I didn’t want to take even more away from my daughter and husband.
“You’re going to ask for something,” Z said after the second cinnamon bun, while reaching for a third. “You anticipate my mind will be so muddled by your homemade rolls, my senses so overwhelmed by this lovely display of domesticity that I will say yes.”
“We’re not going to ask for something, we’re going to give you something.”
“You have nothing to give. And you’re wrong about the rolls. Cooking as good as this…now I have even less incentive to let you go.” His gaze flickered to my husband and there was a look on his face I didn’t understand.
“You’ve invested a lot of time in this operation,” I stated evenly. “Time, money, resources. I’m sure you and your team don’t want to walk away empty-handed.”
“Not about money. Didn’t I already say that?” Z glanced at Justin, my husband’s battered face, swollen eye.
“Mom.” Ashlyn nudged me, voice low. For the moment, I ignored her.
Z pulled his attention away from Justin long enough to eye me skeptically. “Besides, hasn’t your husband told you everything yet? That business isn’t going so well? That he no longer takes a salary? That, in fact, you don’t have money to offer?”
My face didn’t change expression. I had just learned these things, of course, but it surprised me that Z knew such details as well.
“Did he tell you about all the pressure he’s under?” Z continued in a bored voice. “Use that as his excuse for all of his extracurriculars. Poor Justin, just trying to feel like a big man.”
Justin flinched. I could feel his leg tensing up next to mine, preparing to stand. And do what? Pound the table? Take on the bigger guy with the cobra tattoo?
“Mom.” Ashlyn again, voice still low. She’d pushed away her red tray, her shoulders hunched as if with trepidation.
“Nine million dollars,” I said, ignoring both my family members.
For the first time, I could tell that I’d caught Z off guard. His face froze, the green cobra tattoo staring at me with twin beady eyes. Radar was less circumspect. He did a short double take, jaw hanging open, before quickly composing himself.
“We start today,” I continued calmly, “and it can be wired to the account of your choice by three P.M. tomorrow. We do the work. You get the money. But the demand has to be delivered today, and you have to let us go. Price of ransom. The victims must be recovered safe and sound.”
Z frowned at me, which, in fact, made the cobra’s fanged mouth move in unsettling ways around his left eye.
“Nine million dollars,” I repeated. “Guaranteed payday. You’ll leave this prison rich men. Not bad for a few days’ work.”
Z didn’t immediately say no. Almost absently, he pulled apart his third roll, biting into one half, flaky pastry catching around the corner of his hard-set mouth.
“How?” he asked.
“Insurance policy. On Justin, but also Ashlyn and me.”
“Company policy?”
“Yes. Perk of being an owner. Justin might not currently draw a salary, but he still gets great benefits.”
“They’ll pay?”
“That’s why you carry insurance.”
Another bite. Z chewed. Z swallowed. “Cash?” he asked abruptly.
“Wired to the fund of your choice.”
“I will not go on camera.”
“We have it all worked out.”
“One wrong word…”
“It’s in our best interests to have this all go as planned.”
“Nine million dollars,” he repeated, a concession of sorts.
“Three apiece. Or, more likely, five for you, two for each of your men.”
Radar didn’t look concerned by this split. Z actually smiled. And once again, the cobra tattoo seemed to twist and shudder around his perfectly shaved head.
“The background report,” he declared dryly, “had not indicated that you would be a problem.”
“Would you like another cinnamon bun?”
Z smiled again. Then his gaze switched to my husband, and the sudden coldness in his eyes made me start. He despised my husband. I could see it clearly, in the directness of his gaze. Hatred at a level that was beyond professional, had to be personal.
And for just one second, I hesitated. Maybe ransom was a bad idea. The exchange of money for hostages was inherently complicated. So many things could go wrong. A simple misstep could lead quickly and catastrophically to further violence, even death.
Especially when dealing with a man who’d covered his head in a giant fanged viper.
“Radar.” Ashlyn’s voice from beside me. My daughter no longer reaching toward me, but across the table toward the youngest commando.
Radar? Why would my daughter ask for…
I turned quickly, grabbing for Ashlyn’s arm but missing, as without another word, she slid off the back of her stool and dropped limply to the floor. Blood, so much blood, pooling on the lower half of her orange jumpsuit.
“Ashlyn!” Justin, already on his feet, then immediately drawing up short. “What the…”
Ashlyn’s staring up at me. Eyes, so much like my own, now filled with regret. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
And in that moment, I understood.
The men were scurrying around. Radar pushing back his stool, Z announcing in an authoritative voice for Justin to come with him, for Radar to tend to us.
I ignored them all. I focused on my daughter, who’d tried to warn me yesterday that we didn’t talk to her anymore. Not just moments in a marriage, I realized now, but moments in an entire family, when you stopped seeing one another. When you shared space, but no longer yourselves with one another.
I did my best to see her now. To gaze into her eyes. To comfort her with my own presence. As I knelt on the floor and held my daughter’s hand while she miscarried.