Chapter Eight
Pebbles from the ground dug into his feet. Ben winced but didn't slow his pace. He could hear Kang's men shouting. The gunfire had stopped. Maybe they realized he was wanted alive by their psychotic boss.
Ben ran through a deserted street. The port was just behind him, but this town seemed sleepy, at least in this area. Maybe it was the weekend. The sun barely cast any light now, so perhaps everyone was home from their work and activities. He had no sense of time or even what day it was.
The shouts were getting closer, echoing off the walls of quiet fish processing huts and small warehouses. Ben had to find help. He tried every door he came across, but none budged enough for him to enter.
In the distance, he heard a police siren. Ben's heart lifted. He stopped his pace to listen. Where is it? Could he make it to the police? But his heart sank when he thought of where the police most likely were—right by the freighter and where the shooting was. He couldn't get to them without going straight to Kang's men.
His palm and wrist stung. Ben glanced down. He was bleeding, not too badly, but he suddenly realized a competent pursuer would be able to follow the trail he was leaving. He pressed the wounds to his pants to try to stop the flow.
Something clanged loudly and Ben whirled around. It was just beyond the corner of the building. Someone was coming. A scuff of a shoe, and he knew he was seconds away from seeing whoever it was.
Ben bolted to a rusty door. He prayed some fisherman left it unlocked. He gave it a try. But it didn't give. Ben ran hard for the next corner to duck behind. With a glance over his shoulder, he saw the barrel of a gun round the corner just as he disappeared from view. He stopped against the wall, listening.
He heard muttered Korean. Ben's heart thundered in his chest. He was weaponless—the knife he'd taken on the zodiac long dropped in the ocean when he swam—and he was injured, too slow to outpace the blood-thirsty –
Ben did a double-take, cutting off his own thoughts. A window was to his side, one of those that rotated open at an angle. And this one was open, just enough that Ben reached out and pulled it open fully so it stuck out perpendicular to the ground. He braced his hands on the window's edge, biting hard on his lip when he pressed down on his cut palm to hoist himself up. He slid inside and fell in, only to land right on a tabletop.
He winced at the noise his entrance made, hoping it wouldn't carry to his pursuers. Quickly, he sat up and closed the window. Blood—his blood—stained the edge. He prayed no one would see it.
A shadowed figure caught his eye outside, coming around the corner. Ben laid back on the table, flattening himself and waiting.
He heard movement outside. Whispering. That police siren in the distance. And then footsteps, moving away from the building he was currently in. Ben shut his eyes and let himself exhale, although quietly.
That's when he noticed the smell. He sat up on the table, and it was slimy, slick with what had to be fish guts. Ben's stomach didn't appreciate that. Carefully, he rolled off the table.
Taking in this particular building, he saw a modest fish processing operation. Perhaps it wasn't the cleanest given its condition and since no one bothered to fully clean everything. The building wasn't warm by any means but it felt much better than being in the open air and cold. The light was fading outside enough that Ben squinted to see anything.
What now? He glanced at his hand, and also at his bare chest and feet. Clothes would be nice. He kept low in a half-crouch as he explored. He found a spare set of rubber rain boots. He wiped the pebbles away from his bare feet and pulled the boots on. They weren't warm, but at least provided some protection now. He moved on.
Empty bins were strewn about, some with little remnants of fish scales and puddles of sea water. There were knives hanging from a magnetic strip that served as a storage solution. Ben hesitated, and then picked one he felt he could handle and that was sharp enough. It wasn't much more than a kitchen knife in terms of a threat, but it was better than nothing.
A white box stood out in the dark. Ben drew closer to it, and saw it was mounted to a support post in the space. A red cross was printed on the outside of the box.
"First aid kit," Ben whispered, and smiled at his luck. He pulled the box from the post. Then he froze.
A coiled cord peeked out from behind the post. Ben circled it, and his jaw dropped.
It was a phone. An honest, old-school, landline phone with flat square buttons just waiting to direct a call. Ben grabbed the receiver. His finger hovered over the buttons.
"What's the number?" he muttered. He honestly had no idea of a number to call the White House, Secret Service, no one. Except one person. Ben swallowed, his throat suddenly getting a lump.
He dialed the US country code and then Connor's number, the only number he had memorized.
It rang. Ben held his breath. It rang again. Four times. No answer yet.
"Come on, Connor."
It went to voicemail, some automated and anonymous sounding message. The disappointment hit Ben, along with a heavy longing to hear his son's voice.
Ben hung up. His blood was smeared on the receiver. He stared at it, and thought about the bandages probably waiting in the first aid kit.
He snatched the receiver of the phone and punched the number in again.
It rang three times. Ben braced himself for the voicemail to pick up.
"Hello?"
Ben's heart skipped. "Connor? Connor, it's me." He shut his eyes, hoping Connor would believe him.
"Dad?"
Pure joy filled him. "Yes!"
"Dad, how—where are you? Did Mike find you?" Connor asked rapidly. Ben didn't know why he thought that, and as much as he wanted to make everything clear, instinct told him he had to get help fast.
"No, I'm—I'm not sure where I am. Listen, I want to keep talking to you—you have no idea how much—but I need you to give the phone to your detail."
"Okay. Yeah, I'm on it." He heard the phone pick up the sound of movement from his son's side. He tried not to focus on where he was, who was on duty with him, if he was safe—but no, he had to be safe. He was home, and Trumbull would have seen to it no matter what. Mike too.
Ben shook his head to clear his mind. A shiver ran through him. He needed a shirt.
"Dad?"
"I'm here."
"Mr. President?"
Ben had no idea who was asking, but he flinched at the title for some reason.
"Yeah, it's me. I'm at a port town, holed up in a fishing warehouse of sorts. Can you trace the call?"
"Yes sir, already on it. Are you safe?"
"Uh, sort of."
"Your kidnappers?"
"I got away from them."
"Dad?" Ben swallowed to keep his voice from wavering.
"Yeah, Connor."
"Are you hurt?"
Ben hesitated. "I'm okay." There was silence, and then Ben heard Connor whisper, "He's lying." Ben couldn't help but sigh and smile.
"I'm well enough. I got away, didn't I?"
"Mr. President, we have your location. Are you secure there?"
Ben glanced around, particularly at the windows. "For now, but… They're close."
"We have a team headed your way, but they're 3 hours out. The local police—"
Glass shattered in the building. Ben dropped to the floor, expecting gunfire to follow. Instead, he heard muttering, and more glass tinkling to the ground. He peered in the direction of the sound.
Figures stood outside a window pane. The sharp glass was cleared out. They'd be coming in next.
He was out of time.
"Mr. President?" he heard from the phone.
Ben leaned forward and grabbed the first aid kit and the knife. Whispering as quietly as he could, he said, "They're here. I have to move. I love you, Connor."
He set the phone down and stayed crouched to the ground, moving quickly before the Koreans got inside.
-0-0-0-
Yula slipped through the window first. Her lip curled at the stench of rotten fish. She should be back on her boat, sailing away with dreams of Ben at Kang's mercy. Or just dreams of Ben. She would miss him.
But no, now she had to find him—again. Kang's men were pathetic. They couldn't hang on to a weak man for more than five minutes.
At least the weak man in question wasn't very smart. The blood stains were as good as neon signs to follow him by. The Koreans must have missed it, but she didn't.
She stilled her movements and listened. Moisture dripped somewhere. A thudded clop of a shoe, maybe a boot, came from deeper in the warehouse. She raised her gun and followed it. Ben was close.
Her eyes honed in on a wet boot print on the ground. She followed the print but it disappeared shortly as she came to more wet ground. Disgusting place, this was. She nearly stepped on a severed fish head.
"Ben?" she called out. He wouldn't answer, but she waited a moment to hear if her voice spooked him into giving away his position. For now, she kept going in the direction of the boot prints. "I'm impressed. You did well, getting away from Kang's men. Technically, I've already been paid. Come out. I will help you get away from them."
She held her breath—might he believe that? Probably not. But still… She saw a hallway ahead, turning out of sight. She grinned. He had to be there, thinking he could hide from her.
She raised her gun and hurried to the corner, whirling at it to confront - No one. She looked down. A pair of rubber boots lie at her feet.
Yula kicked at the boots with a growl.
-0-0-
a/n: yep, still trying to keep this up. Reviews/feedback are great motivation. Thanks!
