19. A Notch

T here was a fur rug on the floor, colored like a reindeer hide. An adult bed stood beside it. But the figures in that room were both children.

A small, blindfolded boy sat cross-legged on the reindeer rug, his hands resting on his folded knees. He looked barely ten years old. And yet, his face bore adultlike solemness as he faced the person sitting on the rug across from him. “Are you scared?” His voice was quiet, calm.

There was a little girl sitting across from him, long dark hair hanging in an unbrushed ponytail behind her. Facing the floor, the child wordlessly shook her head.

“You don’t need to be scared,” the blindfolded boy told her certainly. “You’re my little sister, now. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Silence.

“My name is Alexei. What’s yours?”

The little girl did not lift her head. Her little hand rose to brush her face, and she sniffled softly. Then, in a tiny whisper, “Skyler Eastland.”

Kellen startled awake. His arms shot out on either side of him, grappling for anything to steady himself from the sudden feeling of being sucked underwater. A deafening clatter sounded through the space, and with it, the environment gathered back in.

The meeting room. Kellen had just knocked over the metal folding chair beside him and almost fallen out of the one he was sitting in.

“You’ a’ight.” A voice came from somewhere else in the room.

Another shock of adrenaline struck Kellen’s nerves. His eyes darted upward, immediately finding the stranger in the room.

Not a stranger. Kellen’s mind registered the short, round shape of a familiar officer. Arlo was sitting in a chair in the far corner of the room, one ankle crossed over the other, an elbow resting on the long table beside him, eyes on what looked like a pocket Bible in his hand.

Kellen released a faltering breath and straightened in his chair. For several seconds, the ear-numbing silence was all he could hear.

Then, the sound of Arlo’s page turning.

What the fuck was that? The question surfaced in the silence in Kellen’s mind.

And then louder: Skyler Eastland.

Kellen had been so sure Alexei was describing an adult, someone who knew about the operation Kellen had sustained the scar on his ear from, that the thought of Skyler had never even occurred to him.

Was there any way Skyler could’ve known about the critically missed bullet from the Lexington op? Kellen certainly hadn’t sat his five-year-old daughter down and told her about it. But maybe she had overheard something.

Her parents fighting about it, for one. Lila screaming that he could’ve died, followed by Kellen’s half-hearted compromise of taking some time off.

Kellen’s hands lifted to his neckline. Fingers trembling, he found the string around his neck and lifted out the locket hung on it. He wedged a fingernail into the side of it, then shakily popped it open along the seam.

A single picture. Her father’s hair color, her mother’s eye color. A bright, perfect smile. The round little cheeks, face lifted upward at the camera. The half-wilted daisy pinned behind her left ear.

Kellen’s hand lifted to his left ear, fingers feeling along the top of it. The notch Alexei was talking about.

Would Skyler really remember a detail so small, over ten years later? She would be sixteen now.

Tightness gripped Kellen’s chest. Slowly spread lower to his gut. Tightened until he thought he might vomit.

“I knew someone who told me all those things about someone with the last name Eastland. A relative of yours,” Alexei had said.

“Knew.” Knew, in the past tense.

“You don’t want to know,” had been Alexei’s initial response.

Like he had known.

He hadn’t cared to force his point when Kellen didn’t believe him.

Like he had known.

He didn’t want confirmation of Kellen’s first name.

He hadn’t merely lost contact with this person he used to know.

Kellen got to his feet. He picked up his backpack and started for the door.

“Ay.” Arlo looked up from his Bible. “Ay, we don’t leave fo’ another thirty minutes.”

Kellen stopped. He glanced back. “I need to go now.” The words came out barely a breath.

“No, you don’t.” Arlo stood up faster than Kellen could respond.

They stared at each other from across the room.

Slowly, Kellen turned and started back for his chair.

Arlo equally slowly retook his own.

Silence.

Kellen shut his eyes, his face lowering into his hands. It was too late to talk to Alexei before the op. If he wasn’t already at the location, he would be soon.

* * * *

Two hours out of Winchester. The red dot on Kellen’s phone had settled over a small building in a suburban neighborhood in Greenville, Arkansas.

The van was quiet this time. A brief recap took place at the start of the trip. A safety reminder followed. Then silence.

Kellen inhaled against the weight of his bulletproof vest. His eyes were closed, back straight against the side of the van. Another breath.

Something touched Kellen’s arm, and he flinched. His eyes opened slightly.

Dark. The brief yellow glare of passing streetlights sporadically lit across a heavily armed team.

Whatever had just touched Kellen’s arm touched him again. The back of someone’s hand. Kellen’s eyes opened fully, and he turned to the left.

Arlo was holding a small bottle against Kellen’s arm. The officer nodded meaningfully in the darkness.

Uncertainly, Kellen accepted the small container. A plastic seal crinkled under his fingers as he turned it over. The next streetlight highlighted the label just long enough. A 5 -Hour Energy drink.

Kellen’s finger slipped down the length of the little bottle. His hand lowered to his lap.

Beside him, Arlo made a shot sign to his lips and clicked his tongue.

“No, thank you,” Kellen murmured. He passed the bottle back.

Arlo shrugged and slipped the little bottle away.

Kellen set his head back against the side of the van. Shut his eyes again.

And then the vehicle started slowing. A gravel patch rumbled under the tires. A full stop. Then the vehicle turned.

Tim, once again at the front of the van, rotated himself in his seat to face the crew behind him. “We’re almost there.” He was holding Kellen’s phone as he spoke. “We’re pulling up to a residential street—house number 338 Sycamore. Our scout vehicle should reach the location within the next few minutes. We’ll be staking out the block next over.” He paused.

Then, with emphasis: “This is Greenville jurisdiction. Greenville seems to be intending to sit this one out, provided we do not call for backup. That’s unusual for a local jurisdiction. Please be aware that Greenville PD folks could become involved in this op at any time, and are well within their right to do so.” A second pause. “They can also have us leave the premises.”

A unanimous groan ran through the van. Someone near Kellen leaned forward to murmur to the guy sitting across from him: “Better not. Greenville better stick to protecting tomatoes.”

“I heard they’re not SWAT equipped,” came the snickering response.

“Yeah, Bordermain Station SWAT’s been to Greenville like a million times to take care of business for them. Staties, too.”

“I heard that,” someone else said.

“Is that why everyone calls Bordermain quasi-green?” a new person joined the conversation.

There was a short silence.

“Naw, man, that’s unrelated.”

Kellen shut his eyes again.

And then a radio crackled. There was a static pop. Something that sounded like interference followed.

Tim reached for his shoulder receiver and unclipped it. “Come again?”

“Scout to lead.” Clear this time. “Scout to lead. ”

“This is Lead. Go ahead.”

A full silence fell. Then, more static over Tim’s radio. The voice came back, broken over interference. “—down. I tried—house—inside―”

Kellen’s eyes slowly opened. Heartrate beginning to rise in his chest, his vision focused on the van floor in front of him.

Marcus, seated in the passenger seat, turned to look at Tim.

“Check your frequency, Vern, I’m getting all kinds of interference,” Tim responded. “Say it again.”

There was another delay. Then a crackle. And much clearer, the sound of heavy breathing over the radio. “ I’m hit. My partner is down. We were approached. Two kids. Masked, armed. Verbal altercation. Opened fire on us. They came from the house. I don’t know where they went.”

Kellen saw Marcus reach for the driver’s shoulder. Something wordless was exchanged. The driver switched on blue lights and hit the gas.

“Vern, are you still in the vehicle?” Tim asked into the radio.

Marcus had pulled out his phone and was dialing.

A crackle sounded over Tim’s radio. “Yes. ”

“Good. Good. Stay there. We have help on the way.”

“ETA three minutes,” the driver provided.

Marcus put his phone on speaker, and a moment later, he was describing the situation to a dispatcher on the other end.

“I have one patrol car on Nephew Lane, about five miles out, and one fifteen miles, on Southwind Street,” the female voice on the phone said.

“Please have them on standby. Actually, I need a better standby than that. Can you get them within three minutes? Is medical enroute?”
“Medical is dispatched. Please advise safety of approach.”

“Can I have a direct line?”

“Let me get that for you…”

Tim turned to face the team again. “Siano and Price, scout support. Bridges, Turriff—base and control. Remaining four are with me. Default to the assumption of threats on all sides. We don’t know which side of the road these kids ended up on. De’Angelo, are you going in?”

“I’m with you,” Marcus responded. He moved to raise his phone again. “Eastland will stay in the truck with base and control.”

“Alexei is in there.” The words darted past Kellen’s lips before he could even think. Fear. Fear he could only half explain was rising like a riptide in his core as he stared back at the detective

Marcus hesitated. “We’ll do what we can.” A second time, he moved to raise his phone.

“Give me my phone, and I’ll go in and get him out.”

“Out of the question, Eastland,” Tim spoke up.

“I promised him I would be there.” Kellen’s voice snapped. “I break that promise, this deal is in the balance.”

One second. Two. Marcus’s eyes lifted to survey the van. “Does anyone want to take responsibility for Eastland?”

Dead silence.

And then, an arm rose to the left of Kellen. Two half-straight, half-curled fingers held up in the air. “I got Eastland’ six.”