CALL THE COPS.

"Call the cops?" Pamela repeated her mind in a whirl.

Her head snapped to a direction where she heard a rustling sound which was just beyond her so she quickly and fearfully put the letter into her pockets with the lighter. It was high time she left. She took her phone and headed back for the car, the fluorescent glow of the torch guiding her. Her mind was in turmoil, her thoughts in upheaval because of what she had just discovered.

Call the cops?

First off, she was relieved and overjoyed that her husband hadn't deceived her. He had trusted her and that made her feel so much like an ass for doubting him. He had meant it when he said that there was a backup letter and that she was the only one he trusted. Who would have guessed that he had been speaking metaphorically? Who would have guessed that when he'd said she was the only one he trusted, he had meant that she was the only one he could trust to denote the fact that he'd used invisible ink, which had been smart of him.

As she retraced her steps to the car, she couldn't help but smile at the thought of her dad training and teaching Devlin. Her dad always wanted a son - granted, he'd loved her, but her dad had wished he'd had a boy to have a 'man-to-man' with, something she hadn't been cut out for. Devlin had been that substitute and it made her feel like she had made her dad proud by marrying him, heavens, he'd brought them together so he should be proud.

Second of all, what kind of backup plan was calling the cops? Was the battle going to be so fierce that it would take the intervention of the authorities to save them?

No, it couldn't be that. Devlin had gone, according to Peter, fully prepared and with an army that could stop a world war, so he surely didn't need the authorities' aid. So what then could it be? What if - her heart skipped and she stopped walking, trying to make sense of what just crossed her mind: What if Devlin was planning on turning himself in?

It couldn't be that - could it? Was he planning on turning himself in because he wanted to start over? Was he trying to have a 'clean slate' just to impress her and make her feel better about loving him? Oh how much she appreciated the lovely gesture, but she didn't want him to! If he went to jail now he would get life imprisonment, if not death by hanging for the numerous crimes he'd committed ranging from arson to murder to illegal arms dealing with drug trafficking.

This moment that she was overflowing with love for him was not the right time for him to play the good ol' boy because she would not be able to live without him. To even think that he thought she wouldn't accept and love him because of a lifetime of bad decisions made her mad. She had married him, blast it. Taken his last name. Exchanged rings with him. Allowed him to have carnal knowledge of her. What was more of a confirmation that she loved him to the moon and back than all that?

The rustling sounds came again and she quickened her footsteps, then sighed in relief when she spotted the car. It seemed to take forever to reach the car because of how frightened she was. A gust of wind swept through the forest and gooseflesh popped on her body, and Pamela had an eldritchly feeling that the reflex erection of hairs at the back of her neck and arms was not just caused by cold or excitement but by fear. She also couldn't quite assuage the eerie feeling that she was being watched, so when she finally got to the car, she got in and shut the door as fast as she could.

The faint smell of cigarette was still in the car and she sucked the air in to calm her nerves, not minding one bit that she was inhaling the substance she loathed so much, albeit in minute quantity. When she had gained some semblance of calmness, she realized that Peter had not yet returned. Where was he? She hoped with all her heart that he was safe. When he gets back, she would tell him about the plan. She knew that he would be very happy that their turmoil hadn't been in vain and that their hard work had paid off. When he got here, they would call 911 to ask for the cops, just as Devlin had ordered. But wasting time was dangerous, and Peter's absence was wasting time. Should she go look for him?

"No," she said aloud to herself. If she did, it could be unsafe. Besides, the feeling of being watched hadn't quite left her.

But why should she wait for him? She took out her phone and checked the time. It was past nine. Past nine and Devlin hadn't called, past nine and Devlin hadn't returned. The fact that he was not home meant she should go ahead and call the cops. Waiting for Peter was going to waste time, time that was too precious.

She unlocked her phone and was about to dial it when she saw that there was no reception. Of course, there wouldn't be a reception, they were literarily in the middle of the Bahamas rainforest. This was frustrating. Had she known sooner, she would have applied heat to the paper earlier and by now the cops would have arrived to help save her husband - or do whatever he wanted them for. But now that there was no reception, his goose is cooked. Despair gnawed at her insides as she looked once again at the signal pyramid at the top of the screen and begged it to bring out, even if was just one bar of a network.

Then it hit her again.

A 911 call is an emergency call, and when there's no signal, the phone says emergency calls only! Without wasting time, she dialed 911 and sank back on the chair in relief when it started to ring. It was answered on the second ring.

"911 what's your emergency?"

She became tongue-tied. She hadn't been prepared for what to say. Was she supposed to start with, "My husband is a mafia and he is in a war with another mafia that almost kidnapped me but it was my mafia husband that did kidnap me to save my life and now he's in danger"?

"I need the cops, ASAP."

"Why ma'am?"

"There -" She hesitated. "- has been exchanging of fire around me. Please, you need to hurry."

"What's your name?"

Pamela became irritated at how calm and unbothered - one could say bored - the operator seemed. She couldn't blame him, though. He had probably received about ten thousand calls today alone, and some prank calls too. It was a good thing that prank-calling an emergency number was considered a federal offense. But this was not a prank call or any usual emergency call for that matter; it was a call to save her future, one that her whole existence depended on.

"Pamela Ki - Gusev. Pamela Gusev."

"I am finding it difficult to get your location ma'am, are you in a remote area or -"

The line went off.

"Hello?" The beep of an ended call had never sounded so ear-splitting. "Oh my God, no." She looked at her phone and saw that the battery had gone flat. Why now? Why at this moment that she was finally doing what she should have done a long time ago. Frustration and anguish welled up in her.

She needed to look for Peter and use his phone, but how would she find him? Her phone was dead so she had no light to guide her, and she certainly couldn't start bellowing Peter's name in the hopes that he would hear her calls. Or should she use the lighter? No, the lighter wouldn't provide enough light to illuminate her path. She needed to do something, and fast.

Just as she sat there in worry, the door to the driver's seat was forcefully yanked open and she shrieked in terror and shrank back against the door as a figure plopped down heavily on the seat. She sighed in relief when she saw that it was Peter, but her relief was short-lived.

Peter was bleeding profusely.

"Peter!" She exclaimed and reached for him. Blood had started to pool on the car seat.

"Put pressure, please." He said with great effort, through gritted teeth.

Without hesitating, she reached out and placed both hands flat against his stomach where he seemed to have been injured. His breathing was forced and strained and his pupils were getting dilated.

"What happened?"

He tried to sit up and when he did, bright red blood gushed from the injury and it took Pamela all she had in her to keep putting pressure on it.

"I was shot."

"What?" Her eyes widened in shock and she became agitated. "Did you see who?"

"Bull's men." Even as he spoke, his lips became taut and colorless. He drew in a loud and ragged breath and gritted his teeth. "Hurts like a bitch."

She could only imagine. "How did they find us? Did they follow you? Are we in danger?" She began to regret coming here. It had been really stupid, really, really stupid, and reckless. The mere sight of how Peter was suffering from the pains sent her into the depths of despair and the feeling of doom gnawed at her insides.

"What's going to happen now?" She took in a shaky breath and removed her hand from his stomach and the warm red liquid spurted again from his artery like an overflowing shower nozzle. She raised her bloodied hands to her blurry eyes and started to weep. She was going to die. They both were going to die. This dangerous undertaking they had both gone on was just what it was - dangerous.

"Peter, let's leave right now; let's go. I'll - I'll drive." She replaced her hand on his stomach, still sobbing. "We should never have come here in the first place. Do you know what we were chasing by coming here? A wild goose!" Her nose started to run so she used her arm to wipe her nose and when she bent to place her hand, she saw that he was lying lifeless. "Peter?" She shook him vigorously. His eyes had rolled into his head and he had stopped breathing. "Peter? Peter!"

In the blink of an eye, the passenger door of the car was yanked open and a hand grabbed her. She screamed but they were muffled by strong hands that were placed over her mouth. She kicked and fought but was overpowered and bundled out of the car. Fear crippled her and a strange sense of Deja vu settled over her, making her weep bitterly. She stopped struggling and let herself be bundled away, and the next instant, she felt the stinging prick of a syringe which introduced a warm liquid that was forced into her system.

Whatever it was that was injected into her took effect almost immediately and just before she sank into numbness, she made a prayer: Please God, let me see Devlin again, even if one last time.

~

Detective Art Dwyane twisted open the door knob to an office that had a plaque that read 'Chief of Police' after knocking once. The Chief of Police was holding a telephone to his ear, standing by the window, his free hand in his pocket.

"Thank you for the information, I'll get back to you as soon as I can." he turned and dropped the phone, then looked up at Art.

"You sent for me sir?"

"Sit, please." The greying sixty-year-old sat and motioned at a chair facing his desk. Chief Rogers Calloway was sixty but was as fit as a thirty-year-old. He wore a sky blue shirt with a navy blue tie that was still in place although it was past nine. Everyone was retiring home and would have loosened their ties by now, even the president couldn't keep his tie in place for more than twelve hours. "I have an assignment for you."

"I'm not going to like it am I?" Art said, sitting. He was tired after a long day at a homicide scene. A ninety-odd-year-old woman had been found dead in her home and he'd been called to the scene very early in the morning. Gathering of forensics evidence had been difficult because the witness who had found the body had tampered with it by leaving her fingerprints everywhere and that had made his day worse. He was tired and wanted to go home to his daughter and his granddaughter who had turned three today. He hadn't even gotten the chance to say happy birthday to her because she had been asleep when he'd been summoned.

"A 911 operator got a call about a shooting about ten minutes ago." Rogers stopped to cough and Art did all he could not sigh impatiently. To make matters worse, his boss picked a cigar stick and took his time to light it, scratching raw on Art's nerves and wearing his patience thin.

911 operators are supposed to get emergency calls, that was nothing out of the ordinary because that's what they do. He only hoped it was not another homicide case, he wanted to retire for the day and hit the sack.

"And it was directed here," the chief of Police was saying, "though they couldn't get the exact location of the caller."

Art's brows drew together to form a V in a frown. "Really? But the caller's location and phone number will be transmitted to the 911 operator's call sheet instantly as the person makes the call."

Rogers waved his cigar at him. "Yes, yes, but it didn't happen and naturally they assumed the caller was calling from a remote region or in bad weather. It turned out to be the former because the only cell tower that picked up the call showed a place around St Mathew's Island."

Art became alert at that. He sat up and his expression turned from bored to alert. "Shooting around St. Mathews? That place is uninhabitable."

Rogers nodded, also sitting up. "Well seems like humans can inhabit wherever they please, but that's not the heart of the matter. What got my attention was that they said it was a female who had called, and before they could garner more information, the call ended. They couldn't reach her anymore."

Art gave his boss a wary look. "I understand that you're the Chief, sir and it's not rocket science that over ten thousand emergency calls are received daily, but how come this one stands out? I mean, we have a lot of states in this country, so why was Police help directed here? Dare I say by a stroke of luck?"

The chief gently dropped his half-smoked cigar on his ashtray and directed a scowl at Art. "Were you sitting on your ears when I said the location was at St. Mathews island? And where is the island located? In Alaska." Rogers said slowly as if he was speaking to an idiot.

Art opened his mouth to speak but was rudely interrupted. "Besides, this case stands out because it was Pamela King who called. As a matter of fact, she introduced herself as Pamela Gusev."

Art went still for several seconds, letting the information sink in. Was he surprised that the lass who had vehemently and publicly opposed staying with a man got married to him? Not exactly. No one can understand matters of the heart. "Why are you telling me this, sir?"

He picked up his cigar and held it between his lips. "Because I trust you."

"Cut the bullshit, sir."

His boss held his angry gaze for several seconds before breaking it. "Leonid needs our help, Art. This is what he said would happen and it is happening."

The detective stood and paced the spacious office. "This is not good."

"I know, but we have to help him. He needs back up and that's exactly what I'm going to give him." He raised his eyes to meet Art's. "I don't know about you."

Art Dwayne stood unresponsive for a few seconds then blew out a long weary sigh. "Of course, I'll help. He's my boy."

"Good. I knew I could count on you." Logan stood, putting an end to the conversation, and rounded his desk to walk Art to the door.

"Another thing," said Art, "There's the problem of finding the exact location."

"Yes, but since the cell tower that transmitted the call was said to be located around that island, the whole goddamned towns that surround that island have to be searched. Any spooky houses or buildings that might be used for inhabitation must be searched, and anyone that looks suspicious must be stopped and interrogated. So detective, get your men in order cause no one's sleeping tonight."

Art nodded and twisted the door knob. Yeah, he figured.

"And one more thing Dwayne, keep this under wraps, will you? I don't want the feds snooping around."

Art sighed wearily. It was going to be a long night.

~

Author's Note:

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed reading it. Please vote for this chapter, comment your thoughts, add to your library and reading lists, and share. Thank you so much.

xoxo