It is funny what sticks in your mind. I remember collapsing behind the wheel, kicking off my pumps, rubbing my feet and deriding myself for how soft I had become. Five years out of the military and I could barely handle eight hours on my feet. I remember thinking for the thousandth time, what a small price to pay to protect Bradley from the type of childhood I had. The final argument with my father replaying like a bad movie in my head—him furious because his two best field agents were leaving and me angry because he’d never had the balls to sacrifice anything for me.

I remember staring at Bradley’s picture on my phone, thinking my father’s ire and sore feet were worth it. We were safe.

“Hey Karen, it’s me. I’m leaving work now. Tell Bradley sorry I’m late but–”

Loud beeping, cutting my words off as the line picked up.

“Mackenzie Sheridan?” A deep male voice, unfamiliar and out of place. “We have your son.”

“Who the hell is this?”

“There’s a mobile phone in the top left drawer of your roll-top desk. We’ll call at 7.00pm with instructions. Let it ring exactly three times before answering. And Mackenzie… if you want to see your little boy alive, keep your mouth shut. No cops.”

*-*

I pull myself back to the here and now. Passengers for the Belgium and Paris flights are lining up, and there’s only Mary and I who haven’t called in sick.

“Good morning, welcome to Ganda Airlines. How may I be of assistance?”

How many times have I spewed that line with false sincerity and a smile pinned in place by my company-required hair bun? Assisting untold numbers to leave this God-forsaken city, always wondering how many of them would be unfortunate enough to return. How many live here, like me, because they have no choice? Divorced, yet tethered for the sake of the child.

This morning every word, every action chips away at my soul.

“Paris,” says the man dressed in a loud golf shirt. “The missus and I are off on a three-week holiday.”

They’re both grinning from ear to ear.

“It is our first trip overseas,” she says. “We’re so excited.”

Oh, lovely. Planning on visiting The Louvre no doubt. Please tell… I’m so interested in your plans. Have I mentioned my son was kidnapped from my apartment a week ago and I’ve done something I swore I’d never do to keep him alive? But it’s always about you, isn’t it? I hear the Eiffel Tower has quite a view.

“Tickets and two forms of ID each, please. How many items of luggage?”

“Two.”

“Three,” he corrects, wedging his golf clubs between them.

I switch to autopilot and finish their check in. The trained enthusiasm and memorised lines keep me functioning while my son is God-knows-where with monsters.

*-*

“Where’s Bradley? What have you done with him?”

“Three rings Mackenzie. I expected better.”

“I–”

“Disobey me again and you’ll spend the rest of your life wishing you’d paid more attention. We’ll call Sunday with a set of instructions. Follow them exactly and your son will be returned unharmed.”

*-*

I welcome the next in line.

“Paris,” she says tersely and thrusts her paperwork at me.

The flashbacks keep hitting me.

What have I missed?

…wishing you’d paid more attention … wishing you’d paid more attention.

The kidnapper’s voice changes into my father’s then back again. Over and over, until they’re a single voice. The words twist with memories, dragging me beyond last week. Back to places I don’t want to go.

Gasping for air in a dark room with the Big Men. Terrified I’m going to die. Yelling. Them demanding I tell them how to open my father’s vault.

They’re water-boarding my baby. Oh, Bradley.

No, stop it. He’s OK. They want something from you, not him. Bradley’s just leverage.

The woman clears her throat, jolting me back to the present. I hand her the boarding pass and baggage claim ticket then launch into my scripted speech; saved again by the monotony of this job.

Angry shouts spread through the terminal. My desk phone rings and I jump. It rings three times and I answer.

“Ganda Airlines. Terminal eight,” I say into the heavy old-style handset.

“Pangaean just went under.”