...

Emma Matthews
by Anton M.

Chapter 2: Boeing 737

…

At 4:22 AM, four taps, three taps and a single, separate tap echoed in the room. Despite recognizing the pattern, Edward slid out of bed and held his loaded gun pointed at the door. He lowered the weapon once he could make out Whitlock's bearded face. Isabella stirred when she fisted her empty hand. She sat up, blinking at the intruder. He was no less than fifty years old, wearing a flat cap, sports jacket and light pants. He looked deceptively regular.

"Bad news," Whitlock said, putting a hard-sided gun case on the bed before handing a beige envelope to Edward. "Jacob escaped."

Edward stared. Not saying a word, Isabella started throwing belongings in her duffel bag and got changed in front of them in the relative darkness of the room. Both marshals ignored her.

"I thought he was in the NBCI." Edward pulled on a pair of jeans, throwing his stuff in his own bag. "How do you escape a maximum security prison?"

Whitlock opened his mouth to reply, but Isabella beat him to it.

"How do you think El Chapo escaped from Altiplano in July? Hugh F. Danes in 2009? Blackmail, bribery, and a shitload of money."

Edward held her gaze. Knowing of her history didn't help him grasp how a girl like her had been handed a life like hers, how a situation like this must've been unsurprising rather than a cause for panic.

Her lack of reaction failed to surprise him.

"Does this change our plan?"

"No," Whitlock replied. "Not the immediate plan. We had a two-hour conference call with Carlisle in D.C., Braswell and Varney—"

"Don't tell me he escaped two hours ago and you only bothered to tell me now."

Whitlock tilted his head on the side, his voice lower, calmer. "If anyone can rival Isabella's lack of sleep, it's you, Masen. We need you on top of your game and I refuse to apologize for giving you these two hours."

Two hours in the hands of a prison escapee could've been exactly the amount of time it took for Jacob to drive to the Super 8 Laurel they were staying in, given that he knew of their whereabouts, which he couldn't.

"Fine. Brief me in."

Isabella brushed her teeth, leaning against the bathroom doorway as Edward and Whitlock went over scheduled hearings, backup identities and emergency plans in case their cover was blown, dates and cities in combination with abbreviations that made her look at Edward with question in her eyes. Having rinsed her teeth, she sat on the edge of the bed and started to conceal the bruises on her neck.

Whitlock looked at Edward. "She's wearing the same jacket she wore in the video footage."

"We haven't had time to shop."

"My mother—"

Whitlock was already taking off his own sports jacket, offering it to Isabella. She gave him her jacket and put on his, rolling up the sleeves and returning to her bruises as if nothing had happened.

Arms crossed, Whitlock eyed her.

"Are you sure she understands the threat her brother's escape poses to her well-being?"

Isabella stood up. "Excuse me?"

"You don't seem particularly surprised by the current turn of events."

"Whichever trust issues you have with me, I suggest you bring them to Carlisle."

Edward stood between them, placing a hand on Whitlock's chest. "Knock it off, Whitlock."

"How do you know? You've seen what she can do. She's a brilliant hacker, she could be playing us. Just look at how she's reacting to the news of her brother."

"Carlisle trusts her."

"Therefore, you do?"

"Yes." Edward lowered his hand but didn't step back. "She's the first witness in seven years I've protected who hasn't broken the law. Don't be paranoid."

"Why isn't she freaking out?"

"She is in the room," she said. "She has seen blackmail and torture and murder and Mexican Drug War from the frontlines every summer since she was three years old. She has had to fake identities so that hitmen from other turfs wouldn't kidnap her and ask for ransom money. She—"

"He trusts you," Edward said, voice low and serious. "He will not let his personal troubles cloud his judgement because he's the best in cyber security. His trust in you is unwavering."

Whitlock took off his cap and ran finger through his greying hair.

"This is unprofessional, Whitlock. I will address your concerns to Carlisle and speak to you tomorrow."

The men stared at each other until Whitlock put his cap on, handed over his car keys, and left the room with her leather jacket under his arm. Edward brushed his teeth as Isabella finished packing, and minutes later, they stepped into the dark, silent night. They left the hotel in a grey Honda. It was 4:45 AM.

"He doesn't trust me," she said. "Do you?"

"Carlisle trusts you."

"Which doesn't answer my question."

"I do. The decision you've made should leave no doubts. I don't have any."

"Thank you."

He watched her, briefly, hesitating and wondering how much to tell her about Whitlock's personal life. He hadn't experienced an argument over trust in front of the witness before, and it felt wrong, somehow, that he hadn't been able to foresee this issue.

"Expressing doubts of your loyalty in front of you is unprofessional and I apologize. I will let Carlisle know of his indiscretion."

"Do you punish for something like that?"

"A period of suspension could be imposed, but we need him. It is more likely that they will go over all evidence concerning your loyalty and come to the obvious conclusion."

"I'm used to distrust," she replied. "Don't feel obliged act on my account."

The lights passed them by as she opened the window and listened to the distant, ceaseless sound of cars. There weren't many. She read an occasional sentence or two when they drove by a lamppost. He couldn't imagine how surreal this must've felt for her. If Trent hadn't gotten so close, she would've been ready to wake up at ten AM to drive to New York City with her coach and one teammate to swim at the East Coast Women's Swimming Championship.

"Think of it as method acting. The moment we're no longer alone, I am Anthony, and you are my wife, Emma."

She noticed that his nose had a crookedness to it that could've derived from a broken nose. His smile was professional but good-natured.

"Tell me about yourself."

His voice was deliberately expressive.

"I'm 25. I was born on August 26, 1990 in Lincoln, Nebraska, to my father Roger Harrelson, a technician for the Burlington Northern Railroad, and my mother Judy Kilmer-Harrelson, a schoolteacher at West Lincoln Elementary. I went to the same elementary school where my mother taught before we moved and I attended both Irving and Culler Middle Schools. I graduated from Lincoln Southwest High School in 2009 and attended Southeast Community College where I learned Computer Aided Design Drafting."

"Where do you work?"

"I'm a freelance web designer."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No. I'm an only child."

"How did you meet your husband?"

She shut her binder, arching an eyebrow and stifling a smile. "Seriously?"

Unfazed, he repeated, "How did you meet your husband, Emma?"

"I went to the Marcus Lincoln Grand Cinema and used the men's bathroom because the women's was full. You smiled at me, I stuttered an apology and rushed out of the bathroom, and you ditched your friends to sit right next to me and my friend Harriet as we watched Inception together."

"What date was it?"

"It was my 20th birthday, August 26, 2010."

"Does your husband have any siblings?"

"He has a younger brother Dennis who lives in London with his wife Jeanine and two daughters. He's a book editor."

"When and how did your husband propose to you?"

"It was February 5, 2013. I had the chicken-pox. I'd never had it as a child and it took me out for a month. You brought ice cream as you came home and I had almost fallen asleep on the couch on top of you when you put a ring in my palm and asked me."

"When did you get married?"

"July 22, 2013, the same day Prince George was born. We got married in my parents' back yard and spent our honeymoon in a cabin in Montana where your uncle Mark lives."

"What does your husband do?"

"He's an electrician."

"Company's name?"

"Locke Construction."

"Good. Who is your emergency contact?"

"My husband Anthony Philip Matthews."

"When and where was he born?"

Isabella paused and opened the binder but closed it straight thereafter. "I'm not that far yet, Edward."

"Anthony," he corrected. "Anthony. Calling me Anthony has to be your immediate instinct, Emma. You get trapped, kidnapped, threatened, lost in a store—you will call me Anthony."

"Why didn't you change your first name from what you used back at the UB?"

Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he tilted his head on the side. "It's my middle name."

"So?"

He hesitated. "I'll tell you some other time. Okay, Emma?"

"Understood."

She wasn't as curt in her tone as she was in her wording, and they locked eyes in front of a red light.

"Your memory is quite exceptional," he commented, professional and sincere.

"If I were a character in a TV show, I'd say I have photographic memory, but that's bullshit. There's no such thing. I use the method of loci."

He raised his eyebrows.

"A dude in Ancient Greek walked out of a building for it to collapse moments later. He then had the unpleasant job of guiding loved ones to their family members."

"How does that help anything?"

"I'll rent you a book."

His lips twitched, and they drove in silence for a while.

"I understand that all this detail about how we met seems unnecessary, but the more specific our story is, the more believable it will be. People who get caught in a web of lies are people who forget versions it. We can only have one version, Emma, and repeating the same version makes it credible. If we add to the story, emotions, shared words, anything, then we both need to accept the added facts and repeat them if the same question arises from another person. Credibility is a must."

"Do you repeat my name in every sentence so that it would come more naturally?"

"Yes," he replied. "And you should do the same—at least during the first week."

They arrived at a parking lot. Edward reminded her to put the belongings she needed in his bag because it would be their shared hand luggage. He didn't have to say it for her to know that most of the content of her bag, as well as her bag itself, would be thrown away.

"What's in that envelope Whitlock gave you?"

Placing it securely in the middle of a book, he hesitated, staring at her in silence before he made up his mind.

"Passports and driving licenses for Annabelle and Stephen Cooper."

"Is that usual? To keep backup identities with you?"

"No," he replied. "I could lie to you to take the pressure off, but you are our top priority witness. I've gone over more backup plans for our time together than I've ever seen being made."

She took a breath, closing her eyes, leaning forward and rubbing her forehead, and when she finally looked at him, he was watching her, patient but concerned.

"It's too much to take in," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have told you."

"No, I'm glad you did. Thank you. I can take it." She zipped up the jacket that hung on her frame. "What happens if the security has doubts about our identities or finds the extra identifications? Or both?"

"A call will be made to a high government official."

"Carlisle?"

"Higher."

"And then what?"

"They'll let us go." He squeezed her bicep to get her to look at him. When she did, his soft, earnest eyes gave her the strangest urge to be held. "We're not breaking the law. Seven people in this world know who you are, and two of them are sitting in this car. This plan, all backup plans and anything you or I will have to do to keep you alive is in accordance with those five people. Even if it feels like it, we are not breaking the law."

"Anthony."

"Emma?"

"There will be people at the airport, my father's underlings… security he's done business with."

"I know. Point them out to me and we'll deal with potential issues as they occur."

Edward sent a text to Whitlock to tell him the location of the car as they walked away from it. They turned away from their original route to throw her duffel bag in a trash can. Their quiet footsteps echoed in the relative darkness, but as they neared the airport, taxis and buses, lights and people and bittersweet goodbyes surrounded them in spite of the early hours.

Edward caught her wrist to stop her.

"I almost forgot." He fished something out of his pocket before he stretched out her palm and put a ring in it. She weighed it, feeling his breath on top of her head as he stood close. She put it on as surreptitiously as she could. He did the same before adjusting the strap of his bag, put down his gun case and surrounded her with his arms. His proximity and intentions were professional, she knew, even when his breath ghosted over her ear, but it had been years since she'd been properly held. She liked it. She liked his warmth a little too much.

"I'm not going to do anything to make you uncomfortable on purpose," he whispered, keeping distance between their bodies in spite of the hug. "But I might hold your hand, hold you close or turn to hug you if something needs to be said, and I suggest you do the same. It's less risky if it looks like our intentions are romantic rather than have the purpose of sharing information. Nod if you agree."

She nodded.

He let his arms drop from around her, picked up his gun case, and motioned for her to wrap both arms around one of his. Having entered the building, it became apparent that security had been doubled. Isabella eyed their faces, trying to look bored but feeling increasingly tense. By the time they made it to the check-in line, she'd recognized three faces.

"I don't think I can do this, Anthony."

He placed his gun case between them and squeezed her shoulders. "Of course you can, Emma. I understand you're afraid of flying, but we've been over this, okay? You can do this. C'mere."

He engulfed her in a hug, lips so close to her ear they brushed her skin.

"Where?"

"Leather shoes, holding an iPhone by the entrance. The woman scanning the cafeteria, curly hair, strong build, and I don't know who he is, but a man recognized me by the window. Blonde hair, one earring."

Every person she pointed out was wearing a security uniform. Increased security to catch her brother meant more familiar faces for Isabella. More people who could be co-operating with her brother instead of trying to catch him.

"There are three of our guys here, too. Don't reveal your face to the crowd and stay close to me." Slowly, he pulled away, rubbing her upper arms as if in comfort. "It'll be okay, Emma. Here, can you crouch? I need to fill out this document."

Letting him use her back as a table was a normal enough thing to do at the airport, and because Isabella was virtually unidentifiable in this position, he took his time filling the Firearm Unloaded Declaration form.

He made a brief call, as he, again, used abbreviations and code words unfamiliar to her. Two minutes later, a suited man approached the blonde one who'd recognized her, and they left without looking at Isabella.

She felt her heartbeat in her ears as they went through security, and he must've noticed her pale face because the moment they'd gathered their stuff, he threw a casual arm over her shoulder and made her lean against him.

"You okay?"

"I would feel much more comfortable if you could wear a gun."

"Me, too."

They found three tax-free stores that were open 24/7 and bought new clothes for her, a pair of green hiking pants—fitting but not her style—and a light grey sweatshirt. It was men's size M, much too large, but it was the only one lacking any touristy declarations of the Baltimore Ravens or Orioles, and they didn't need a clothing item to trace them anywhere. Edward, in his part, seemed relieved that she chose the first clothing items that remotely fit her, and chatted with the owner of the store as Isabella changed into the clothes they'd bought. The owner was taken by them as a couple, and it was the first time for them to act like one around a captive audience. He didn't do much. Brushing her knuckles, leaning a little too close, an arm slung over her shoulder and a smiling goodbye to the owner.

They bought a snack and warm drinks (coffee for Isabella, tea for Edward) for breakfast. At their terminal, he found a spot on the floor by a wall to leave a little space between them and the crowd, and made her throw her legs over his as they both leaned against the wall. There were others sitting on the floor, but not too close.

Edward was careful in his touches, affectionate but professional and with the aim of having her ear close enough to talk without anyone hearing or lip-reading his words.

"There's an air marshal on our flight. He will give me a nod when he sees me. I want you to pay attention to who he is."

She turned her head as if to brush a kiss on his neck.

"Why?"

"Just in case."

She nodded, crossing her legs when she turned away. She didn't have a phone, a tab or a laptop, not even a book or an mp3 player, so she pressed her upper arm against his and leaned forward to catch the title of the book he had opened, Peril at End House.

"A fan of Agatha Christie?"

She didn't know why it brought her such joy to have something in common with him, but it did.

"Always." His smile reached his eyes. "Have you read this one?"

"Yes, but don't worry, I won't spoil. You ever read And Then There Were None?"

"Not yet, why?"

"I envy you," she replied. "I wish I'd never read it just so I could read it again without knowing all the plot twists. It will blow your mind, Anthony."

"Will it now?"

His eyes sparkled. She realized she knew next to nothing about him, but she wanted to. She wanted to be on the receiving end of that sparkle in his eyes. She wanted a friend to share interests with.

She started to read the book with him. Twenty minutes before their flight was scheduled to board, a thin, ginger man wearing jeans and a black jacket walked down the hallway. He made eye contact with Edward and offered the briefest of nods before he passed them by. He had no luggage. She felt like she'd imagined the ordeal altogether, but Edward held her eyes long enough to be significant. She'd recognize the man now.

She felt confused, however, when they stood in line to board the plane and a second, short and black-haired man gave Edward a nod when he passed them by. It wasn't until they'd shown their boarding passes and started walking toward the plane that Isabella caught Edward's gaze.

"Two?" she asked.

He closed his eyes once, offering the briefest of nods that felt like an affirmation.

One of the air marshals sat across the aisle from her, two rows back, and the other one sat on the other side of the plane; if, indeed, she understood Edward correctly and there were two of them. Were they there to make sure her brother wouldn't get away on a plane? Did they recognize her? She knew her sense of importance was misguided, but when two air marshals sat on the same plane with her, it didn't feel like a coincidence.

Edward's eyes were scanning faces as the plane filled, but Isabella felt tired. When her attempts to sleep failed during take-off, she looked over at Edward who seemed to be immersed in his book.

"Anthony?"

The intensity in his gaze made her uncomfortable, and she felt silly, asking this of him again.

"Never mind."

"What's the matter?"

She hesitated. "I can't sleep."

Holding her gaze but not saying a word, he offered her his open palm. She slid her hand in it and smiled in gratitude.

"You can rest your head on my arm if you want," he said, turning back to his book. "Do you want me to wake you up for snack?"

"No. If I fall asleep, let me sleep."

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

An hour into their flight, Edward felt more than saw a young man coming from the lavatory who stopped next to their seats and openly stared at the sleeping face of Isabella. Some of her blonde hair covered her face, but the other half was visible.

The man wore light jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He had black hair, dark eyes, and barely discernible tan-lines around his eyes. He was tall.

"Excuse me," Edward said, quietly but clearly. "May I ask why you're staring at my wife?"

Mouth agape, the man's eyes snapped to Edward's, but he recovered quickly.

"My apologies, sir." He gripped the edges of the headrests surrounding the isle next to Isabella. "It's just—I went to school for half a year with Bella in New Mexico. Alta Vista Middle School in Carlsbad. I mean, wow. It makes sense for her to flee Baltimore after the shit that went down—"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm afraid you have the wrong person, young man." Edward didn't blink once when the man held his gaze. "My wife Emma has never lived in New Mexico. She's a Nebraskan to the bone."