Holiday Wedding (Holiday Romance-Spicy Version #2)

33

Tuesday, December 24

Wedding Day

Jenny

Gwen’s alive, thank God. Caleb is talking to her now. He grasps the phone so tight I’m worried it’ll snap in two. We’re sprinting through the airport accompanied by the police, security, and the rest of Caleb’s bodyguards, who Dean has called in. Without hesitation, I run along with them. Over my shoulder, I see Caleb and Gwen’s families trailing behind us. I debate telling them to wait in the gate area, but who am I to say that? They have as much right to search for Gwen as I do.

Down one corridor we run, and then another. We pass through swinging doors labeled “employees only.” Now, we’re in the back portion of the airport, the part that normal travelers never see. Out of open doors that flash by, I get glimpses of the tarmac and planes waiting there. Some airplanes are so large that their tires are as tall as I am. Small carts driven by workers in orange vests and bulky ear protectors zip along, delivering luggage and cargo. There’s a deafening whoosh as a plane taxis down the runway, its engines roaring as it gains enough speed to lift into the sky.

We take a sharp left and move away from the airplanes. The hallway we’re in now is wide, with scuffed olive-green walls and linoleum flooring. Pools of light from metal caged light bulbs flash under me as I run.

“Over here,” shouts an airport security officer. He holds open a set of large double doors. We enter a cavernous space, stacked high with boxes and rectangular containers. It smells like grease and gasoline.

“She’s in one of these,” the man exclaims, pointing to the center of the room where a long conveyor belt slowly carries containers into a waiting plane. It’s enormous, with wide wings and the back half lowered to make a ramp.

We skid to a stop. Dismay opens a hole in my chest right where my heart should be. There must be at least 50 of those containers trundling along, all identical.

“Which one?” I shout.

The grinding noise of the machinery that operates the conveyor equipment is so loud that I doubt we would hear Gwen, even if she’s yelling for help.

“We’ll go turn it off,” says the security guard.

The police, Caleb, and Dean follow him, moving deeper into the room. They call out Gwen’s name, but the sound of their voices is quickly lost, swallowed by the racket of the machinery.

The door slams open as the rest of the family catches up. A small tan blur flashes by my feet, accompanied by a loud, excited yipping.

“Pip!” shrieks Megan, her hand outstretched to the tiny dog, who runs ahead with her red leash trailing along behind her. Megan’s crying, holding onto her mother’s leg. “Pip pulled too hard,” she sobs. “It hurt my hands. I had to let go.”

Her mother, Liv, drops to her knees to comfort the child.

I look back in time to see the tail end of the leash disappear behind a container. The little dog’s yapping loses volume as she gets farther away. Before I can think it through, I chase after Pip, my legs pumping, my heart pounding. I turn the corner so sharply that I almost fall over. Only the wild flailing of my arms keeps me upright.

There she is!

Pip is right ahead of me, moving faster than I’ve ever seen. Her pink tongue hangs out of the side of her mouth. She’s barking, her sides heaving. She flies along like she’s been shot out of a cannon.

I’ve just caught up to her, close enough to grab her leash, when she stops in front of one of the containers. It’s slowly rolling forward. Pip stands on her hind legs, prancing next to it. She barks repeatedly. Breathless from my mad dash after the dog, I bend over with my hands on my knees. The loud grinding noise is replaced by silence as the conveyor belt comes to a shuddering stop.

A voice, high-pitched with fear, cries out from the container directly in front of me. “Over here! I’m in here.”

“Gwen? Gwen? Are you okay?” I frantically search the container, looking for a way to open it. The door is locked with a large metal padlock, the kind you can only unlock with a key.

A muffled shout pleads, “Get me out of here.” It comes from air slots in the side of the container. “Please help!”

That plea turns into a shriek of terror as gunshots ring out.