Jericho
Travis gripped the armrest as the plane pitched. The lady beside patted his hand and said, “It'll be okay. Just a little turbulence.”
He forced a smile and nodded, but he’d barely noticed. The turbulence wasn’t what had the contents of his stomach lurching.
His seatmate noticed the photo clutched in his other hand and smiled. “What do you have there?”
She was only being kind, making conversation to distract him. She did not want to see this photo.
His throat burned and he grabbed for the motion sickness bag in front of him. The lady tried to help, but nearly caused him to drop both it and the photo. Desperately, he ripped the bag open just in time to prevent them both from wearing the remains of the burger he’d eaten just before he'd gotten the call from London.
“Oh my God!” she gasped, and he glanced down to see the photo faceup in his lap.
His stomach wasn't quite done with its violent purge, however, so he couldn't stop her as she unlatched her seatbelt and launched herself down the aisle after the flight attendant.
Jesus, he thought, and fumbled for his wallet, trying to stave off an international incident. He lay his badge in the now unoccupied seat beside him as the flight attendant and air marshal approached.
They looked at each other, then examined his badge before discreetly steering the woman to another seat.
Eventually, he stopped heaving. The stewardess collected the bag, then brought him a fresh one and a water. He nodded gratefully and rasped, “I'm sorry. Case photo. I dropped it.”
She gave him a bright smile that read Not my circus, not my monkeys, and moved along.
The photo was dark and grainy, but it had been enough to make him hop a plane and fly four thousand miles.
His thoughts tumbled like clothes in a dryer. He should've called Brody. At least given him a heads-up. But no, not until he knew for sure. Besides, even if she’d been alive in this photo, nothing said she was now.
But God, what if she was?
Travis closed his eyes, remembering the last time he'd seen her.
They'd gotten to the port too early, which was classic Brody. Travis leaned against the side of his Impala and lit a cigarette. He managed a couple of drags on it before Jericho looked up from her cruise brochures and snatched it from his lips.
“Hey!” he protested, but she'd already tossed it on the pavement and ground it with her heel.
“Those things will kill you, dumbass.” She picked up the butt and threw it in a nearby container.
Travis looked to Brody for help. “She's your wife. Why does she nag me more than she does you?”
Brody laughed as he wrestled a suitcase from the trunk. “Because I always let her have her way and you don't.”
Travis snorted and fended off her attempt to grab the pack from his shirt pocket.
“Please.” She held out her hand and batted those big green eyes at him. “I love you. You promised me you'd quit.”
They stared each other down, but in the end, he sighed and slapped the pack in her hand. She grinned and launched herself at him, planting a smacking kiss on his cheek.
Despite what Brody said, he usually let her have her way, too.
“Promise you won't smoke while I'm gone,” she said.
It was a promise he'd kept. He'd never smoked another cigarette, even when she'd disappeared off that ship in the middle of their seven-day cruise. She'd been gone five years now, and he'd give anything he had if this lead--grim as it was--panned out.
He found himself thinking of things he shouldn't be thinking, which had always been the case with Jericho. She'd always belonged to Brody. Still, you loved who you loved, and you just kept your mouth shut about it. The fact that she'd never been his didn’t change a thing.
Jericho was the whole reason he'd joined the FBI in the first place, and attached his name all over her file. When he'd got that call from the inspector in London, his hopes had surged. As far as the world was concerned, Jericho James was dead, fallen overboard from a cruise ship on vacation to the Bahamas. Even Brody believed it. Only Travis and her mother had persisted, but now Caroline was gone, too.
An arrest made at a London brothel had turned up an American prostitute who insisted she was a victim of human trafficking and had once been held captive with another American girl named Jericho. She told the police they'd been hauled and sold like cattle at an auction. She had a few convincing details and one blurry photo.
The photo showed four naked girls, bound and gagged, their eyes wide and terrified. The one that could possibly be Jericho was almost obscured by another girl and she wasn't facing the camera. All he had to go on was her upper arm, the curve of her face and the profile of her nose. Still, it was enough.
When the plane landed, a redheaded officer waited with a sign bearing his last name at the gate.
Travis shook the man's hand as he introduced himself as Agent Darcy and asked if he had a bag to claim.
“I just have the carry-on."
The agent's face split into a broad grin.
“Well, nothing to slow us down then. I have good news! We conducted a raid this morning at a compound outside of Greenwich and we recovered your friend.”
Travis's eyes did a crazy dance. He wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.
Darcy clapped his shoulder. “Your friend is safe. There's been no announcement yet. We were waiting on you.”
Travis didn't find his voice again until they were inside Darcy's car.
“She's okay?”
Darcy gave him a sympathetic smile. “She's scared. Her situation was different from the other girl. I think she's been kept in seclusion and I don't even think she's been outside of that house in quite some time. But she seems reasonably well.”
Travis closed his eyes. “Are you sure it's her?”
“I left to get you almost as soon as we got back to the station. They will interview her, then collect DNA and fingerprints. But she claims to be Jericho James and she resembles her.”
At the station, Darcy pushed through the crowd and Travis followed on his heels.
Darcy snagged the sleeve of a passing officer and said, “The girl--”
“She's in the interrogation room. She keeps asking if she can go smoke. I told her she'd have to wait.”
Travis's heart sank and he forced himself to take a deep breath. All this way, and it wasn't her …
He glanced up at the one way mirror as they approached. The girl had her back to them, her slim body clothed in some tacky black pleather outfit with a shock of neon orange hair spilling down her shoulders. She was too pale, too thin to possibly be Jericho.
Bitter disappointment scalded him and Travis turned away. Then, through the open door he heard her ask the officer guarding her, “Please. Can I go somewhere to smoke? I promise I'll hurry.”
That voice nearly stopped his heart. Stepping inside the doorway he said, “Those things will kill you, dumbass.”
She stiffened.
“Travis!” she gasped, whirling to face him.
He couldn't say anything. He just held open his arms, and she hurled herself into them so hard she almost took them both down.
She felt so thin and wild in his arms--little more than bones and a heartbeat, but she held Travis so tight he could barely breathe.
A ragged, awful sound tore from his chest and he realized he was crying. Not just crying--sobbing, in a way he'd never allowed himself break down before. She was here, and she was alive.
Jericho was alive.