Yield (20 page)

“
Footage is coming down now on Pathfire,
”
Mitch says to his news team. His stubby legs strain to stand. Everyone in the room rises to their feet almost as one, like a military unit heading into battle.
“
And tell Jean to get her producers ready for a cut-in,
”
he barks, pointing into the face of his assignment editor.
“
I wanted to be live five minutes ago!
”

Barely over five feet tall, the news director waddles surprisingly fast down the hallway toward Jonathon. Mitch has learned to compensate for every short inch with an intimidating personality and an unconditional demand for respect.
“
Walk with me,
”
Mitch says. His legs almost blur as they move past, expecting the much taller creative director to catch up to his forced pace. Mitch lowers his voice.
“
Sorry to jump on you right as you
’
re coming in,
”
he says without really meaning it. The news director looks secretively back down the busy hallway.
“
But something
’
s about to hit the
‘
holy shit
’
fan.
”

“
Breaking news?
”
Jonathon asks. His irritation quickly changes to curiosity. Veiled fear betrays Mitch
’
s normally guarded eyes.
Something
’
s up.
An overwhelming need for information suddenly ignites in Jon, pushing away all of this morning
’
s distractions.

The department heads walk to the metal stairs and take them down into the steel, blue epicenter of the KOMO 4 Newsroom.
“
There will be,
”
Mitch whispers. His eyes dart around.
“
Two U.S. security council members were assassinated this morning. Our source in the White House says the administration is talking action, Jonathon.
”

“
Which kind?
”
Jon scoffs.
“
We
’
re gonna boycott your economy until it collapses? Or bomb your ass back into the Stone Age?
”

Mitch points sharply back at him, his face lighting up.
“
That
’
s the use of democracy I was thinking. China and Russia have taken a wait-and-see stance, so the U.N.
’
s hands are tied. The press secretary hasn
’
t released a statement yet. But there
’
s a news conference scheduled for 1
P
.
M
. Eastern.
”

The news director stops at the LCD-monitor wall beside the massive glass assignment desk, scanning the frenzy across his 60-person newsroom.
“
News meeting! Now!
”
he bellows. The journalists freeze at the unusually urgent tone.

“
We
’
ll need a custom open and CGs,
”
Mitch says to Jonathon. The news team converges around them with eager eyes.

“
I
’
ll talk to graphics,
”
Jonathon says.
“
What are you slugging it?
”

“
Assassination in Tehran.
”

9:0
8
a.m.

Rubbing rhythmically on the sides of her growing stomach, Isabel paces up the single aisle of the narrow purple and gold Northwest Airlines
’
plane. Quietly, she crouches to tighten an already double-knotted Reebok.

Dark hairs on the back of Abd
’
s sun-beaten neck suddenly begin to tingle. He cocks his head, feeling the burning whispers of suspicion heat the air. The Arab turns, his sunken eyes going wide.

The black man with the fearsome gaze is sitting right behind him. The shadow nods to a kneeling stewardess, his sharp face without expression. The pitch-black color of the man
’
s skin seems to devour all light from around him.

Abd spins when
his
eyes realize they are also being watched.

Isabel continues forward, looking down into the critical gaze of Abd as she passes.
Not on my plane,
her eyes flash. The words each want so badly to say are barely held back, like animals fighting against a cage too small to hold them. Their silence moves across the plane in a timeless dance of judgment and prejudice.

She stops next to 8B. A smile slowly returns to her face. The twisted mess of Chris
’
s athletic limbs is pinned between the dinner tray and seat back just in front of him.
“
Ready to hang up the basketball shoes and get home?
”
Isabel asks, trying to stifle a laugh.

“
Sure,
”
Chris says
.
His mind drifts to the chaotic region of close to two million self-involved people he
’
s returning to.
“
Gridlock. Bullshit schools. Divorcing parents slowly killing each other.
”
The basketball star looks up into her soft brown eyes, grinning ear to ear.
“
I can
’
t wait.
”

“
My, aren
’
t you cheerful this morning?
”
Isabel says. There
’
s an odd silence from the partner in crime sitting next to him. She flips on her maternal tone.
“
What
’
d you do to him this week, Captain Cornrow?
”

“
Not me this time,
”
Darius says defensively.
“
His girl
’
s been, uh
…
playin
’
a little ball of her own while he
’
s away.
”
He smiles, elbowing Chris in the shoulder.

The reality of his best friend
’
s words slam into him with a ferocity he doesn
’
t want to accept. Chris
’
s stomach begins to churn
—
butterflies in a hurricane.
“
Thanks, D. Gets better every time you say it, too.
”
Chris
’
s words hiss out through gritted teeth.
“
Want me to tell the captain so he can make an announcement?
”

Seeing a rare look of violence in Chris
’
s eyes, Darius promptly scoots back.
“
Just filling her in.
”
He motions towards Isabel.
“
Girl
’
s got inside knowledge of the female psyche.
”

Chris looks sharply back at him.

“
What?
”
Darius says casually.
“
I
’
ve read some books.
”

Isabel
’
s glowing smile returns as she looks down at the boys she babysat so many years ago.
“
Contrary to what you might have heard, women don
’
t make sense sometimes. Even to each other.
”

Both teens blink questioningly up at her. They seem unsure if this is a rare moment of truth or just another female trick to keep them stumbling around blindly through the universe
’
s greatest unknown.

“
It
’
s better you found out her true intentions now anyways,
”
Isabel says. She points to her pregnant stomach.
“
Before something like
this
happened to you.
”

Chris
’
s eyes soften.

Isabel glances around before leaning down closer to the boys.
“
Best advice I can give you,
”
she whispers,
“
is to keep your eyes open, your priorities straight, and your tool in its shed.
”
Her eyes lock on Chris
’
s.
“
You
’
ll find the right one eventually. You
’
re too good of a kid not to.
”

Her head snaps up as the plane hits some rolling turbulence. The fasten seatbelt symbol lights up with an ominous chime.

“
I better go,
”
Isabel says. She lays her hand reassuringly on Chris
’
s shoulder.
“
We
’
ll talk more at breakfast with your mom.
”

*  *  *

A squeak of temptation sounds from the drink cart wheeling up the orange-carpeted aisle behind Devin. His hands clutch tightly to the armrests, his knuckles as white as stretched bone. Every shudder and twitch of the plane shoots through the fireman
’
s tense body. The seatbelt sign turns off over his head, chiming peacefully but doing little to calm. It feels more like patronizing laughter.

Devin
’
s left hand whips up to wipe at the beads of sweat on his forehead before quickly returning to grip the wet armrest — as if letting go of it for more than a split-second would have catastrophic consequences for the plane and everyone in it.

“
Would you like something to drink?
”
Isabel asks. Her normally fiery eyes soften with sympathy as she looks down at the flushed redhead. The fireman is practically ripping the seat braces from their sockets.

The simple question relaxes Devin instantly. The message
’
s innate possibilities begin to burn into the very soul of the recovering alcoholic, reigniting an all
-
too
-
comfortable thirst. He looks up at the temptress with a hopeful uncertainty. His mind begins to race. He tries to swallow, but his throat suddenly feels like sand paper.

“
Coffee?
”
Isabel presses. She pauses, seeing the hunger for something else in his intense, emerald eyes.
“
Beer? Wine? What are you in the mood for?
”

Devin glances around the cabin for answers. His eyes stop on several other passengers happily drinking from cans of Heineken or plastic cups filled to the brim with dark crimson wine. The laughter and enjoyment on their faces sends deprived tremors down his back. New justification pulls his eyes back to the well-stocked drink cart.
Just one wouldn
’
t hurt,
he reasons.
I need to relax anyway. Besides, it
’
s been six months since
…
the thought trails off. Another involuntary shudder ripples through him.
I can control it now
…

“
Sir?
”
Isabel prompts. She shifts to her other swollen foot, trying to ease the pregnant throbbing.

“
I
’
m trying to be good, love,
”
Devin answers weakly. He averts his eyes from the small liquor bottles sitting so invitingly along the top of their polished metal chariot.
“
They put anything stiff in Diet Coke these days?
”

“
I wish they did,
”
the stewardess laughs.
“
Make my job a whole lot easier.
”
She picks up a couple of square glasses from the top shelf, holding them out for the commissioned hard sell.
“
I do have all the usual suspects if you want something stiffer. It
’
ll help loosen up that death grip you have on my armrests.
”

“
Be careful dangling my old buddy Jack in front of me,
”
Devin forcibly chuckles. His hands grip the seat harder.
“
You may get more than you bargained for, love,
”
Devin winks. His red hair sparkles with scarcely restrained fire.
“
Just the Diet Coke for now, please.
”