Chapter Twelve: And It Very Well May Be

 

The words "One foot in front of the other" reverberate in my mind, a chilling mantra from a dark past. My breath hitches in my throat as the memory unfolds before me - the rickety bridge, the swirling river below, and the terrified face of my friend, Emily, as she hesitates on the edge.

I had been the one to utter those words, a desperate attempt to instill courage in her heart. But it had backfired. The bridge had collapsed, and Emily had plummeted into the raging torrent. I had watched in horror as the current swept her away, her screams swallowed by the roaring water.

Now, those same words are being used against me, a cruel mockery of my past trauma. The man in the suit, a specter from that fateful day, stands before us, his eyes glinting with a sinister satisfaction.

"You remember, don't you?" he taunts, his voice dripping with venom. "You remember what happened to your friend."

I stumble backward, my knees weak. "Who are you?" I gasp, my voice barely a whisper.

He chuckles, a low, menacing sound that echoes through the ancient ruins. "Don't you recognize me, Patrice?" he asks, stepping closer. "It's been a long time, but I never forget a face."

His eyes lock onto mine, and a chilling realization washes over me. It's him. The man who had been lurking in the shadows that day, the man who had watched Emily fall to her death.

"You," I breathe, my voice filled with a mixture of fear and rage. "You were there."

He nods, a smug smile twisting his lips. "I was indeed. And now, it seems, our paths have crossed once more."

Brock steps forward, shielding me with his body. "What do you want?" he growls, his voice thick with anger.

The man shrugs. "What do you think I want? You've been meddling in things that don't concern you. The Shadows don't take kindly to interference."

"The Shadows?" Brock questions, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"You'll learn soon enough," the man sneers. "But first, you have a decision to make. One foot in front of the other, and you might just leave here alive. Refuse, and you'll meet your fate like your friend Emily did at the bottom of the river."

I start to hyperventilate as I clutch onto Brock’s left arm as tight as I can. I can’t believe this is happening. What could they want with us? We’re harmless. Why are they doing this?

My mind is racing, trying to make sense of it all. But the only clear thing is that we're in grave danger.

"Don’t listen to him, Patrice," Brock urges me, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of my fear. "We're getting out of here."

He pulls me along, and we start to run deeper into the labyrinth. The smoke thickens, making breathing hard, but we push on, driven by adrenaline and desperation.

The passageways twist and turn, leading us deeper and deeper into the heart of the ruins. We pass crumbling walls adorned with faded frescoes, their once-vibrant colors muted by time and ash. We stumble over fallen stones and debris, our hearts pounding in our chests.

Behind us, we hear the footsteps of our pursuer, his heavy breathing echoing through the narrow corridors. We know we can't outrun him forever, but we have to keep moving. We have to find a way out.

We turn a corner and come to a dead end. A solid wall of stone blocks our path, its surface rough and unyielding. We're trapped.

I turn to Brock, my eyes wide with fear. "What do we do now?"

Brock scans the wall, searching for a hidden door or a weak spot. But there's nothing. We're cornered.

Suddenly, the man in the suit emerges from the shadows, his face illuminated by the fire's flickering light. He raises a gun and points it directly at us.

"End of the line," he says, his voice cold and final.

My heart leaps into my throat. Is this it? Is this how it all ends?

Time seems to slow to a crawl as the man raises his gun. Brock's arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer. My mind races, desperately searching for a way out of this nightmare. But the options are bleak. We are trapped, cornered like animals.

The man's finger tightens on the trigger. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, his eyes filled with a predatory gleam. The silence is deafening, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the distance.

Just as he's about to pull the trigger, a deafening roar echoes through the ruins. The ground trembles beneath our feet and the walls around us shudder violently. Chunks of plaster and stone rain down, filling the air with dust and debris.

The man in the suit stumbles backward, his eyes wide with surprise. The gun clatters to the ground, forgotten in the chaos.

Brock seizes the opportunity, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards a narrow crevice that has opened up in the wall. We squeeze through, the rough stone scraping against our skin, and emerge into another corridor.

We run, our lungs burning, our legs aching. We don't know where we're going, but we know we have to keep moving. The labyrinth twists and turns endlessly, a maze of shadows and crumbling walls.

Suddenly, we hear voices ahead. We slow down, our hearts pounding with a mixture of hope and fear. Could it be other tourists? Or is it more of the Shadows?

We round a corner and find ourselves in a large chamber. A group of people are huddled together, their faces etched with terror. Among them, I recognize Bob and Linda, the couple we met at the vineyard. This is twice now that they have been in the same place as us. What are the odds?

"Thank God!" Linda cries out, rushing towards us. "We thought we were the only ones left."

Bob explains that they had been exploring another part of the ruins when the fire broke out. They had gotten separated from the rest of their group and had been wandering through the labyrinth ever since, the same as us. Goosebumps form on my arms. Is this just a coincidence? Then I remember Linda’s words that we would see them again.

"We saw that man," Linda says, her voice trembling. "The one who was following you. He's the one who started the fire."

A cold dread washes over me. How does she know this?

But I don't have time to dwell on it. The fire is spreading rapidly, and the heat and smoke are becoming unbearable. We have to find a way out fast.

As we navigate through the maze, I can't help but think about the words that haunt me: "One foot in front of the other." They were meant to be words of encouragement, a mantra to help overcome fear. But now, they seem like a curse, a reminder of the tragedy that has shaped my life.

But I refuse to give up. I refuse to let this man win. I will find a way out of this labyrinth, even if it's the last thing I do.

And it may very well be…

Chapter Eleven: That IS The Million-Dollar Question

 

A ferry ride later, and we find ourselves in Mykonos, a labyrinth of whitewashed buildings and blue-domed churches that seems to spill down the hillside towards the Aegean Sea. The sun beats down, and a few wispy clouds scatter across the sky, casting a light shadow over the shimmering turquoise sea. Brock and I spend the morning exploring Little Venice, its colorful houses perched precariously over the water, and the afternoon lounging on the beach at Paradise, where the thump of electronic music mixes with the sound of the waves.

Later that afternoon, as we sip iced coffees at a charming café overlooking the harbor, waiting for our food, I notice a couple across from us who look like Americans; the man, with a silvery mop of hair, wore gray slacks and a white button-down shirt. He was smiling at the woman across from him, who had jet-black hair but a hint of gray at the sides. Her green eyes were expressive, listening to him. They look friendly enough, but as I keep staring, something about the woman seems vaguely familiar.

I catch the woman as she looks at me; a similar recognition falls over her face, and as if we were both thinking the same thing, we end up meeting and striking up a conversation with this American couple, Bob and Linda, who were enjoying a platter of fresh seafood.

"So, where are you folks from?" Bob asks, his friendly demeanor instantly putting us at ease.

"We're from Utah," Brock replies, "a small city in the North." I'm glad he didn't say exactly where, as we have learned to be cautious around strangers.

"Utah?" Linda echoes, her emerald eyes sparkling with interest. "I've always wanted to visit. I hear the landscapes are just breathtaking."

"They are," I chime in. "We live nestled against the Wasatch Mountains, so we have stunning views right from our backyard."

The conversation flows effortlessly from there. We talk about our lives back home, our children, and our grandchildren. We say goodbye to the couple and hope to meet again.

Later that afternoon, we hop on another ferry to Santorini. The island rises from the sea like a giant layer cake, its white buildings clinging to the cliffside. We take a cable car up to Fira, the capital, and wander through its narrow streets, browsing shops selling local crafts and admiring the views of the caldera. We even indulge in a wine tasting at a local vineyard, sipping crisp whites as the sun dips below the horizon.

We see Bob and Linda again at this place. We had just finished a few tastings when I noticed Linda and Bob sitting at a table away.

‘Look, Brock, it’s Bob and Linda.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, following my directions. At that moment, Linda looked up and saw me, eyebrows raised, and motioned for us to join them.

“Wow, are you following us?” I say jokingly, pulling up a seat.

“I guess we just have similar tastes,” Linda shrugs. We learn more about “The Camden’s from California,” as they coined themselves. We learn that they’ve been traveling Europe for several weeks.

"So, what brought you two lovebirds to Greece?" Bob asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Brock and I exchange a glance, a silent agreement to keep our troubles to ourselves, at least for now.

"Oh, you know," I say, "the history, the food, the beautiful islands..."

"I just love Greece,” Linda pops in. “We’ve been here several times. We’ve also been to Italy, Morrocco, India, China, Egypt, just so many places.” Linda flips her hair and brags more about their travels over the years. “We also have two kids and three grandkids, one grandson and two granddaughters.”  They keep us young, that's for sure. We have pictures."

As she pulls out her phone, I can't help but study her face. Her eyes, a clear, vibrant emerald, seem to pierce through me, sparking a flicker of recognition. Something about her voice, too, feels oddly familiar.

"That's wonderful," Brock replies, looking at Linda's photos. "We have six ourselves from two sons. They're growing up so fast."

The conversation flows easily, touching on family, retirement, and more about their travels. It’s embarrassing that this is the first place we’ve been out of the country, but I stay silent on that. And even as I laugh and share stories, the nagging feeling that I know Linda from somewhere refuses to dissipate. Her voice echoes in my mind, each syllable stirring a distant memory I can't quite grasp.

When I mention my gardening YouTube channel, Linda's eyes light up.

"You're the Gardening Guru of Grantsville?" she asks, a delighted laugh escaping her lips.

"The very one," I reply with a smile.

"I'm a huge fan!" Linda says, excitement spread across her face. "I'm subscribed to your channel and love your tips and tutorials. You've inspired me to try many new things in my garden."

A warm glow spreads through me. Maybe that’s where I saw her on her YouTube profile. It’s always gratifying to know that my work makes a difference in people's lives. As Linda and I chat animatedly about gardening, Brock and Bob discover a shared passion for law. They swap stories of courtroom dramas and legal victories, their laughter filling the air.

Before we part ways, Bob and Linda suggest we meet for dinner that evening.

"We'd love to," I say, feeling a genuine connection with this couple, especially with Linda.

Back at the safe house, I admire myself, turning side to side as I smooth down my turquoise summer dress. I smack my lips after applying light pink lipstick and tease my hair, giving it some volume. I notice a sun-kissed glow about me and realize I'm starting to relax and enjoy this vacation, even with all the threats and what happened to Brock. And even though his arm is still in the sling, he seems to be doing fine.

Brocks comes out of the bathroom looking quite distinguished, and I smile. His silvery hair fills out more daily, but his blue eyes are still as bright as the day I met him. He's wearing beige slacks and a dark brown button-down shirt.

I whistle.

"Why, thank you, my darling," he says, coming over and kissing my lips. "You look like a young goddess in that dress," he says, winking. I bought the dress in Athens and knew the color would bring out my eyes and brighten my cheeks. It's a flowy dress with just enough cleavage to look attractive.

We leave, careful to ensure no one is tracking our moves, which is stupid since we're not necessarily hostages. We gather at a quaint restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of Mykonos. We share delicious Greek cuisine, laugh over shared stories, and delve deeper into our lives and dreams. Throughout the evening, I can’t shake the feeling of deja vu. It’s like I’ve had this same conversation before, the memory remaining tantalizingly out of reach.

***

The following morning, we bid farewell to Mykonos and board a ferry to Santorini, leaving Bob and Linda behind but with a promise to keep in touch.

“Oh, of course. I have a feeling we will see you all again,” Linda said. Before they left, though, Linda looked at me and I swear I could see her eyes squinting at me as if there was some hint of animosity. Of course, I swept it aside as being tired and still quite cautious with what we’ve already been through.

As we arrive in Santorini, the majestic island rises from the sea like a volcanic crown, its whitewashed villages clinging to the cliffside. We explore the ancient Minoan settlement of Akrotiri, wandering through the labyrinthine ruins. We go deeper, venturing down a hidden passageway, a maze of narrow corridors and twisting turns.

Emerging into a large, open chamber, we find ourselves surrounded by vibrant frescoes and scattered pottery. The silence is deafening, the air thick with the weight of history.

‘These are amazing,” I whisper as if feeling the need for reverence.

“They really are. These temples are thousands of years old yet have been well-cared for and preserved.” Brock sweeps his hand across some hieroglyphs.

After some time, I realize we had been there too long and feel the need to leave. An acrid smell hits my nostrils as we return the way we came.

Smoke.

“You smell that, right?” I ask, raising my head, trying to get a sense of where it was coming from.

"Yeah. It’s getting quite strong. We need to get out of here," Brock says, his voice urgent.

But as we search for an exit, the smoke grows thicker, making breathing difficult. Panic gnaws at me as we stumble through the maze, desperately seeking an escape.

Suddenly, a figure emerges from the smoke-filled darkness, blocking our path. He looks familiar to the man who followed us in the botanical gardens, yet his eyes are different but have the same deadness. He’s not as tall as the other man, either. He displays the same chiseled jaw and blank star, however. He’s wearing a black shirt and jeans. Why are they always wearing black?

Instinctively, I know we’re in danger.

"One foot in front of the other," he rasps.

Those words…

And just like that, I’m back to that fateful day, the one I blocked out for years, never wanting to hear them again. Those words uttered years ago on a rickety bridge now resonated with a sinister new meaning. The memory of my friend, her terrified face as she plunged into the rushing water below, floods my mind. It was an accident, but it was those words that propelled my friend to take the dare, the one that ended her life that day.

The past and present collide in a terrifying moment of recognition. Even though I have never seen this man before, the phrase he uttered has haunted my dreams for years. Why would he say this? Maybe he is just reacting to the danger and trying to help us escape, but who am I kidding? Whoever these people are, they're working for someone else who is seeking justice. But why and who is doing this?

And what do they intend to do?

Chapter Ten: What Does this Ultimately Have to do With Us?

 

What should have been the day we go back home after a fun-filled, yet relaxing vacation is now the day we have to go to the Embassy and try and get protection while we’re here, which could be days or even weeks. As I watch Brock gingerly moving his arm in a physical therapy session, my thoughts turn to the same question that floods my mind: who is targeting us and why? Yes, we know about The Shadows and that they’re an international terrorist organization but why US? What have we done to incur their curiosity or wrath for that matter?

“You look lost in thought,” I hear Brock say to me. I snap back to being present. I never knew he was done or that the therapist had left.

I raise my head and see him giving me a pensive look. “Yeah, I am.” I fold my arms and curl up on the black leather sofa in the living room. Thankfully, the Embassy made accommodations to stay in a safe house while we try and move past this “incident” what the Athens police called it. Of course, this wasn’t just an incident. However, Emannuel has been great to work with and I thank God Gray was able to contact him so quickly.

Brock sits down next to me and puts his good arm around me. I lean against him and close my eyes. “Look, we’ll find out what The Shadows wants with us, and justice will be done. I have some of my paralegals looking into some connections to see what they can dig up. Since The Embassy doesn’t seem too interested in American citizens being threatened and even attacked on their watch, it’s up to us and Emmanuel. I refuse to leave here until we know the Shadows agenda, what it has to do with us, and that we have protection—at the least.”

“That could take days or weeks, Brock. You have work and so do I. We can’t just take a sabbatical with you trying to explain to your legal team that we have to stay in Greece because we’re being targeted by an international terrorist group, one who may have been responsible for a bomb threat at the airport, a dead body in our hotel closet, being followed, threatened. Now you recovering from surgery from a knife attack. It all sounds fantastical. I mean who goes through a year of all we have and then the nightmare follows us to the very place we deicide to vacation in? It doesn’t make sense.

“None of this make sense, but here we are. I’ll be damned if I sit and wait for Athens to do anything. We’re just American citizens, and according to them, nobodies they care to even put their time and manpower into investigating and catching these criminals. Who knows, maybe it’s like the Mob and half of them are in on it,” Brock chuckles.

“I just feel like I’m in a James Bond movie –“

“Am I James Bond?” He snickers.

“Of course, even got the Sean Connery dark hair to match.” I reach up and swipe a piece of hair off his forehead. It was true. Brock’s hair was thick, and even though streaks of gray showed through, his jet-black hair looked much like 007 in his later years. He would be turning 60 in a few months and the wrinkles in his forehead and fine lines around his eyes were getting more prominent. Of course, who was I to talk? In the last year, my hair was nearly all gray, mixed with blonde, my natural color. My bobbed cut was now growing out, nearly to my shoulders now. My fine lines and wrinkles creased across my forehead and near my eyes. I have perpetual purple indents under my eyes that look as if I hadn’t slept in a year. To be honest, I probably average 5 hours a night now. It’s like my life has turned a dark corner, one I never anticipated and wanted.

“Listen, let’s go somewhere and get away from all this doom and gloom. We can take a ferry to some of the islands—Santorini, Mykonos to name a few. We can go in the morning.”

“Brock, we’re in a safe house for a reason.”

“I know but we can’t just stay here, isolated and only allowed to leave when told. This is our vacation, dammit and I refuse to stay cooped up. Plus, they said it would be a few days until they would have some answers, if that. I want to see the sights and check out some ancient ruins. After all, this is what coming to Greece was about, to see things we would never see in the States.”

He's right. We’ve only seen The Parthenon, which was marred by The Shadows stalking us, and the Botanical Gardens at Athens. Why not go check out the islands and see other landmarks? “Okay, let’s do it,” I say, raising my head and kissing him. We embrace and kiss some more and then he leads me into the bedroom so we can drown out the noise and confusion and just be with each other.

***

The next morning, the sun shone brightly through our bedroom window. I glance at my watch that read 6:42. Brock was still asleep, so I quietly climb out of bed and, yawning, walk to the bathroom. A hot shower helps relax my muscles and when I climb out, after turning the hot to cold gradually, I feel invigorated and ready to get out of this stuffy small place and see the rest of what Greece has to offer. Screw being afraid. The Shadows were not going to keep us hostage and fearful of every step we took. If the last year taught me anything it was to make the most of every day because you never know when God or some lunatic decides your time is up.

When Brock woke up and got ready, we decided to hit a small café to get breakfast. Emmanuel told us the place was in a hidden alcove, and even though we really didn’t understand where we were, I figured it wasn’t too far from Athens. The house, if you could call it that, was a two-bedroom rambler with a small kitchen, bathroom, and living room – just big enough for a small family if needed. The colors were neutral and not much in terms of décor, but it was a place for refuge not a four-star hotel. There were other houses next to them, in a row of safe houses but that was it.

As we walk to the café, I notice the dilapidated buildings, many with stucco and limestone looking as if they were hundreds of years old, which they very well could have been. Café Kleos wasn’t busy, just a few people sitting at a table, but the quaint place was charming. Greenery was placed all around, some on tables as a centerpiece, others hanging from the ceiling or on tables. Portraits of Greek Gods and Goddesses lined the red back wall, making them stand out. The six or seven tables and a handful of booths were spread apart by at least five feet. A few fans were turning in the dim light.

“Two?” The hostess asks in broken English. She was a middle-aged woman with long black hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore a black shirt and khaki slacks. Her nametag read Alena. She grabs two menus.

“Yes, please,” Brock says, motioning me to lead the way with Alena in front. She asks if a window booth is OK and we both nod. The stone table is adorned with the requisite silverware wrapped in cloth napkins, with a simple red candle encased in a glass dome and a few yellow flowers on each side as an accent. The seating was comfortable and placing my hands on the table, it feels smooth, not rough. I pore over the menu as I suddenly realize how hungry I am. The night before, and actually for days, my appetite has been low, waiting for Brock to recover and hear how the investigation is going with The Shadows, hoping it yields promising results.

I order the Greek Omelet with mushrooms, green peppers, olives, cheese, and a Greek sauce Alena said was a favorite. A cup of sweet tea tops it off. Brock orders the same but with a side of sourdough toast and coffee.

“This is a nice place,” I say, glancing around the small café.

“It is. See, this is what we should be doing, not worrying about being stalked and attacked by a group of henchmen and looking over our shoulders everywhere we turn.  You know, when I was doing some research last night while you were sleeping, I noticed that The Shadows operate in many different countries, but their headquarters are in Greece. Not only are they a terrorist organization but they are a justice league of sorts. People hire them to enact vigilante justice out of the eye of the government. If people think they’ve been wronged, they hire these mercenaries to “take care of the problem,” hence why they’re called The Shadows. They operate in a very secluded area and can carry out cyberattacks to bring a company down, or to attack people. Emmanuel said people pay a small fortune to right wrongs and get justice that governments can’t or refuse to get.” The more Brock talked, the more he was animating his words and his expression turned to an excitement of sorts.

“So basically, vigilante justice.”

“Precisely.”

“But again, what does that have to do with us, a senior couple in UTAH of all places?”

“This is the million-dollar question.”