Bombs & Begonias: A Summers' Mystery

The wait is over!

Patrice and Brock find themselves in Athens, Greece, when a bomb threat is called in and chaos reigns. It seems the Summers can't catch a break. Déjà vu creeps up, and Trice and her husband Brock are again caught up in another mystery. However, now the danger becomes like a familiar record she can't quite recall. Are they being targeted again? And will the events in Greece spell out doom for the couple, or will more puzzle pieces slowly come together to reveal a shocking conclusion that no one saw coming.

Chapter One: Welcome to Greece

The announcement crackled through the PA system, its cheerfulness replaced by a monotone that sent a shiver down my spine. "Attention. Due to a security concern, the airport has been placed on lockdown. Please stay calm and follow the instructions of airport security."

Brock's hand tightened around mine, his knuckles turning white. The once vibrant chaos of Athens International dissolved into a scene straight out of a nightmare. Whispers morphed into panicked murmurs, eyes darted wildly, and the air crackled with unspoken fear.

Trapped in a sea of frantic humanity, we huddled in a dimly lit corner. The warmth of the Greek sun mocked us through the terminal windows, highlighting the chilling reality of our situation. Sirens wailed in the distance, a mournful symphony playing out the unknown danger lurking just beyond the walls.

"This can't be happening," I murmured, my voice tight with disbelief. We were supposed to be on vacation, a chance to put the last year behind us. Now, fate had thrown us into the heart of a nightmare - again.

Brock, ever the pragmatist, scanned the crowd. "We can't sit here," he said, his voice low and urgent. "We need to find a way out, get a sense of what's happening."

The official exit was undoubtedly sealed. A desperate plan flickered in my mind - a back exit, a hidden passage, anything to escape the suffocating panic. We weaved through the throng, searching for a flicker of hope, a hint of escape in the concrete labyrinth.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted further down the corridor. People surged forward, voices rising in a cacophony of fear. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, we pushed towards the source of the disturbance.

There, a frantic woman, her words tumbling out in a torrent of accented Greek, said one word I could understand.

"Bomb!"

Brock cut through the panic, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. "Calm down, ma'am. We'll get help. Do you know anything about the situation?"

The woman shook her head, tears welling in her eyes.

A hollow feeling settled in my stomach. ?This wasn't a simple security check. This was a calculated act, a sinister game with innocent lives as pawns.

The weight of this realization pressed down on us. We needed answers. We needed to act.

With a shared glance, a silent agreement passed between us. We wouldn't wait to be rescued. We were going to take matters into our own hands. If I learned one thing for when Troy and Goldie were murdered it’s that the police are never there when you need them.

"We split up," Brock declared, his voice resolute. "Gather information, find anything that might be useful."

The labyrinthine corridors swallowed me whole, each echoing footstep amplifying the oppressive silence. Approaching a group of airport staff huddled around a flickering monitor, I ventured a question. "What's happening? Is there a bomb?"

Met with a wary response and a mumbled assurance of "all hands on deck," I knew the official channels wouldn't provide the desperately needed answers.

As I rounded a corner, breathless and frustrated, I spotted Brock. Relief washed over me, momentarily overshadowed by the grim expression on his face.

"There are rumors," he said, his voice low. "Suspicious package near a departure gate. Unconfirmed, but..."

The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air. Our vacation had become a desperate race against time, a twisted scavenger hunt with potentially deadly consequences.

Our quest led us toward the rumored departure gate, each step fueling a burgeoning sense of dread. But the true danger, we soon realized, wasn't the bomb itself. It was the unseen forces orchestrating this chaos, the phantoms lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

As we ventured deeper into the airport's underbelly, the air grew thick with secrets and unseen eyes. We were no longer just tourists caught in a security lockdown. We were about to become unwilling players in a game far more dangerous than we could have ever imagined.

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I inched closer to the huddle of airport staff. Their faces, etched with worry, were illuminated by the flickering glow of a nearby monitor. Straining to hear their hushed conversation, I took a deep breath and forced my voice into a semblance of calm.

"Excuse me," I interjected, my words scraping against the tense silence. "Do you have any updates on the bomb threat?"

The staff members flinched, their eyes darting toward me before settling on my face with a mixture of suspicion and exhaustion. A weary-looking woman with a badge that read "Eleni" finally spoke.

"We're still trying to get a handle on things, ma'am," she said, her voice tight. "Everyone's stretched thin right now. Please, just stay calm and stay put in the designated areas."

Her answer was frustratingly vague, offering little solace. All I could do was nod curtly, disappointment gnawing at me. The once bustling corridors were eerily silent, the usual symphony of announcements and greetings replaced by a suffocating stillness.

Rounding a corner, I spotted Brock up ahead, his tall frame easily visible amongst the throng of anxious passengers. Relief washed over me, momentarily dissolving the knot of tension in my stomach. He was gesturing towards me, urging me to join him.

"Trice," he said, a hint of urgency in his voice, "these folks might have some information."

A middle-aged man stepped forward, his face creased with worry lines. His rumpled suit and loosened tie spoke of a long journey.

"We heard whispers," he began, his voice thick with a Mediterranean accent, "about a suspicious package near one of the departure gates. A male called in and warned that if anyone left, the bomb would detonate in a few minutes. Not confirmed, mind you, but it could be something."

Brock listened intently, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Thank you for letting us know," he said, his voice firm. "We'll pass this information on."

A renewed sense of purpose sparked within me. We had a lead, a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos. Together, we set off once more, the weight of the situation pressing down on us. This wasn't just a bomb threat anymore. This was a race against time, a desperate hunt for answers in the labyrinthine heart of the airport.

With each step, the air grew heavier, the shadows stretching longer. An unsettling realization began to dawn on me - we weren't the only ones playing this game, and the true danger lurked not in the potential bomb but in the darkness itself.

Flickering lights played on panicked faces, the vacation dream morphing into a waking nightmare.

It's only just beginning.