“I know I can’t just lie here,” I answer pushing my body up with my shoulder. “I have to reach out to Cam. I know that. But I can’t let them get to him. I just hope he’ll hear my warning. I hope he’ll pick up on the fact that we are not okay.”
“Don’t you guys have like distress signals or codes?” Harpers asks, shrugging her shoulders. “Or is that something that only happens in the movies?”
“No, we do,” I answer and nod. “But they are usually mission specific codes. I’m not on a mission right now.”
“Is there anything you could say? Anything you could do on the phone?”
“I think so. I just have to make Fernando think I’m playing along. And I’ve got to hope Cam doesn’t react. He doesn’t have a great poker face. But … we don’t have another option.”
The keys jingle at the door behind me and my body freezes. I hear it open but I’m too terrified to turn around. I look up at Harper and watch her tense face fall with relief.
I crane my neck and see Mateo standing just beyond the doorway, the dark wood tray in his hands again. But this time, we don’t get expensive glassware and sandwiches cut into fourths. There are plastic bowls and paper cups. Someone must have yelled at him for daring to bring us real silverware and plates.
“Something to eat, ladies?” he asks, kicking the door closed behind him with his feet. I hear the metal bolt click on the other side, the guard locking us all in.
“Thank you, Mateo,” I offer dimly, trying to push my body all the way up without the use of my arms, but my stomach and ribs are still sore from crying. Harper grabs at my shoulder, helping me sit up the rest of the way.
“Here, let me cut you out of those ties,” he says, setting down the tray and removing the pocketknife from his pants. Harper offers him her hands first and he flips out the sharp blade. My eyes stare down at the knife, desperate for it, my brain suddenly racing with all the ways I could use it to get us out of here.
With Harper free, Mateo turns to me. “Turn a little for me if you could,” he says, almost apologetic. I rock my body back and forth on the mattress until Mateo can reach my hands. He slips the knife through the plastic, setting me free. I pull my arms around toward the front of my body, cradling each wrist with the opposite hand, and my forearms and biceps finally go lax.
“Thank you, Mateo,” I say, rubbing my fingers along my raw, inflamed skin.
“You’re welcome,” he answers, handing us each a plastic bowl full of pasta and marinara sauce.
“Is this what Fernando was cooking today?” I ask, recognizing the red sauce he shoved in my face.
“Yes,” Mateo says with a nod. “But I promise, it’s fine. It’s actually really good.”
“So the drug lord serial killer is a good cook?” Harper asks as she takes in a greedy spoonful of the pasta.
“He is,” Mateo says, settling his body down on the concrete floor in front of us. “He’s good at a lot of things actually. Cooking. Photography.”
“Did he take all those black-and-white photographs?” I ask.
“Yup, he did,” Mateo answers with a nod. “He’s even had some showcased in art galleries around Colombia. Under a different name of course. He’s very artistic. He even has a room upstairs where he makes pots and jars and plates out of clay. Has a kiln and everything.”
I try to imagine Fernando sitting down at a potter’s wheel, his hands shaping wet clay into a bowl. It takes such patience and precision. I would know. We did pottery for a semester in art class at New Albany and I sucked at it.
“It’s hard to picture him doing such delicate work,” I say between mouthfuls of pasta.
“I know,” Mateo says, nodding his head. “His brothers were really the ones who ran the business. He’s done his share of dirty work of course, but he’s always been more interested in other things. He enjoyed the wealth and luxury his brothers and the cartel afforded him.”
“So is the cartel suffering without them?” I ask.
“It’s definitely damaged,” Mateo answers with a deep nod. “His brothers ran this like a true business. Fernando doesn’t really know what he’s doing. If he doesn’t get control of it soon … it might fall apart. Split into smaller cartels. Things are pretty tense among some of the other leaders. People aren’t exactly confident in his ability to keep it all going.”
“No wonder he needs Cam,” Harper says, raising her eyebrows at me.
“He does,” Mateo answers and turns toward me. “Reagan … just … do what he wants. If you do, you stand a chance. But if you refuse…”
A voice at the door stops Mateo’s warning cold. But he doesn’t need to finish. I already know what he’s going to say and that shiver returns, crawling up my skin like a giant centipede. Mateo’s and Harper’s heads whip toward the sound. My eyes stay locked on the pocketknife, still on the mattress in front of Mateo. But before I can reach for it, Mateo picks it up and slips it into his pocket. Damn.
The bolt unlocks and Mateo swiftly rises from the ground. The door swings open and Fernando and two guards carrying automatic weapons step into the room, slamming the door behind them.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The muscles in my arms tighten. They’ve come for me. I take in a tremulous breath, a strategy of deception bouncing around my mind, creating unsteady beats in my chest.
“What are you doing down here?” Fernando asks irritably, his eyes watching Mateo who is rubbing his hands along the tops of his pants.
Stop, I want to scream. Mateo looks nervous and sweaty.
“Just bringing down some food,” he answers, his voice cracking, as he points to our plates. “I was just about to tie them back up.”
Mateo takes the zip ties out of his pockets and waves them in the air as evidence.
“Leave us,” Fernando spits, his lips pinching together.
“Yes, sir,” Mateo says quietly. He lowers his head and makes his way toward the door. He turns around once he’s reached it, glancing back and taking us in for a beat too long. A good-bye look. And maybe it is. He knows what could happen to us soon if I refuse to give in to Fernando. His worried eyes tell me he’s seen the carnage before.
My biceps and shoulders tighten, my lungs seizing up with sudden dread as Fernando walks closer and Mateo slips quietly out the door.
“Plotting with Mateo?” Fernando asks, his voice unruffled despite the suspicion in his words.
“Of course not,” I answer quickly, shaking my head. “I’m not interested in dying today or getting him killed.”
“Really?” Fernando says, now walking around our mattress in a slow rainbow, my stomach twisting as I wait for this snake to strike me. “So you’ve agreed to my demands?”
“Yes,” I answer, my nails digging into my palms. “I will reach out to Cam over email and you can expect a call within a few minutes. You just need to get me a secure line and a number that looks like he’s calling somewhere in the United States. Preferably, with a Virginia or Maryland or DC area code so he won’t be suspicious. We can’t make this work if we don’t have one of those area codes. He’ll never believe me.”
Fernando raises his eyebrows, perhaps surprised by my willingness not only to betray my friend, but also to ensure his kidnapping is a success.
“Consider it done,” Fernando says, his lips pursed into a contorted but pleased smile. The two guards step forward and pick me up off the ground by both of my arms. Fernando points to Harper. “Tie up the girl as well.”
One of the guards spins me around, tying my hands behind my back with zip ties, while the second ties up Harper.
“Let’s go,” Fernando says, waving us toward the door. The guard whips me around and grips my bicep with one hand and his gun with the other. The second guard follows quickly behind us. I glance over my shoulder to get a look at Harper, making sure she’s okay. She looks back at me, her eyes fierce and unafraid for the first time in days. She nods at me as if to say, You’ve got this. And I hope I do.
As I�
�m dragged out of the storage room, I notice the guard stationed outside our door has changed. This one is younger and thinner than the guard who was there before. I pray he stays our guard throughout the night. He has weapons of course, but I have a better chance of overpowering someone of his size than the tall and muscular guard who was positioned outside our door just hours ago.
I search the room one more time for cameras, just to ensure I didn’t miss them the last time I was hauled from this room. But there are none. The guard tightens his hold on my arm, creating long, finger-shaped bruises on my skin, as they rush me through the basement, up the stairs and into the first hallway. But instead of turning left toward Fernando’s office, we turn right and make an almost immediate left down a new hallway I haven’t seen before. This hallway is dark and lined with four closed doorways. There isn’t a photograph or piece of artwork in sight.
And up in the corner of the ceiling, I spy the unmistakable pin-sized red light of a surveillance camera. I make a mental note to avoid turning right down the main hallway. Even if we don’t come down this hall, that surveillance camera will pick up our movement.
As we reach a dead end, Fernando removes his keys from his pocket and unlocks the last door in front of him. He flips a switch, illuminating a series of overhead lights, and the sudden brightness makes my tender and tired eyes sting. I cringe, my feet frozen, and the guard has to yank my arm to push me farther into the windowless conference room. A sleek, dark wood table is surrounded by ten matching high-backed leather seats. A laptop is set up in front of one of the middle seats, its screen saver a flurry of colorful beams of light. A large and outdated satellite phone sits to the right of the computer. They were prepared. They expected me to betray my friend. I can’t decide whether to be pleased or insulted.
“Are you ready to make contact?” Fernando asks, taking a seat to the right of the chair with the computer.
“Yes,” I answer quietly, rubbing my hands together, my wrists aching against the restraints. “Can you untie me? I can’t type very well without my fingers.”
“Fine,” Fernando answers, pointing at the guard standing behind me, signaling for him to cut my hands loose. I turn to watch him pull a pocketknife from his coat and flip it open, exposing the serrated blade I’m so desperate to steal. With one motion, he cuts through the plastic and the blade quickly finds its way back to his pocket.
I pull my hands forward and stare down at my wrists. I’ve been in zip ties for less than twenty-four hours, but the tight plastic has started to create deep, pink grooves on my olive skin. A couple more days in restraints and that skin will be bloody and raw. That is, if we live that long.
“Take a seat,” Fernando says, hitting the back of the leather chair next to him. I force my paralyzed body to take a few cautious steps toward him. As I stand next to him, his scent, a combination of musky cologne and tobacco, overwhelms me, getting trapped in my septum, and I have to concentrate on not throwing up. My weary arms pull the chair out from under the table, the wheels screeching against the hardwood floors. As I take a seat, his eyes linger on my face.
Be calm. Be calm. Be calm.
The growing lump in my throat descends as my skin stirs with a subtle, lukewarm buzz. Numbness. I clear my mind, forcing half-dead Reagan to rise. As I settle in my seat, I wrestle down the last remaining trace of panic pulsing against my sternum, and that persistent alarm finally falls silent.
“Before I do this,” I say slowly, my hands in my lap, my face staring at the changing colors of the screen saver. “I have to know. What is going to happen to Harper? To my family? To me? If I get him down here, will you let us go? Will you leave us alone?”
Fernando leans his elbow on the slick tabletop, his cheek resting in his hand. He tilts his chin up at me, a faint smile tickling his lips, and simply says, “Of course.”
Liar. Not that I’d trust anything he said. But his body language and the devious flicker in his eyes tell me all I need to know. Even if I deceive my friend, get him kidnapped and down to Colombia, we’ll still be killed. Or at least be kept alive until Cam submits to Fernando’s demands. Torturous bait until he becomes a slave to the cartel.
“Okay,” I finally answer, the putrid taste of half-digested tomato sauce still rising until it reaches the back of my tongue. I turn toward the screen. “I’ll email him. What number should he call?”
Fernando reaches into his pocket and hands me a number with a Chevy Chase, Maryland, area code scrawled on a piece of paper.
“Tell Cameron to call this number,” he says, sliding the paper in front of me. “Tell him to meet you in Lincoln Park near the Eleventh Street entrance tonight. We’ll pick him up there.”
Pick him up. As if he’s just giving him a ride to a bar or dinner or something. More like tackle him to the ground, put a bag over his head, and throw him in the back of a van.
“Okay,” I answer, my fingers now typing on the keyboard, logging into my email account. When I sign in, there are several messages from my father and Cam. The subject lines start out concerned, Please Check In and Where Are You? Then grow increasingly more frantic as the hours pass. Respond NOW, Reagan. Find a phone and CALL US. Where the hell are you? Freaking out. The last one is from Cam. It screams at me from the screen, REAGAN! CALL ME. NOW!
I open up that email and hit reply, my fingers stiff as I carefully type out:
Get to a secure conference room. Tell no one. Call me at 240-555-9349.
I hit send and lean back in the chair, the metal springs whining against my frame. The guards, Fernando, and I all stare at the phone in silence. The room is so quiet, I can actually hear each one of them breathing. Fernando’s nose whistles with each pull of air. The guard behind me sniffs back congestion and the guard to my right exhales strangely and loudly through his mouth.
I dig my fingers into my hipbones as I wait for Cam to call, my mind racing through the plan in my head, the signals I’ll say to let him know I’m in trouble.
Ninety seconds after the email is sent, the satellite phone begins to ring, its shrill tone piercing through the thick silence in the room.
Fernando nods at me and then presses the speaker button on the phone. I lean in closer and say as calmly as possible, “Hey.”
“Jesus Christ,” Cam says, his voice hoarse and completely out of breath. “Where the hell are you guys? Are you okay?”
“Yes, Cameron,” I answer, deliberately using Cam’s full name, something I never ever do, hoping that through his flood of emotions, he’ll somehow notice it. “We’re totally fine.”
I change the normal cadence of my voice, elongating my words, praying he picks up on my cues that someone else is listening. That we’re not okay.
“Well, where have you been?” he says, his voice still frantic. I need him to take a breath. I need him to calm down and pay attention to my words, notice my signals.
“Cameron, Cameron, Cameron.” I repeat his name, hoping he’ll listen and realize just what is at stake at the other end of this phone. “Take in a deep breath for me. Okay? Cameron?”
There is silence on the line for one second, two seconds, and I know Cam has noticed and is processing it all. “Okay, Rea Rea,” he answers, a signal back. He knows. “Just tell me where you are so we can come and get you.”
I feel the strained muscles in my shoulders loosen with a small sense of relief. I gather my thoughts, trying to string together the next sentence. “Cameron, you can’t tell anyone at CORE we’re okay,” I say, both for Fernando but also for myself. The mole. If they find out Cam knows we’re in danger, its game over for Harper and me. “I need you to meet us in Lincoln Park on Capitol Hill near the Eleventh Street entrance. You got it?”
“Okay. When?” he answers quickly.
“Can you get away tonight?” I ask, my voice rising up an octave at the end of the question.
Please say no. Please say no.
“I can’t,” Cam answers. “You know how locked down CORE is here at night. There’s
no way I can get out of here.”
He’s lying. He’s gotten us out at night before. He knows, wherever I am, he needs to give us time. Time for me to get out and time for him and my father to find us.
“I can be there tomorrow morning. But probably not until seven thirty. Any earlier and the senior leaders will get suspicious,” he answers. I glance at the clock on the wall across from me. It’s 10:13 p.m. I only have a handful of hours to get us out of here. Because if Fernando’s assassins get to the park and Cam doesn’t show, Fernando will kill us before breakfast.
I turn toward Fernando and he nods.
“Okay, Cameron,” I answer. “Seven thirty tomorrow. Harper and I will be waiting.”
“Stay safe, Rea Rea,” he responds. “I’ll see you soon.”
And with that, the line goes dead. Fernando turns to me.
“Thank you for doing the right thing,” he says, his voice eerily kind and his head bowed.
“You’re welcome,” I answer, my voice quiet.
Fernando pushes his meaty palms against the table as he stands, leaving behind sweaty handprints on the sleek veneer. “Hopefully, tomorrow Cameron will be on a plane and all of this will be over,” he says.
Or I’ll be over, I think as I follow suit and stand up beside him.
“Take her back downstairs,” Fernando says, nodding toward his guards and they both grab me harshly by my arms. “Gentle, gentle. She’s not a hostile prisoner anymore. Right, Reagan?”
He raises his eyebrows and I find myself nodding in agreement. “Right,” I finally answer, my voice as strong and confident as I can make it.
As the two guards pull me toward the doorway, Fernando calls after me, “Be good, Reagan.”
And I can’t tell if it’s a salutation or a warning. Either way, even if he distrusts me, even if there are ten guards stationed outside our room tonight, I have to get us out. The clock has been set and its countdown clicks loudly in my ear, like a bomb just waiting to go off.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
TWENTY-FIVE
You Won't See Me Coming Page 18