by Linda Bond
He had another plan.
Then without even looking at her again, Antonio turned and stalked away, into the dark pit of the governor’s overly landscaped lawn.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rebecca walked down the oak-lined sidewalk of the exclusive bay-front neighborhood under the muted lights of the aged streetlamps. The flapping of her Cuban sandals beating against the concrete sidewalk was her only companion.
A light wind whipped through the tall palms and sprinted past her ears, but other than that, the neighborhood remained eerily silent.
Made up primarily of well-to-do families with old money, and young professionals who worked long hours for their new money, she figured most of the people who lived here would probably be asleep already.
Licking her lips, she wished she’d grabbed her bottle of water. Her mouth had gone dry as soon as she’d left the group. Dallas, Zack, Sam, and a group from both the FDLE and the CIA had stayed behind in a home three doors down. They’d set up a mini command post with the homeowner’s reluctant consent.
She’d stood in the house sweating bullets while the CIA had put a wire on her, practicing deep breathing exercises, anything to stop the drilling of her heart against her rib cage. She’d been so conflicted by the request she wear a wire. But it was the only way to protect herself and Antonio. Right? Because her dad was a member of the Cuban government, allegedly seeking asylum, the CIA had gotten involved. Maybe her dad would prove everyone wrong. Maybe he really was reaching out to her for help.
Finally, she’d gotten the nerve to move forward with their plan.
Now her heart was thumping again as she walked. Could they pick up that sound?
Zack had promised her a few of his men would be close behind her all the time. And he’d assured her the CIA had a SWAT team moving into place. She didn’t even know the CIA had SWAT teams. Zack told her she wouldn’t see them or hear them unless she ran into trouble, but they’d always have her in their sight.
She glanced to her left. No cars moved on the darkened two-way street. Glancing to her right, she pulled a few strands of windblown hair out of her eyes. Thick oleander bushes lined the driveway up to the house. The wind rustled through the leaves. Anyone could be hiding in the landscaping.
Even Antonio.
He’d left so abruptly. She had no way to call him. Fill him in on what was going on.
She stopped, the air catching in her lungs. She hoped the bushes sheltered the undercover officers and not one of her father’s henchmen. The howl of the hot late-night sea breeze continued to ruffle the greenery, making creepy sounds that brought out a blush of bumps on her skin.
She counted to ten, her gaze glued on the bushes. No more movement, so she continued walking. She turned down the winding driveway leading up to the mansion. It was set far back from the road. “I’m—I’m at the house now. Uh, walking down the driveway.” She tried to sound brave for the group listening three doors down, but she knew her voice probably sounded as tight as the muscles in her upper back.
The driveway should have been well lit. Lamps lined each side, but not one of them had been turned on. No cars were visible, at least not by the glare of the moon. Up ahead, she noticed the house was dark. Strange her dad would call her here. She shivered, the hair on her arms tingling. Did anyone even live here? Maybe her dad had chosen an abandoned house to hide in? No, mansions in this part of Tampa weren’t abandoned or foreclosed on like the homes she grew up next to in West Tampa. And how the hell would he know what house to pick from all the way in Cuba? Can you say red flag?
“I’m afraid this might be a trap. It’s way too dark here. Doesn’t look like anyone is home. It doesn’t feel right.” She spoke in a low tone, but loud enough to make sure Zack and the rest of the group could hear her. “I’m scared,” she whispered, this time to Dallas in particular. She knew her backup had no way to talk back and reassure her. But it made her feel better knowing Dallas would hear and understand.
This whole night had taken such an unexpected turn. First, Antonio had shown up. Alive. Looking so damn healthy and sexy. He’d made intimate love to her in a semipublic place. Then her father had texted her. And Antonio had left. With Zack there, she’d had no choice but to let the FDLE and CIA gather their resources together and weave her into their undercover plan to find out what Arturo really wanted by coming here to America.
So here she was.
Undercover.
Again.
This time in her own country.
Wishing this was all over.
And to think she’d been dying to be the investigative reporter.
Not anymore.
An unexpected chill rippled through her. Pulling out her iPhone, she searched for the flashlight app and turned it on. A shard of hard white light hit the pavers.
She squealed as a furry black object darted across her path. A low, mean hiss trailed off into the darkness. “Holy shit.” She covered her heart with her free hand. “It’s just a cat. A cat. Oh boy, a black cat.” She kept walking, imagining Dallas back at the house, rolling his eyes over her fear of a silly superstition. He’d offered to come with her, but she’d told Dallas that Arturo had insisted she come alone, and the head guy from the local CIA office had agreed she should do so, at least in appearance. Where were those damn undercover cops? They were slick, because she hadn’t heard a peep from anyone.
And where was Antonio?
She shivered remembering his words. Tonight is going to end badly. Antonio was always right.
Always right.
She should have listened to him and let him come.
For what seemed like an eternity, only the lonely sound of her sandals kept her company, until finally, she reached the front door. The massive two-panel wood entranceway had a large old-fashioned brass knocker. Beating it against the door, the sound of metal against wood echoed in the silence, and the door, left slightly open, squeaked and moved inward. Nervous energy spiked through her. She knocked again, the move propelling the door open even further. Spooked by the sudden movement, she stumbled over the raised entranceway and tumbled into the silent house, throwing her hands out to catch her fall.
Her iPhone slipped out of her hand, dropping on the marble, bouncing once and then skidding across the floor, her only light going out with a thud. “Shit!” She banged her fists against the cool flooring. Then she bit down on her bottom lip, pissed she’d made a noise.
Sprawled across the floor, face planted against the cool stone, arm stretched out in search of her phone, it was her sense of smell that raised the first flag of warning. Was that onions and sweat? The odor entered the room like wicked fingers of warning. She’d known only one man who smelled like that. She stiffened and sniffed deeply, but the aroma disappeared. Maybe she’d imagined it. Fear must be playing tricks with her head.
Laughter erupted, but from a distance. She froze for a split second, and then pushed up onto her knees, turning in the direction of the voices. Moonlight filtered through the sliding glass door leading out to the backyard. Beyond that was a walkway leading up to a dock. A sleek sport-fishing yacht was docked, and a handful of men were loading something on board.
One man stood out among the others.
He was tall and lean, and dressed in camouflage pants and a white shirt. One foot balanced on the edge of the boat closest to her, his other foot rested on the boat’s deck. He waved a cigar around as if either telling a story or giving orders. Either way, his bold gestures left no question in Rebecca’s mind who was in charge out there.
The fluttering of her heart escalated, and a trickle of sweat sizzled down the center of her back. This was it. The moment. The one she thought she’d never have.
Beyond curious, she crawled toward the sliding glass door, too afraid to stand up and be noticed in a moon-driven spotlight.
The man in camouflage had a head of gray hair, a boatload of it, and the texture was thick and wavy, just like hers. His bronzed skin looked a bit leathery. Sh
e wasn’t close enough to see his eyes, but she’d bet all she owned they were chocolate brown like hers. Despite his age—he had to be at least fifty-five—he had a lean, muscled body, like a marathon runner. He didn’t smile. Not once. Nor did he laugh.
Still on hands and knees, she pressed her hot forehead against the cool sliding glass door. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall a memory with that man in it. She imagined her birthday party when she was a toddler, maybe two or three. He wasn’t there. She jogged her brain for the memory of a family dinner. He wasn’t there. She couldn’t re-create his face in her mind.
She imagined playing in the front yard of her home in Cuba. Zero. Her mom was there. That man wasn’t. Maybe there was one night when he sat at her bedside and read her a good-night story? She felt like a car sputtering on empty. Her heart seized, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. Was he her father? Didn’t a child instinctively feel love for a birth parent? Why did she feel so depleted and lethargic?
She pounded a fist gently against the glass window. Realizing what she’d done, she popped open her eyes and crawled away from the window, her hand leaving a temporary print on the glass as she moved away. She held her breath, waiting to hear any voices or warnings that she’d been spotted.
“I’m okay. I’m okay,” she whispered half to herself, half to make sure Zack and the rest of the law enforcement team didn’t take her silence or whimpering for a signal to come out of hiding, guns blasting. “I think I’ve found my father. Or the man Antonio showed me the picture of…” She couldn’t finish, her air cut off by a tsunami of buried emotions.
She mumbled something, knowing she had to reassure Zack and Dallas she wasn’t being hurt in any way. “I’m going to confront him now. Have to find my iPhone first. I dropped it when I first got into the house, which was unlocked, by the way.”
Crawling away from the sliding glass door, Rebecca moved slowly, patiently, led by the moonlight, toward the corner in the direction where her phone flew. Still on her hands and knees, she felt safer closer to the ground, knowing the bustling activity going on outside would stop once she’d been spotted. Her shoulder hit the side of a couch. Reaching under the corner of the couch, she felt for her phone.
“Hello, America.”
Her fingers froze. Swallowing, she jerked her hand out from under the couch and flipped around so her back was against the piece of furniture. Her chest tightened. Checking to the left, then to the right, she tried to make out a figure in the shadows that danced between the blocks of moonlight scattered across the living room.
Holding her breath, she listened for any sounds of another person breathing, footsteps, anything to prove she really did just hear that voice. She bit down hard on her bottom lip. Only one man ever called her America. And he was dead. She’d watched him fall overboard.
“Too afraid to talk to me.”
“I would think you would know my name by now, Ignado,” she whispered, hoping that Dallas would warn Zack who Ignado was and how his presence here was a dangerous game changer. “Are you alive, or are you a ghost haunting me?”
“I’ve come back for you, America.”
No mistaking his voice this time. She stood and bolted toward the door. Hand on the door handle, her chest heaving up and down, she froze. She needed to bait Ignado, call him out where she could see him. Get him to talk since she had a mic on and the police were recording.
“Come out, Ignado.” She flipped around to face him, yet found nothing but the moonlight dancing on the floor in front of her. “Come out. Show yourself.” She pressed her back against the front door, her hand still on the knob. Just in case he was armed.
In the pause, she heard her own heart beating, then laughter from the group of men out back, but nothing more from Ignado. She swallowed. Was she going crazy? She lessened her grip on the doorknob.
“Talk to me,” she whispered.
The tinkle of a porch wind chime broke the silence, the melody sending shivers throughout her body. He was taunting her with his silence. Always an asshole.
Then an idea hit her. Searching the room, she located an old-fashioned house phone. Walking over to it, she picked up the receiver and dialed her cell phone number. Not half a second later, her phone rang, the sound coming from a darkened corner of the room to her right.
She froze, wishing to God she had a gun.
Or Antonio as her backup. Antonio was the only one who could control Ignado.
“You have my phone, Ignado.” She swallowed, the words sticking in the roof of her mouth. “I’d like it back.”
The chuckle that followed caused goose bumps to erupt all over her skin.
Ignado stepped out of the dark corner, her phone, still ringing, in his hand.
He pretended to answer it.
She flipped on a table lamp, ignoring him.
“I underestimated you, America.”
I underestimated you, too. “I saw you get shot.”
“You watched me fall overboard. I swam to shore.”
“With a bullet in you?”
Ignado pulled his white shirt up, exposing his abdomen. On his left side, a red scar was visible. “Jose Carlos is not a good shot. Not as good as I am.” The moonlight bounced off Ignado’s crooked teeth as he smiled. “He missed all my vital organs.” Without warning, Ignado launched her phone at her.
As soon as she caught it, her gaze darted back to her enemy, just in time to see him whip out a gun and point it at her.
Her throat started to close, but she squeaked out, “You’re going to shoot me? Before I can meet my father?” Her way of letting Dallas and Zack know Ignado was now armed. “What will my father say? He called me here.” The CIA guy would be able to alert his SWAT guys, right? She had to buy them time. If they were close outside, she had a chance. She’d left the front door open, hadn’t she? Shit. She couldn’t remember. The muscles in her legs began to cramp.
“Your father will tell me to kill you unless you do exactly as he says.”
Her heart crashed. “So, that man…” She turned back toward the sliding glass door. “The one ordering everyone else around. That’s my dad?”
“Yes.”
She did an about-face.
“You look like him. Don’t you think, America?”
The big man—her father—had taken a seat on the bow of the boat, still waving his arms in grand gestures of authority. Like a general. Or a dictator.
She flipped around, pointing a finger at Ignado. “I thought you worked for Antonio.”
The corners of his ugly mouth curved. “You’re a silly bitch.” He shook his head, but the gun he held remained steady. “You screwed Antonio. Then he screwed you.”
Heat rushed up her neck and into her cheeks.
“He used you. In many ways.”
“Shut the hell up!” She wanted to smack Ignado’s face. Only the gun he held stopped her. “I can’t believe Antonio ever trusted you. You’ve betrayed him.”
“Your father sent me to America years ago to find and befriend Antonio. His counterrevolutionary group was small but dangerous, even then. Your lover made it so easy for me. Antonio was desperate to get to Cuba and trusted anyone who spewed the same hatred. His plan was already in place. I only added one important piece.”
“What was that?” She hated herself for asking, knowing that’s exactly what Ignado wanted. He was baiting her, slowly, carefully. Her stomach knotted, rumbling in distress. But she needed Dallas and Zack to record Ignado’s words, so she had to keep him talking. And she could buy time for the SWAT team to mobilize.
“The plan to kidnap you.”
Her heart flipped. “You planned my kidnapping?”
“Surprised, America?” He cocked one eyebrow at her.
“Yes. I thought it was Antonio’s plan.” Now who was baiting whom? She had to get this confession recorded. It could free Antonio for good. She bit her bottom lip, well aware she was verbally wrestling with a viper, and it could have deadly results.
&nb
sp; “He wanted to use you as bait to draw your father out, but he thought he could convince you with a phone call or an email.”
“And when I didn’t respond?” Keep talking. Keep him talking.
“I took you forcibly. I knew the violence of it would catch the media’s attention. I also knew I’d enjoy it.” Walking toward her slowly, his gaze never left hers, and his gun never dropped an inch. “And I did.”
That she believed. She shuddered, remembering the smell of that nasty cloth he’d pressed against her mouth. She began to tremble. “Why did you come back for me?” She backed away from him, wishing she’d left the front door wide open.
The arrogance in his eyes evaporated, and his brows pinched together. “I was supposed to take you to your father while you were in Cuba.”
“And you failed.” She continued inching back. The front door had to be right behind her. “So Arturo came with you this time.” Her hands behind her, she had both palms out, waiting to touch either a wall, or the door, or something. “To make sure you got it right.”
He hissed at her. “Bitch.”
“What happens if you fail again, Igando?” There! Her hand felt the knob of the door right as she backed into it. “Will my father kill you if I leave again?” All she had to do was turn around and bolt.
But he must have read the intent in her body language. She turned around and pulled the door handle, but he was on her. His tattooed arm snaked around her neck, squeezing her. The air whooshed out of her lungs, but she couldn’t inhale more. The tip of his gun chilled her temple. The sound of her own pulse rocked in her inner ears. She was getting light-headed, and knew she had only seconds before she’d pass out.
“If you come with me right now, I will not kill you, America. I must take you to your father. Alive.” He let go of her and she dropped instantly to the floor.
But before she could recover, Ignado grabbed her by a fistful of hair, jerking her back up. The pain pierced her scalp as he pulled her headfirst toward the sliding glass door. She opened her mouth, intending to scream. Instead she whispered, “I’m okay. I’m okay.” Her way of telling the SWAT team to stand down. Despite this unexpected development, she was seconds away from meeting her father, and no one was going to stop her.