Call Sign: Redemption

by Eddy, Patricia D

  Austin huffs out a breath, then winces and wraps his arm around his ribs. “She didn’t cry. She never cries. After I told her…she hugged me, then shut me out. Like always. Said she was fine.”

  “Dani’s...always fine.” The spirited girl I met in high school never let anyone in. Except me. Once. For one beautiful, perfect week. The first year Gil failed to contact her on her birthday. I found her crying behind the Pritchards’ barn, and she let me comfort her. A few days later, we shared a kiss I’ve never forgotten.

  But then I broke her heart. All because of Gil. And Dani never opened up to me again.

  “Don’t ask me how,” Austin says. “Or what she hides behind that smile of hers.”

  Anything that can hurt her.

  She’s a product of the system. Just like me. The first thing you learn? How to survive without letting anyone else see your pain.

  “Austin, if you need to talk…” I say. The beer sours my stomach, and I slide it to the center of the table.

  “Nothing really to say. You saved my life. The rest…I just want to put it all behind us.” He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t push. If he wants to keep his emotions locked away, that’s his business.

  I drop a twenty between us. “I’m leaving Langley tomorrow. Heading up to Boston. I know a guy up there who runs a security and investigation firm. Second Sight. He’s been trying to get me to interview with him for a year. I figured I’d finally take him up on it. Anything to get out of this life.”

  Austin nods. “You know how to reach me.” As I stand, he adds, “Take care of yourself, Trev. I mean it.”

  Dani

  After the five hour drive from New Haven to my apartment outside of Washington DC, all I want is to crawl into bed and hide away from the world. We didn’t have a funeral for Gil. Just a little gathering at home. He hadn’t truly been part of our family for years, and though we were close until the Pritchards adopted us, after that…it was like he wanted to forget I even existed.

  Despite my exhaustion, I pause on the way in to check my mailbox.

  The package slip makes my heart skip a beat. It’s from Gil. He must have sent this just before the mission that took his life.

  My eyes burn, but I don’t cry. I never do. The package locker contains a fat United Express mailer, and I tuck it into my bag as I climb the stairs to my apartment.

  It feels so empty. Not that Gil ever visited. I’ve lived here three years, and he never once even came to dinner. Austin drives up from Fort Bragg once a month.

  Inside, I set my electric kettle and fill a mug with licorice root tea—something Betsy Pritchard—the only mother I’ve ever known—introduced me to when I was in high school. The sweet scent calms me and gives me an emotional and physical boost at the end of a long day. There’s nothing that will make me feel even close to normal tonight, but my nightly tea ritual brings me a semblance of normalcy.

  With a steaming cup in my hands, I sink down onto my couch and run my fingers over the envelope.

  Daniella Rosa Martinez.

  I haven’t been Dani Martinez since the Pritchards adopted us. And Gil’s the only one who ever called me Daniella. To everyone else I meet, I’m Dani.

  I don’t understand why he sent me something now. Before his death, I hadn’t talked to him in five years. Why?

  My hands shake as I tear open the envelope. Inside, there’s a letter dated three weeks ago, a flash drive, and a small stack of photos.

  Daniella, mi hermana. I’m sorry I stayed away for so long. My next mission will be dangerous, and there’s a chance you won’t want to speak to me if I return. So I left this with someone I trust and asked him to mail it for me if the worst happened. Not long after I joined the CIA, I traveled to Venezuela and found my father. I have never felt such a connection to another person.

  I glance at the top photo. It’s Gil, standing next to an older man who looks just like him. Plus thirty years or so. The next picture is that same man, many years ago, holding a baby. The photo’s a little grainy—age and perhaps emotion have wrinkled it—but I can see Gil’s birthmark on his left arm. The crescent shape stands out bright red against his skin.

  There are four pictures of Gil as a child. In the last, he looks to be close to six. It must be one of the final photos taken at his father’s home.

  Setting the pictures aside, I return to the letter.

  Papa said after Mama took me from him, he searched for us, and eight months later, we appeared in El Paso, Texas. You had just been born. By the time he flew to the United States to bring us home, Mama had died, and we’d been lost to the system.

  If you’re reading this, I’m either gone, or you’ve finally decided to cut me out of your life forever. I need you to know that I’m sorry I wasn’t the greatest brother. I wanted to be, but you were so happy with the Pritchards, and I couldn’t be. Not when I knew I had another father out there somewhere. I never belonged. You did. You do.

  I used the CIA’s resources to perform a full DNA workup on you last year. I’m giving you the opportunity to have the same connection I did. That sense of belonging. Daniella, I tracked down your father. He’s Venezuelan, and all of his information is on the flash drive.

  I’m sorry I could not give this to you in person. I love you, mi hermana.

  Gil

  I close my fingers around the drive, and the tears I’ve held back for years spill down my cheeks. I never wanted to know who my birth father was. Not really. Only in that vague “everyone wants to know where they come from” sort of way. I’m a Pritchard. When I took the job with the Washington Post, I changed my last name so no one would know Austin and I were related. He was already a big deal in the intelligence community, and I didn’t want anyone to think I was treading on his connections.

  But Monroe? It’s Betsy’s—my mother’s—maiden name. They’re my family. My mom, my dad, and my older brother.

  I don’t need what’s on this drive to feel a connection. I don’t want it. I want Gil back. The Gil who protected me in every foster home. The Gil who taught me how to ride a bike and throw a punch and lock my emotions deep inside where they’d never hurt me.

  But I’ll never have that again. Gil’s dead, and even with my family around me, I always feel alone.

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  Trevor

  “Gil, last warning. You know I’m faster. Better. We have to take you in.”

  “Never.”

  The sound of gunfire wakes me from sleep with a shout, and I sit up and rub my chest where Gil’s bullet fractured a rib. Even five years later, I can still feel the bone cracking. Still smell the blood all around me.

  Gil was only one of forty-seven kills I made for the CIA. But his ghost haunts me more than any other. The rest…faceless, nameless men—and two women—I never thought twice about. I was following orders. Doing my job. Until I had to kill my best friend.

  Staggering out to the kitchen, I turn the tap on full blast and fill a glass with cold water. I’m tempted to go for the vodka, but that never ends well. Last year on the anniversary of Gil’s death, I went on a bender and didn’t show up to work at Second Sight for three days. Dax threatened to fire me.

  My phone buzzes on the counter with a new text message.

  Austin: I don’t know why I wake up at the exact time he died every fucking year. How does my brain even know?

  Shit. I woke up at 3:14 a.m. It’s an hour later in Caracas. I fired the kill shot at 4:14 a.m. local time.

  My fingers are clumsy with my emotions running so high, so I activate voice to text. “Just got back from the west coast yesterday. You should have seen it, man. Dax and Evianna, Ryker and Wren, Ripper and Cara. A triple wedding. When I was there, for a day or two, I almost forgot. Almost.”

  The phone rings, and I put it on speaker so I can open my kitchen window. The frigid air helps ground me. Reminds me I’m in Boston, not Caracas. That I’m safe. That I have friends. A group of people I can count on.


  “Dani called me,” Austin says. “Otherwise, I might have forgotten too. And what does that say about me?”

  “That you’re human.” The kitchen window isn’t enough, so I head out onto my balcony. I’m only wearing a pair of pajama pants, and my feet are bare. The icy concrete makes my soles tingle, and the wind sends snowflakes pelting my chest.

  “She wanted to talk about him. Wanted me to talk about him.”

  Rubbing my chest where the bullet hit, I sink into the snow-covered patio chair. I don’t care that I’m quite literally freezing my ass off. The physical pain is a hell of a lot better than the mental anguish. “She didn’t really know him. He never let her in. Not after your parents adopted them.”

  “If I could change one thing,” Austin says, his voice rough, “it would be that. He never should have cut her out of his life.”

  Dani’s heart-shaped face flashes through my memories. Her laugh. Her smile. She was always so real. Like she saw everything about a person with just one glance. “If it weren’t for Dani, her mother never would have escaped Venezuela. And if Gil hadn’t cut her out, who knows? His bastard of a father might have gone after her too. You know that.”

  “I know.” The defeat in his tone matches my own emotions. This is the one day a year I let myself feel…much of anything. “She’s the best of all of us, you know.”

  I choke out a laugh. “Yeah. She is. She still working for the Post?” I’m not sure why I’m asking. I read every article she writes. But Austin doesn’t know that.

  “Yep. International affairs and human rights.”

  Whistling, I reach my tolerance for the cold and snow and push to my feet. “Want to pour one out for Gil sometime next week?”

  “I wish I could. The President’s sending me on this bullshit publicity tour. I’m supposed to convince a dozen foreign governments that we don’t torture people anymore.”

  My snort escapes before I can stop it, and over the line, Austin snaps a warning, “Trev.”

  “I know, I know. Officially, we don’t condone any acts of torture. But you and I both know we still have plenty of black sites all over the world. I’m not having this debate with you.” Shutting my patio door, I head back to my darkened bedroom.

  “And you don’t need to. Fucking hell, Trev. What Gil did to me... What he told me he did to dozens of others. What happened to Richards. McCabe. Holloway. Do you really think I condone that shit?”

  “No! I never did.” Frustration and a hint of shame start to warm my chilled skin, and I sink back onto the mattress and rest my elbows on my knees. “How long’s the trip?”

  “Three weeks. I leave day after tomorrow. I’ll call you when I’m back.” And with that, the call disconnects.

  Fuck. I don’t have a lot of friends, outside of the men and women at Second Sight, the security and investigations firm I work for. And I just insulted one of the few people I know I can always count on. Tossing the phone on the nightstand, I sink back against the pillows and try for the sleep I know won’t come.

  Walking into Second Sight knowing Dax isn’t here is odd. He and his new wife, Evianna, are spending a week in Canada with Ripper, Cara, Ryker, and Wren. Watching the three couples get married just a couple of days ago made me feel almost…normal.

  After rescuing Ford’s fiancée, Joey, from Afghanistan, discovering Ripper’d been held there for six years and tortured so brutally he didn’t even remember who he was, then pulling off an extraction the likes of which belongs in a fucking movie, I feel like I’ve found where I belong. Even if I don’t really know how to act around any of them. Not really. Not after being bounced from foster home to foster home. When my dad died, I was only eight, and the system swallowed me up and never let me go. Too many times, I thought maybe I’d found my family, only to have the system yank me back again.

  I nod at Ford as I head to the coffee machine. I couldn’t get back to sleep after talking to Austin last night and I’m intent on two things this morning. Caffeine, and silence.

  Until I see a flash of gold on his hand. I stop mid-pour, the coffee teasing me with its rich scent, but this is more important. “Uh, Ford?”

  He arches a brow, but the hint of a smile tells me he knows exactly what I’m going to ask. “Morning, Trev.”

  “Want to tell me about that?” I nod towards the hand he has braced on his hip.

  “Private little ceremony on the beach in San Diego.” He grins, using his thumb to twist the ring around his finger. “Felt so wrong to take this off in Snoqualmie, but after what the three of them went through…”

  “It was their day.” I top off my cup, then offer to fill Ford’s as well. “So, tell me about it.”

  He leans against the counter, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Joey didn’t want anything fancy. Just her mom, her sister Geri, and Geri’s husband.” Ford’s eyes take on a warmth I hadn’t seen until he found Joey again, and he shakes his head. “Should have happened twenty years ago. Now, everything feels…right.”

  Sliding the coffee pot back under the machine, I meet his gaze. “Everything was right the moment the two of you saw one another again. Congratulations, Ford.” I clap him on the shoulder, the closest I ever get to a hug, and smile. “And make sure Joey knows if you ever fuck up, she can call me to kick your ass.”

  He laughs, and I muster just enough energy to join in before heading for my office with my coffee cupped protectively in my hands. As happy as I am for Second Sight’s co-owner and his new bride, I’ve reached the limit of my ability to handle small talk.

  Dammit. It’s been five years. I should be…better. I should at least be able to sleep through the fucking night. But somehow, seeing my friends find their forevers has made the nights since ten times worse.

  Dax, Ryker, and Ripper are brothers in every sense of the word. When they’re together, it’s so obvious, it’s painful. I had that once. Now, my best friend’s dead—by my hand—and Austin? Last night broke something between us. Or at least damaged it. The bond we shared was forged through shared pain. I didn’t think anything was strong enough to sever it.

  Turns out, I’m an idiot.

  So I’ll hide out in my office and catch up on all of the emails waiting for me after a few days spent across the country. Maybe after that, chasing a lonely dinner with three or four shots of vodka won’t sound like such a bad idea.

  Chapter Two

  Dani

  I should have known better than to try to work today. I spent half the night staring at the ceiling and the other half pacing with occasional breaks to pull out the flash drive Gil sent me right before he died.

  And then at 5:00 a.m., I finally opened it.

  Luis Rojas.

  Born: March 4, 1961 in Calabozo, Venezuela

  Current Location: Unknown

  The drive is still sitting on my nightstand, but the information is burned into my brain. Now that I know his name, I can’t stop thinking about who this man might be.

  The Pritchards are the only family I’ve ever known—besides Gil. They adopted us when I was nine and pulled us out of a group home where we were regularly punished for speaking Spanish to one another.

  Though Gil and I had vowed not to trust another adult for as long as we lived, after six months of constant love, acceptance, and support from Betsy, Steve, and their son, Austin, I gave in and started calling them Mom and Dad.

  They’re my family. My parents. The only ones I’ve ever needed.

  The one photo next to my computer is the very first picture we took together. It was our second day with them, and they insisted a photo of all five of us belonged on their wall.

  So why can’t I stop thinking about Luis Rojas?

  After I boot up my computer, I pull out my thinking putty—so very like the childhood toy that I used to stretch over the comics in the newspaper so it would pick up their images—and start squeezing it and rolling it around in my hands. It’s silly—needing something to help me focus—but it works. Plus, my hands are crazy
strong now.

  This one is purple and sparkles, and I let my eyes unfocus as the putty stretches and compresses between my fingers. I have an article on the latest trade agreement between Mexico and the United States due by 5:00 p.m., and I’m way behind.

  Snapping my gaze to my monitor, I read over what I’ve already written.

  The House of Representatives voted to adopt revisions to the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) on Monday. The bill passed with an overwhelming majority of 391 to 35, signaling a rare bipartisan effort to amend the agreement.

  Debate on the House floor lasted under an hour, with only five representatives taking longer than their allotted five minutes.

  I need at least another six paragraphs before my editor will call the story complete, and yesterday, every time I tried to research the history of NAFTA, my eyes crossed and the words on the screen stopped making any sense. Grief is a strange thing.

  Gil and I weren’t even close. But the idea of him in the world reassured me.

  Today, it’s not Gil stealing my focus. It’s Luis Rojas. My birth father. I switch over to Google and enter his name. There are thousands of results, so I start narrowing my search. Venezuela. But when I enter his home town, Calabozo, the first result contains a photo.

  My own eyes stare back at me. He’s so serious in the picture, and as I read the article, I realize why. “Oh, my God.”

  Luis Rojas has been jailed for the last six months in The Crypt, one of the most notorious prisons in Venezuela. At least, that’s what his youngest brother believed before he, too, went missing.

  “Luis tried to expose the horrors of the Farías government’s human rights violations, and the secret police wish to silence him. But we will never be silenced. The Democrática Resistencia will fight for the rights of all Venezuelan people until our last breaths. They can torture him and lock him away in The Crypt, but he will never stop fighting for Venezuela!”