“No. You’re staying in the room with the door locked.” I don’t want to leave her at all, but I need weapons and intel, and I can’t take her with me. It’s way too dangerous for her on the streets at night.
“Trevor, did you miss the big, beefy security guards at every exterior door? The keycard scanners on the elevators? No one’s going to come after me here.” A pair of running shorts and a sports bra in her hand, she heads for the bathroom and shuts the door in my face when I try to follow her.
“You don’t know that. I promised Austin I’d keep you safe, and I can’t do that if you’re wandering around without me.”
“I won’t be wandering,” she calls through the door. “I’ll be running. I have your number programmed into my phone. If you want me to check in every half hour, I will. But I’m going to the gym.”
When she emerges, I have to stop my jaw from hanging open. A small tattoo just above the waistband of her running shorts draws my gaze, which is good, because otherwise, I’d be staring directly at her breasts encased in the tight running bra. Because, fuck. This isn’t the girl I crushed on in high school. Or even the woman I’d wanted to make mine in our twenties.
Her abs flex as she huffs out a breath, making the delicate outlines of a compass rose move, almost as if the needle’s searching for its true north. And then I realize that’s exactly what the tattoo represents. Dani’s true north. Coordinates encircle the design, numbers that ping around at the back of my thoughts.
“Mind letting me get a shirt?” Hands on her hips, she tilts her head back to meet my gaze, and only then do I realize I’m blocking her way.
“Sorry.” I have to force the word out, then command my feet to move. Get your head in the game, asshole. You can’t protect her if you let your dick do all the thinking.
The bright red running shirt with Bermuda Half-Marathon printed across the front clings to her curves and does nothing to erase the sight of that damn tattoo from my memory.
Tucking her keycard and phone into her pocket, she heads for the door, but I cut her off, my hand covering hers as she goes for the knob. “Please, Danisaur. I know you’re a badass, but this country will eat you up and spit out your bones, and I…”
I don’t want to lose you.
“I’ve been all over the world, TJ.” She twists her hand so our fingers intertwine. “Afghanistan, Darfur, Argentina, Russia… I have pretty good instincts, and I know how to fight. Six years of Aikido training.” Her full lips curve, and she squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to protect me from everything.”
“Yes, I do.” We’re so close, the heat of her seeps into my chest, and my dick jerks behind my jeans. In any other circumstances, I’d press her against the wall and kiss her until she couldn’t remember why she ever wanted to walk out of this room, but Dani’s…off limits.
She levers up on the balls of her feet, then places both hands on my shoulders to steady herself. We’re almost eye to eye now, and her gaze holds so much power, I almost step back. “I’ll be fine. I’ll text you when I’m back in the room.”
Her fingers slide down my biceps and tighten on the sleeves of my shirt. Before I know what’s happening, she jerks me around, her forearm pressed to my neck, and forces me to the floor. My instincts kick in, and I barely manage to stop myself from sweeping my arm out and taking her down with me.
“Ryo katadori,” she says as she offers to help me up. “See? Not so helpless.”
“Unfair attack.” I ignore her hand and roll to my feet. “Also, dangerous. Don’t ever do that to me again.” Frustration sharpens my words, and I stalk back towards my own room, pausing at the threshold to give her one last hard stare. “Gym and back here. Text me every thirty minutes. No exceptions.”
After my ultimatum, I shut the door with more force than necessary and run my hands through my hair. I can’t protect someone who doesn’t want to be protected. I hear her slip out of her room, and the urge to follow her, to stay glued to her side, is so strong, I have my hand on the knob before I realize I’ve moved.
“Enough,” I mutter. “Leo’s waiting.”
In under five minutes, I’ve hidden two ceramic blades—one under the mattress and another between the folds of one of the bathroom towels—and strung pieces of translucent filament across the windows in both rooms. On my way out, I drape another strand over the top of my door and let it hang down three inches, well above a normal man’s eye line.
Repeating the process with Dani’s door—I made the front desk attendant give me keys for both rooms—I kick myself for losing my temper. If I hadn’t, I could have shown her what to look for.
As it is, I just hope I get back here before she finishes her run.
Chapter Seven
Trevor
The hotel is only two blocks from the Plaza Bolívar. Its history doesn’t escape me. Political dissidents used to be executed here, and in the dark corners of the square, I can almost see their ghosts.
Locals fill small cafes and line up at food carts. The scents make my stomach rumble. Finding a table at the back of one of the bars on the outskirts of the square, I order a flight of rum and a plate of arepas while I wait for Leo.
A tall, dark-haired man with an eye patch and a long scar running down his right cheek from under the patch to the corner of his mouth picks his way among the other tables, his gait uneven.
I stand as he grabs the chair across from me. He extends his left hand, his right not fully functional these days, and we shake awkwardly. “Trevor Moana. Never thought I’d see you back here again.”
“Never thought you would either.” I signal for the young woman who took my order, and Leo Basher slides a small messenger bag off his shoulder and shoves it under the table between my feet. “You get everything I asked for?”
He nods, orders his own rum, and then leans closer. “I threw in a couple of new toys as a bonus. Magnetic GPS tracking chip, the CIA’s smallest earwigs currently available outside of Langley, and something only the techs have seen.” With what I suspect is a wink—hard to tell since he only has one eye—he leans his good arm on the table. “Figured you wouldn’t have set foot here without a serious reason, so some extra help would be appreciated.”
“Damn straight.”
“So? What is it?”
Leo and I never kept secrets from one another unless we were forced to, so I rake my fingers through my hair and wait for the server to drop off our drinks. “To stupid misadventures,” I say as I hoist my glass.
“And their consequences,” he replies.
The rum is smooth as shit, and I savor the silky burn as it slides down my throat. “Damn. Can’t get anything this good in the States without spending a fucking fortune.”
“Not going to tell me?” Leo asks.
“Gil Monroe’s sister.”
Leo whistles—or tries to. The right half of his face has extensive nerve damage. The Loma Collectivo tortured him eight years ago. They wanted the names of all of the CIA’s assets in the region. Leo resisted for a week until I located him in a warehouse an hour from here. Those fuckers were my first three kills.
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. She’s a journalist. Arranged some big interview at The Crypt.” I take another sip of rum and meet Leo’s gaze. “You ever hear of a Luis Rojas?”
“Yeah. He and his brothers, Andrés and Franco, have a large following in Venezuela. Luis and Andrés disappeared, and Franco went into hiding. No one has seen them in months. El Presidente confirmed that Luis had been jailed for treason, but Andrés…rumors are, he’s dead.” Leo wipes a sheen of rum from his lips, then orders a second glass when the server drops off my plate of arepas. “Doble, por favor.”
“Spill,” I say as I pick up one of the arepas—a messy sandwich with shredded beef and a spicy crema between two crunchy cornmeal discs. “What am I in for that I’m not expecting?”
Tossing back the remains of the first drink, Leo shakes his head. “My friend, I have no idea. But Fa
rías isn’t one to forgive. Or admit to any of the shit we know is going on at The Crypt. If Gil’s sister—Daniella?”
“Dani.”
“If Dani was able to gain access to Luis Rojas, it was only because Farías has some purpose behind letting him be interviewed. You’ll be with her?” Concern creases his brow, and he takes a healthy swig from the second drink.
“Yes. I’m her official photographer. As far as the government is concerned.” I’m suddenly no longer hungry, but lack of fuel is just as dangerous on a mission as lack of sleep, so I force myself to take a second bite, then a third.
“Trev, The Crypt is an appropriate name. It’s nothing but an office building above ground. But below? Fuck. The official prisoners are held on the first sublevel. The cells aren’t even half bad. Small, but humane. Go deeper, though…that’s a whole different shitshow. Insist on interviewing Rojas above ground. Do not let them take you down there.”
“I’ve heard the rumors.” Prisoners held for days in stress positions, tied to chairs, forced to sleep bent almost in half in a cell so small, they can’t stand up. Freezing temperatures. “As far as I know, Dani doesn’t have any details about the interview yet other than the time.”
“Find out.” He sets his now empty glass down hard enough the rum left in my glass splashes halfway up the side. “I’m fucking serious.”
“You’re fucking drunk.”
Leo lurches to his feet, then reaches into the pocket of his linen pants. A hundred Bolívar note lands on the table between us, and he grabs my shoulder and squeezes hard enough to send my defenses into overdrive. “Don’t judge me, you bastard. You try living like this.”
Two seconds later, he’s back in his chair with my hand around his right wrist, which is now bent to the point of pain. “Watch yourself, Basher. You don’t want to fight me.”
“It’s better than going to your funeral.”
As soon as I release him, he’s up again, and this time, I let him walk away. I got what I came for. Firepower and intel. He’ll get his shit under control after he sleeps off the rum, and he knows better than to compromise my cover. We’re brothers in arms, bonded by blood and pain, and I trust him with my life. But that doesn’t mean I won’t kick his ass if he touches me again. Or can’t keep himself sober long enough to have a fucking conversation.
When the server comes over to check on me, I order a second plate of arepas to go and force myself to clean my plate. I need to get back to Dani and prepare for tomorrow.
Dani
My timer goes off, and I jump onto the side rails of the treadmill and pick up my phone. Though I hate feeling like I’m a teenager checking in with Mom and Dad again, I promised Trevor I’d text him, and I keep my promises.
Close to 4 miles in. The gym’s empty. I’m fine.
He replies with a terse: Stay that way.
Great. I’m traveling with the world’s greatest conversationalist. Hopping back on the treadmill, I push myself faster, trying to banish the demons that have haunted me since I first looked up my birth father’s name.
When I hit eight miles, I stagger over to the water dispenser and fill a plastic cup to the brim. Even inside with air conditioning, Venezuela is almost unbearably humid. The run and the icy liquid help focus my thoughts, and I head back to my room, just like I said I would.
Trevor hasn’t returned yet, so I lock up, then get in the shower. My muscles ache after so many hours in the air, and when I spill some of my jasmine shampoo into my hands, the familiar scent relaxes me almost immediately.
I can do this. Walk into that prison tomorrow and look Luis Rojas in the eyes for the first time. Will he have any idea who I am? Will he care? Will I?
As I exit the bathroom wearing only a loose tank and a pair of sleep shorts, movement catches my eye, and I lunge for my phone on the bed.
“Whoa. It’s just me.” Trevor stands in the doorway between our two rooms, a foil-wrapped plate in his hands. “I brought you dinner.”
“Oh.” Heat creeps up my neck, and I realize how little I’m wearing. Even though more of me is covered now than when I brazenly walked by him in a sports bra and running shorts, I feel so much more exposed. My nipples tighten under the tank, and I turn to my backpack and fumble around for a sweatshirt, only to realize I didn’t bring one because we’re in Venezuela and it’s the middle of summer. Giving up, I turn back and cross my arms over my chest. “Thanks. Did you get what you needed from Leo?”
“Yep.” He sets the plate on the little table in the corner, along with a plastic knife and fork, then turns on his heel and heads back for his room.
There’s something wrong. He’s twitchy, and a muscle in his jaw is working overtime. I’d swear he was chewing gum if I didn’t know better. He’s close to the edge, but the edge of what, I don’t know.
“Trevor?” He stops, and I scramble to figure out what to say to keep him here. Just like every other time he’s walked away from me. “This smells great.”
“I couldn’t remember if you ate meat.” He shrugs, but still doesn’t face me. “So I got you a shredded beef, a swordfish, and a veggie.”
“I like everything but zucchini and SpaghettiOs.”
“What do you have against SpaghettiOs?” he asks as he finally turns around.
“One of our foster homes, that’s literally all we got for dinner. Every night for six months. I can’t stand them anymore.” My admission shifts something in his demeanor.
“For me it was Hamburger Helper.” Raw emotion flashes in his eyes. Grief, sadness. A hint of shame, maybe. But he blinks, and it’s gone again.
“Did you eat?” If I keep asking questions, maybe he won’t leave me alone with all these racing thoughts I wish I could ignore. I want to tell him about Luis Rojas before he meets the man tomorrow. But I have no idea how to even start the conversation.
Trevor leans against the door jamb and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I ate.”
I pick up one of the arepas and take a messy bite, causing a dollop of crema to fall directly onto my chest, just above the tank. Trevor’s gaze snaps to my fingers as I hurriedly swipe the mess up with a napkin.
And then he adjusts himself. Oh God. It’s subtle—the motion of his hips. But it’s there. And now my eyes want to stray below his belt. This is ridiculous. “Will you just sit down? Please?”
It’s self-defense. That’s what I tell myself. If he’s sitting across from me, I won’t be able to ogle him.
“I need to get organized for tomorrow,” he says, but he doesn’t leave, and I angle my head towards the chair.
“Trevor, you are the most infuriating man on the planet.”
A dry laugh bursts from his lips. “No, I'm pretty sure that title goes to Ryker McCabe.”
“Who?”
“A guy I've worked with a time or two. You'll meet him someday.”
Arching my brows, I ask, “Is he going to refuse to talk to me too? Warn me now, because I don’t like feeling like a fool for asking.”
“Fine. ’ll be right back.” Two minutes later, he sets two beers on the table, one for each of us, and pulls a bottle opener from his pocket. “The mini-bars here are well-stocked.”
“Thanks. I needed this.” I hold up the bottle and offer to toast, and reluctantly, Trevor touches the neck of his beer to mine. “You’re pretty damn considerate, you know that?”
He chokes on his sip of beer and his hand flies to his nose. Passing him a napkin, I try to hide my smile as he swipes at his face. “Considerate?” His voice is hoarse, and he takes another swig before he manages to speak again. “What does that even mean?”
Leaning forward and resting my elbows on the table, I meet his gaze. “It means you’re dancing around me like I’m on fire and you’re Frosty the Snowman. I don’t bite, Trev. You won’t melt if you engage in normal, human conversation with me.”
He sits back and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s so ingrained in him—that motion. Whenever he needs to think. The motion ca
uses his bicep to strain against his t-shirt and exposes a long scar on the back of his arm that I’ve never seen before. Then again, I’ve hardly laid eyes on him in almost a decade. Not since he stood me up and left me sobbing at the summit of East Rock.
After he blows out a long, slow breath, Trevor meets my gaze. “I don’t know how,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “Dani, I killed—“
“I know!” Shoving my plate aside, I stalk over to the window and peer out a crack in the drapes. The city stretches out before me, a mix of bright lights and patches of total darkness—the division between the rich and the poor. “I’ll never forget what happened to Gil, but how many times do I need to tell you that I don’t blame you for it?”
“At least a thousand more.”
In my periphery, he stands, but before he can reach the door between our two rooms, I catch up to him. This time, though, I don’t touch him. Just side step him so I’m blocking his path, cross my arms, and stare up at him. “Count them. I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you. That’s three. I figure I can get to a thousand in what? An hour?”
“Stop. Don’t make me into something—or someone—I’m not. Please, Danisaur. I’m not a hero. I’m not a good man. Or at least I’m not good for…you.” The last word escapes harsh and rough, and combined with the use of my old nickname, I can feel myself dancing with the edge of control. My eyes burn, and I duck around him, letting him flee back to the safety of his own space. At the last moment, right before I slam the door, his hand shoots out and presses flat to the wood. “My rules, remember? This stays unlocked and cracked. All night.”
“Don’t you remember anything from high school, TJ? I never follow the rules.” Batting his hand away, I shut the door firmly and flip the lock.
At least he left both beers. I think I’m going to need them.
Call Sign: Redemption Page 6