Call Sign: Redemption

by Eddy, Patricia D

  Chapter Eight

  Trevor

  I stared at the ceiling for two hours before I fell asleep, and my dreams…they left me feeling hollow. Over and over again, I relived the night I broke Dani’s heart.

  All for nothing. Out of fear and misplaced trust in a man I should have known was no longer my friend.

  I can’t stop thinking about that tattoo on her hip. The coordinates are burned into my brain, and when I hear her moving around in the other room, I boot up my tablet and enter them into a search engine.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  I expected to see the Pritchard house. But instead, they take me to the summit of East Rock in New Haven. Where Dani always used to go when she was upset. Where I proved her right. Men suck and you can’t count on anyone but yourself.

  I found her there dozens of times over the years when Austin had been a jerk—as only teenage boys can be—and was too much of a coward to face his little sister. There’s a reason I call her Danisaur. That girl could blow the roof off a place with her temper.

  The compass had that as her true north. Why? Because that’s where she so often found comfort? Or because that’s where she learned the world is a shitty place and people let you down? I have to know.

  But not today. Today we’re heading into the lion’s den, and I have no idea what we’re going to find.

  When I hear the shower in her room, I drop the robe I’m wearing onto the bed and pull on a pair of black boxer briefs. Specially ordered from a guy who used to be a spook, they’re tailored with four hidden pockets that are lined with a special material made to foil x-rays and metal detectors.

  In the first, at the back of the waistband, I tuck one of the GPS chips. Ford has the ID and frequency it’s using, so if things go sideways, he can find me.

  Next, one of the small ceramic knives slips into a pocket at my hip. On the other side, I add a flat multi-tool. And next to my dick? A micro-thin lock pick. Adjusting myself, I run my hands over each pocket to verify the lining is thick enough to hide my shit from a standard pat down.

  “Trevor—“ Dani’s gasp makes me jerk. She’s standing in the doorway wrapped in her robe. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. The door wasn’t closed.” Cheeks flushed, she whirls and heads back to her room.

  I pull on a shirt and follow her. “Rules, remember? These doors are never supposed to close. You’re lucky I didn’t pick the lock and open yours last night. And what are you apologizing for? You’ve seen me in my swim trunks hundreds of times.”

  “You weren’t, um...masturbating all those times.”

  My laugh surprises her, and she gives me a look of disbelief as I half-double over, my hands on my thighs. “Dani, you need to watch more porn. Or better porn. Most men don’t jerk themselves off through their underwear.”

  She sputters a little, and I pull the ceramic blade from the pocket on my right thigh. “I was making sure this—and a few other things—were properly hidden.”

  That shuts her up. It also puts a look on her unadorned face I can’t quite read. “You’re...you really think you’re going to need that? The Farías government knows I’m here on assignment for the Post. They’re not going to attack me at the prison.”

  “Maybe not. But I’d be a shit bodyguard if I wasn’t prepared for the worst.” Sliding the blade back into its pocket, I run my hand over my hip again to ensure I didn’t disturb the smooth lines of the underwear. “What can I do for you?”

  Her cheeks flush a dark crimson, like I just asked her favorite sexual position, and she folds her arms over her chest. “I wanted to know if you needed help with the camera equipment.”

  “I’m good.“

  “Okay. Well, um...I need to get dressed.” She stares pointedly at the door, and I take the hint and retreat to my room. Dammit. Without any makeup on, there’s a vulnerability to her that’s sexy as hell, and after last night, I just want to take her in my arms and kiss her until she forgets her own name.

  But, I can’t. And twelve hours from now, we’ll be on a plane to the States. After that, we’ll go back to being strangers. And that’s probably for the best.

  The drive to the prison leaves us both on edge. Lane markings in Caracas are suggestions that everyone ignores, and in places, cars fly down the roads five across. Two kilometers ahead, The Crypt looms. The sixteen floors above ground house the Bolivarian Intelligence Service. Windows shine in the late morning sun, though the structure is foreboding with its dark concrete walls and sharp angles.

  Dani doesn’t say a word the whole time, her gaze fixed on a small notebook in her lap. Before we left, I slipped a GPS tracker into her bag, hidden inside a ballpoint pen.

  “You okay, Danisaur?” We’re trapped in a long line of cars at a stoplight, and she sighs as she closes the notebook and then rubs the back of her neck.

  “I didn’t sleep much last night,” she admits. “Otherwise, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me, Trevor. This is my job, and I’m really good at it.”

  “You are.” She looks surprised, and I glance over at her, the corners of my mouth twitching into a smile. “I’ve read every story you’ve ever published.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I want to tell her how proud I am of her. How much I admire her. But I don’t have the words. At least not ones I’m ready to say. Like how much I worried about her when she went to Darfur or how glad I was to see her byline in the Post once she’d returned.

  “You never said anything. Hell, we haven’t talked in what? Eight years?” A hint of pain creeps into her voice, though she does her best to hide it. “Why didn’t you...?”

  “We had this discussion last night. What was I supposed to say to you? ‘Hey, Dani. Long time no talk. Sorry I had to kill your brother, but that story you wrote on the Congolese water crisis was amazing’?”

  “Point made.” She turns away to stare out the window as we make the left turn into The Crypt’s gated parking lot. At the entry booth, a man carrying an AK-47 lumbers over to the car.

  “¿Cuál es su propósito aquí?”

  Dani leans over, close enough I can smell her shampoo, and replies, “Estamos aquí para entrevistar a un preso. Me llamo es Dani Monroe, y él es Travis Lejune.”

  Good. She remembered my alias. Trevor Moana can’t step foot in this country ever again, but Wren—Second Sight’s tech genius—created half a dozen fake identities for each of us, and this is Travis Lejune’s first trip to Venezuela.

  “Your Spanish is very good,” the guard replies.

  “So’s your English.” Dani passes him our press credentials, and he takes them inside his little booth and picks up the phone.

  After a brief discussion with whoever’s on the other end, he nods, hangs up, and returns to the vehicle. “Park in the first row. You will be met.”

  We follow the arrows through the lot and find a space less than a hundred feet from the building’s entrance. “Remember, Danisaur,” I say quietly, “my rules. You don’t go anywhere without me.”

  She nods, and as soon as we reach the door, a man in a military uniform with close to a dozen medals pinned to the lapels approaches us, flanked by two soldiers carrying pistols and AKs.

  “Señorita Monroe. I am General Ruben Ochoa. Welcome to La Cripta.”

  Dani

  General Ochoa wears a fake smile along with his many commendations.

  “Please come with me,” he says, and Trevor keeps his hand on the small of my back as we follow the man. His two armed companions fall in to step behind us, and I fight every instinct I have not to look back at them.

  Men like this, in countries like Venezuela, expect to be feared. Bullies. All of them. I try to motion to Trevor to drop his hand, but he’s not looking at me. He’s scanning our surroundings constantly. Likely mapping all of the potential exits and any threats I don’t see.

  When I quicken my steps to put a few inches between us, he finally pays attention, and I give him a quick shake of my head. His eyes say it all. He’s not ha
ppy about any of this.

  “Señorita Monroe, you will be in here,” General Ochoa says as he scans a keycard over a door sensor. Two female soldiers wait inside, one heavily armed. The other wears a pair of purple skin-tight gloves. “Señior Lejune, please follow me to the next room.”

  “We stay together,” Trevor says.

  “I am sorry.” The general shakes his head. “But we cannot have that. You will be searched before you are allowed into the detention facility. I assure you, Señorita Monroe will be fine.”

  Trevor’s about to go apeshit on the general. I can feel the anger rolling off of him in waves, and I step between the two men, placing a hand on Trevor’s chest as I stare up at the general. “You’ll have to forgive my photographer, General Ochoa. This is his first overseas assignment, and he has this mistaken belief that he has to protect me.” Turning to Trevor, I level him with a hard stare. “This is standard procedure for entering most of the world’s prisons. Get over it, Lejune. You’re here to take pictures only.”

  “Da—Ms. Monroe, I’m not quite as inexperienced as you think,” he growls. “And next time, maybe you should brief me on standard procedures before I have a chance to make a fool out of myself.”

  Great. I’m going to get an earful for this later, but at least he turns to the general and says, “My apologies, General. My previous job required me to be much more...protective of my colleagues.”

  The general chuckles and motions for Trevor to follow him while I enter the first room and set my bag on the table. “Buenos dias,” I say to the two women. “Me llamo Dani Monroe. Y usted?”

  “Strip,” the one wearing gloves says to me. I guess niceties are out the window. The name tag on her uniform reads Chavez. The other one is Vidal.

  I shed my jacket, laying it carefully on the table, then stoop to loosen the laces on my shoes and step out of them. Two minutes later, I’m standing in front of them in only my bra and panties.

  Chavez motions for me to hold out my arms and spread my legs, then gives me the most thorough pat down I’ve had outside of the interview I did from Fukushima. That one required a cavity search, and I stifle a shudder at the memory.

  “You may dress. We will examine your bag now,” Chavez says when she steps back, satisfied I’m not wearing a wire or hiding any contraband or weapons.

  “Gracias.”

  “Your accent is quite good,” Vidal says, earning a glare from Chavez.

  “I was around native speakers for most of my childhood.”

  By the time I put my shoes back on, Chavez is done checking out my bag, and she steps back, then presses a button on the microphone she wears clipped to her shoulder. “Esta limpia.”

  The radio squawks once, then the general responds, “Show her out.“

  He doesn’t say a thing about Trevor, and I hope to God he didn’t protest the search. If he did...

  Relief floods me when I step outside the small room and see Trevor standing just in front of the general. He looks like he’s about to lose his shit. Until he sees me. Then, the change in his expression threatens to send heat creeping up my cheeks, but I shove those thoughts somewhere they can’t distract me as I return to his side.

  “Now that the unpleasantries have been taken care of,” the general says as he leads us down a long hallway, “may I offer you water or coffee, Señorita Monroe? Señor Lejune?”

  He opens a door to a lavish office. His, obviously, and gestures to guest chairs as he takes a seat behind his desk.

  “No, thank you, General. I’d like to get to the interview as quickly as possible. Our flight back to the United States leaves at 10:00 p.m., and, as you know, security at the airport is very thorough.” I keep my tone light but firm. It’s the only way to deal with a man like this. One used to having his every order followed. One used to being feared.

  “I am afraid we have many rules to go over first, Señorita Monroe. La Cripta is only for the most dangerous of Venezuela’s criminals, and we cannot possibly allow you to see Rojas until you understand them all.” General Ochoa slides a folder from a stack on his desk and opens it. “Shall we begin?”

  Chapter Nine

  Dani

  I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve nodded or said “I understand” in the past two hours. General Ochoa’s list of rules is five pages long, and not only did we have to verbally acknowledge all of them, he had agreements drawn up that we had to sign.

  Luis Rojas will be inside the interrogation room when we arrive. We’re not to touch him, ask him to get up, stand, or move at all. If we leave the room for any reason, we can’t go back in. No video recording, and we’re only allowed three still images. My voice recorder was approved, but the list of questions I’m not allowed to ask takes up two solid pages.

  Most of this doesn’t surprise me. Interviewing prisoners is always a crapshoot—especially in foreign countries—but I’ve never had this many restrictions imposed on me.

  The two armed soldiers who greeted us escort us down another hallway and into an elevator. Trevor tenses at my side, but relaxes when we ascend to the third floor. Down another hall to the corner of the building, and one of the soldiers scans a keycard. After a beep, the door opens with a loud thunk, and the soldier motions for us to enter.

  This is it. I’m about to meet my father.

  “Dani?” Trevor’s hand settles on my shoulder. “You ready?”

  I peer up at him, hoping he’ll understand without words that this isn’t just any interview. Dammit. I should have told him last night. All of it. Even though he was being a jerk.

  “You can do this,” he says quietly as the soldier holding the door open clears his throat. “You can do anything.”

  Not this.

  “Señorita Monroe. Entrarás ahora,” the guard says and points emphatically.

  I take a deep breath, and Trevor’s scent wraps around me. It’s like the night sky after a summer’s rain. Fresh and clean, with a subtle hint of cypress underneath it all. It’s home. My home. It always has been.

  Yes. I can do this.

  Turning, I square my shoulders, adjust the strap of my messenger bag, and push past the soldiers and into the room.

  Luis Rojas sits on the far side of a large, metal table. His hands are cuffed to a thick ring welded to the top, and he’s dressed in a plain, gray shirt and pants. The difference between the man before me and the last photo of him on the internet is so dramatic, I have to school my face into a mask to hide my shock—and horror. He’s lost at least thirty pounds, and his cheeks are sunken. Yet he’s freshly shaven, and his hair is neat and clean, combed back away from his face. Streaks of gray thread through the dark brown strands.

  Behind me, Trevor stands as still as a statue, and he’s so close, I can feel his abs tense at my back. He sees it. How Luis’s eyes are the same shape as mine.

  “Señor Rojas?” I say as I hand my bag to Trevor and sit across from this man who helped bring me into the world. “Me llamo Dani Monroe. Encantado de conocerlo. ¿Habla Inglés?”

  “Si. Yes. I speak English,” he says. His words are slow and his voice holds a heavy rasp, as if he’s not used to talking, and he angles his head slightly as he stares at me. Does he know? Can he see it too?

  Trevor sets my voice recorder on the table in front of me, and I flip the switch. A moment later, the camera shutter clicks once. Two more photos before we hit our limit.

  “General Ochoa graciously agreed to facilitate this interview and has allowed me to record it. Is that acceptable?”

  “Yes.” Luis nods. “El General is a…reasonable man.”

  “Señor Rojas, can you tell me why you were arrested?”

  Taking a slow, deep breath, Luis flexes his fingers, then starts to work them like he’s squeezing an imaginary ball of thinking putty. I wish I could tell him I want to do the same thing. “I lied about Presidente Farías in order to incite violence.”

  It’s a canned answer. And not a truthful one. But it’s the only one he’s
allowed to give, I’m sure. “What lie did you tell?”

  “I told many, Señora.”

  “Señorita. Can you tell me what they were? These lies?”

  Luis looks from me to Trevor, then swallows hard. “I spoke to crowds all over the country,” he says. “I convinced many people that Presidente Farías was stealing from funds meant to help them. Using the money for his own gain.”

  “How did he do this? According to your lies?” My need to protect this man doesn’t surprise me, but I also have a responsibility to the Post to get the story I came for.

  “He demanded the people pay for social programs he never provided, for health care that was substandard, and for clean water processing plants that were never brought online. Those were the statements I made.” Luis’s gaze darts to ceiling behind me, and I kick myself for not checking for cameras. He quickly adds, “I have been shown proof all of those statements are untrue.”

  “Do you wish to recant now?” I ask.

  “There would be no point.” The resignation in his voice breaks my heart. He doesn’t believe he’ll ever get out of here. Not under a Farías regime. “I did not understand the repercussions of my actions. How much pain they would cause. Brother against brother, families torn apart…in feelings. Those scars will never heal. For that, I am deeply sorry.”

  “Are you being treated well here?” I’m testing the boundaries of the questions I’m allowed to ask, but I have to. Whatever his answer is, I’ll know if it’s the truth.

  As Luis starts to speak, Trevor snaps the second of our three allowed photos. “I am being treated as I should be.”

  Trevor

  Change the damn subject, Dani. You’re pushing your limits here.

  Standing by while this woman I’m supposed to be protecting dances with the very dangerous line General Ochoa drew in the sand is almost impossible. I want to carry her out of here, go right to the airport, and get her back to DC—or Boston—as soon as humanly possible. Because Luis Rojas is more dangerous than I thought. He’s not just some random political prisoner.