“I want a lawyer.”
Chapter Sixteen
Trevor
It’s cold in the back of the squad car, and despite the cops’ generosity in letting me get dressed, I don’t have socks or a jacket to keep me warm.
Or Dani, apparently. Knowing she published the story after I asked her not to crushes the hope that I’d finally found someone who would stick. Who’d stand by me no matter what.
The same sinking feeling I got every time a caseworker came to move me to another foster home chokes me, and it’s hard to keep breathing.
It was always going to happen. You’re not someone’s forever.
If I could drive a blade through my inner voice’s throat, I would. Too bad the asshole’s all in my head.
The cops don’t bother to hide their disdain for me, and they’re gossiping about the story in the Washington Post.
“This guy pissed off someone big down there in Venezuela,” the driver, Paverelli, says as he glances back at me in the rearview mirror. “Didn’t take more than an hour after the story broke for the warrants to come down.”
His partner, a younger kid named Doyle, pulls out his phone and taps the screen a few times. I sit up a little straighter, but I don’t have to. He starts reading out loud.
“The interview with Luis Rojas was cut short when he started talking about his family,” Doyle says. “Then there’s an editor’s note at the end of the article. ‘Two members of the national police attacked the Post’s reporter in her hotel room. She only escaped after a heroic effort by her bodyguard, a former intelligence officer with knowledge of the local area.’” Doyle tosses a gaze over his shoulder. “That’d be you, igit.”
The Boston slang for idiot ratchets my anger up another half a dozen notches, and I clench my jaw hard enough my molars start to ache. Venezuela is one of a handful of countries allowed to extradite suspects in capital crimes from the United States. I’m fucked if I can’t get in touch with Dax or Pritchard.
Dani might be okay. She’s only a “person of interest.”
Why do you care?
This time, I imagine kicking my inner voice in the balls. I can’t stop loving her no matter how angry I might be. Worry twists in my gut. She couldn’t have known how bad it would be. For either of us. But how could she put her career ahead of whatever we were building together?
I stare out the steel mesh-covered window at the early morning traffic. This city is my home. It’s where I found a family again. Where I made love to Dani for the first time and invited her into my family as well.
If I don’t play this exactly right, I’ll be on a plane by nightfall, and my family? Everyone at Second Sight? Dani? They’ll never see me again.
Two hours later, I’ve been strip searched, photographed, fingerprinted, and processed. The dark red jumpsuit marks me as an extremely dangerous offender, and I sit in a solitary holding cell in leg irons with my hands cuffed in front of me and attached to a chain around my waist.
Fuckers even decided they had to secure a cover to the handcuff locks. I have no idea why since the cavity search guaranteed I don’t have anything on my person I could use to pick the damn things.
Every time someone speaks to me, I demand my phone call. But so far, all my requests have been denied. I’m not surprised. If Farías has friends—or worse, spies—in the United States government, I’ll be on a rendition flight before dinnertime.
A uniformed guard passes by the small cell, and I push to my feet. “Hey. I still haven’t gotten my phone call.”
He stops, arches a brow, and snorts. “The van to take you to the airport is already on its way. I don’t know who you killed, Moana, but they have some powerful friends. There’s no phone call for you.”
“Wait,” I say as he turns to continue down the hall. “Look, can you at least tell me what happened to Daniella Monroe? She has nothing to do with this. She’s not being extradited as well, is she?”
“Don’t know anything about her,” the guard says. “Sorry.”
Sorry? If I could spread my legs more than the seventeen inches of chain running from ankle to ankle, I’d kick the metal bench I was sitting on. Though in these soft, canvas shoes, I’d also break more than one toe.
Sinking down, I let my head fall back against the concrete wall. Years of training on micro-expressions and body language tell me that the guard was honest with me, at least. He doesn’t know anything about Dani.
A strange ache forms deep in my chest and spreads until it’s all I can feel. For years, every time I got on a plane, someone died at my hand. Enough kills under your belt and you stop caring about the preciousness of your own life. Too many enemies.
But for the past few days, I had a reason to want to live again. Someone who wanted me, who didn’t care about all the darkness I carry inside. Or so I thought. Was I wrong? I’d give anything to talk to her. To ask why. But I’ll never get that chance. Once they force me onto that plane? I might as well stop fighting. I’m as good as dead.
Dani
The interrogation room is all one color. Dark gray. From the steel table to the walls to the uncomfortable chairs. Even the cement floor is gray, covered in that slick kind of paint nothing sticks to. Not blood or tears or...things I don’t want to think about.
I’m no longer handcuffed, and I was able to call Lincoln—or leave him a message, anyway—but a female officer brought me in here what feels like ages ago, and no one’s checked on me since.
The two-way mirror I face inspires visions of screaming and throwing this hard metal chair, just to get someone to talk to me. For all I know, half the officers in the precinct are watching me. When they first locked me in here, I paced, flexing my fingers again and again as I tried to imagine I had my thinking putty with me. But now, I’m too tired. The cuffs have my shoulders tense and strained, and a headache is splitting my skull.
How could Lincoln do this to me? To us? Before they let me call him, I saw a copy of the article. He took my unfinished piece, and despite the message I sent explicitly stating we could not publish it yet, added an editor’s note and did it anyway.
If I weren’t locked in this room, I’d kill him. Or make him wish he were dead.
Every time I blink, I see the betrayal on Trevor’s face. He thinks I broke my promise and no one let me tell him I didn’t.
I rest my arms on the table, hoping for a way to cradle my head, but it’s so awkward and painful, I don’t think I can stay in this position long. Lincoln better come through. Trevor’s in trouble. If he gets returned to Venezuela, they’ll kill him.
The loud thunk of the lock startles me awake. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember the dream I was having. I was back at The Crypt interviewing Luis, but this time, when the alarms went off, it wasn’t Luis the guards dragged away.
It was Trevor.
I sit up straighter and try to calm my racing heart. Until I see Lincoln. “You fucking asshole!” I scream as I push to my feet.
Two officers—one male and one female—sidestep him and block my path, and I try to see over them as the woman warns me to sit back down.
“Dani, hear me out, okay?” Lincoln says with his hands raised.
“Not unless you have a lawyer with you who’s going to get me out of here right now.” I stalk back to the chair and sit, dropping my cuffed hands onto the table and pointedly staring off into the corner of the room rather than at him.
“That’s why I’m here. To get you. The Post’s lawyers have been on this for two hours, and the judge has already agreed to drop the warrant for your arrest. You need to stay in the city for another day so they can process all the paperwork, but you’re not being charged with anything.”
“And Trevor?” A tiny spark of hope doesn’t have time to catch before Lincoln shakes his head.
“He’s already on a plane to Caracas.”
“No!” The word escapes on a wail, and I drop my head into my hands. “They’ll kill him!”
“Dani, c
ome on. Let’s get out of here.” As Lincoln touches my arm, I jerk away. “I didn’t mean—“
“I don’t care what you meant, Lincoln. I’m done trusting you. The only thing I want from you right now is a ride to Trevor’s office. And I wouldn’t even take that if I had any other way to get there.”
He nods, and the regret twisting his features is obvious, but I can’t think about that now. I need help, and only a couple of people in this world are in a position to give it to me.
Chapter Seventeen
Dani
Lincoln drapes a Washington Post jacket over my shoulders, and it takes everything in me not to throw it back in his face as we walk side by side from the precinct to his rental car. He came for me, made all the right calls for the Post’s lawyers to have the charges dropped, and I know he’s sorry for what he did.
I’m just too worried about Trevor to acknowledge any of that.
“Where is this place?” he asks once we’re in the car with the heater on full blast.
“Houston Street.” I hold out my hand for his phone, and when he unlocks it for me, search for the exact address and bring up driving directions. It’s after 2:00 p.m. in Boston, and just after 10:00 p.m. in Turkey, where Austin is.
“Give me your backup phone,” I say as Lincoln pulls out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
“My what?”
“You know you have one. I need it. Mine’s still at Trevor’s apartment, and we don’t have time to get it now.”
Lincoln sighs, then digs into his jacket pocket and comes up with a flip phone. “What?” he says as I look at him in disbelief. “It’s a hell of a lot harder to hack.”
“And probably almost as old as you are.”
Austin’s number—the one that’s only for family to use—goes to voicemail. “It’s Dani. I’m okay, so are Mom and Dad, but something’s happened and I need you. I’m on my way to Second Sight. I think you probably know the number—or can find it. I don’t have my phone and probably won’t for a few more hours, so call me there as soon as you get this, please.”
Disconnecting, I press the heels of my hands to my eyes and curl inward, trying to hold on to the scent of Trevor’s shirt and the memories from the night before.
“Dani?” Lincoln’s tone is full of regret, and I swallow hard before I drop my hands to look at him. “I’m so sorry. The story was too good. A reporter nearly killed just for interviewing a political prisoner? The front pager we were scheduled to run today…a judge delivered an eleventh-hour injunction right before we went to press, and…it was chaos. Sarita was yelling at me to come up with another option, and your writing is always polished, always perfect. I knew it wasn’t finished, but I figured we could do a follow up piece at the end of the week.”
Every word comes out faster and fainter than the last, and a small part of my anger fades. “I know you didn’t mean for all this to happen.” Letting my gaze wander to the steadily falling snow outside, I choose my next words carefully. “Identifying Trevor as a former intelligence officer who knew the area? That was the worst possible thing you could have done. I can’t tell you why. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Because I can’t trust you anymore, Lincoln. As soon as I don’t need the Post’s lawyers anymore, I quit. And if you try to stop me or give legal one inkling that I’m not planning on returning to my position? I will go public with what you did, and no news outlet will ever trust you again.”
He nods, his shoulders slumping as he flips on his blinker and eases the sedan towards the offramp. “I won’t say a word. If there’s anything you need to get your friend back, you’ll have it. Any of the paper’s resources I can give you…just ask.”
I clench my hands inside the warm jacket pockets. “What I need now is a miracle.”
Second Sight’s offices look a lot like I feel right now. Worn down, beaten up, and frantic. The woman at the front desk—Marjorie, I think—is on the phone, her voice totally at odds with her kindly face and white hair. “Well, you tell him Mr. Holloway is expecting a call back in the next twenty minutes. Otherwise, our next call will be to WBZ.”
She jabs a button on the phone and then finally notices me. “I’m sorry, but Second Sight is closed to clients today.”
Suddenly, the hours in the police station, the lack of sleep, and the fact that I haven’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours collide with her impatient tone, and the walls press in on me. I brace both hands on the desk to keep myself upright. “I need to talk to Dax. He’s the owner? It’s about Trevor Moana. He’s…he’s—“
“What do you know about Trevor?” The deep voice with a hint of a Southern drawl commands attention, and halfway down the hall, a man with glasses, a cane, and a commanding presence that fills the space stares at me. Or…in my general direction.
“I’m Dani. Daniella Monroe. Austin Pritchard is my brother. I was with Trevor when they arrested him. He’s already headed to Venezuela, and I think…I think they’re going to kill him. I need your help. Please.”
My knees give out, my hands slip off the desk, and I land on my ass with a very undignified grunt. “Shit.”
Footsteps pound towards me, multiple sets, and then I’m on my feet again, a strong arm around my waist as another man—taller than Dax and with hints of gray in his brown hair—guides me down the hall and into an office with Dax at our heels.
“Here,” the man says as he pulls out a chair and deposits me onto the soft leather seat. “Do you need a doctor?”
“N-no. I just…haven’t eaten today. It’s not important. Who are you?”
“Ford. Ford Lawton.”
Beyond the window, half of Boston spreads out in front of me, beautiful and quiet and serene as the snow continues to fall. But inside, papers are strewn about, some littering the floor, a filing cabinet has one of its drawers hanging open, and there’s a dent in the wall to my right that’s decidedly fist-shaped.
Ford sticks his head into the hallway. “Marjorie! Get us a couple of pizzas? And some coffee? Please?”
I flinch as he shuts the door forcefully, then look between him and Dax. I don’t know where to begin, and even though I need their help, I worry once they find out it was my article that led to Trevor’s arrest, they’ll kick me out and I won’t be able to help find him.
“The Feds showed up two hours ago,” Dax says as he takes a seat across from me. “They had a blanket warrant for anything even remotely related to Trevor’s cases, which, I reckon in this place, covers Hell’s half acre. Wouldn’t tell us a single fucking thing about where he is. How do you know he’s already headed to Caracas?”
“M-my editor. The article in the Post? It was mine. I told Lincoln it wasn’t ready, that it couldn’t go out until I gave the okay, but he went behind my back and published it anyway,” I rush to say before the angry expressions on the two men’s faces turn lethal. “He’s the one who outed Trevor as former CIA.”
“Still doesn’t explain why they put him on that plane so damn quick,” Dax says, and before I can explain, Ford clears his throat.
“I didn’t want to tell you when the Feds were here,” Ford says.
“Stop.”
Dax touches his ear, and Ford curses under his breath. “Hang on.”
As he strides out of the office, Marjorie enters carrying a tray with three steaming mugs of coffee, a sugar and creamer set, and a granola bar. “Pizza will be here in half an hour,” she says as she passes me the granola bar. “In the meantime, I got this out of the vending machine for you, dear.”
I tear into the wrapper, and across from me, Dax lets Marjorie take his hand and guide it to his coffee cup. “Thanks. Unless it’s food or our lawyers, we’re not to be disturbed.”
“Of course. You ring me if you need anything.” She passes Ford on her way out, and he sets a small metal box on the desk, then presses a button on the side. It flashes red twice, then green.
Ford blows out a breath. “Clear. They didn’t leave anything behind.”
“Anything?
” I ask.
“Bugs. Get on with it, Ford.”
The granola bar gone, I suck down half the mug of coffee while Ford summarizes some of the worst parts of Trevor’s past—and mine. Gil’s betrayal, how Trev had to rescue Austin from Caracas after Gil tortured him, and his final operation for the CIA—killing his best friend.
“Fuck. So what? Farías wants revenge for Trev killing one of his double agents? That wouldn’t be enough for the government to just hand him over with no appeal.”
“There’s more.” The two men turn to me, and I suddenly feel so very small and alone. Trevor trusts them, so by extension, I do as well. But the way they’re looking at me…it’s like I just killed a member of their family.
Oh God. Maybe I did.
The realization threatens to suck me under. Barring a miracle, I’ll never see Trevor again, and everything that happens to him now. It’s my fault.
I can’t eat when the pizza comes, even though Ford and Dax have reassured me a dozen times that they don’t blame me and neither will Trevor. “You didn’t see him when they took him away,” I protest.
“Trevor’s one of the smartest guys I know,” Ford says.
“Excuse me?” This, from Dax as he tucks a napkin into the collar of his shirt and then carefully feels around for the paper plate in front of him. “You know I’m still in the room, right?”
“I said ‘one of.’” Ford snags a slice of pepperoni from the box and returns his focus to me. “Dani, this is going to sound…indelicate, but they arrested the two of you at 8:00 a.m., at Trevor’s place, and it’s pretty obvious you were in bed together when it happened.”
A flush creeps up my neck, but there’s no use hiding anything. If it would get Trevor back, I’d strip naked and let them check me for hickeys without batting an eye. “We…were.”
Call Sign: Redemption Page 13