Call Sign: Redemption

by Eddy, Patricia D

  “When Trev told me about this trip, he left out the part about being in love with you. But it was so damn obvious, a neon sign couldn’t have been any clearer.”

  I suck in a sharp breath. “We hadn’t seen each other in years.”

  With a chuckle, Ford holds up his left hand and twists the obviously new and shiny ring on his finger. “I proposed to my wife more than twenty years ago. And then lost her until this past June. We got married right after Christmas. Love isn’t beholden to the ravages of time.”

  When tears start to burn the corners of my eyes, I want to let them fall, but I can’t. I don’t know how.

  “Call from…Ryker. Call from…Ryker,” a computerized female voice announces as Dax’s phone vibrates on the desk next to his paper plate. He tucks an earbud into place and taps it.

  “How fast can you get to Caracas?” He asks without a single word of introduction. A moment later, he continues, “I’m going to put you on speaker. Ford’s here, along with Dani Monroe. She’s Austin Pritchard’s sister. Voice Assist, transfer call to speaker.”

  “Transferring.”

  After a crackle, a rough voice bursts from the phone. “Inara and West are somewhere in the middle of the Everglades for an off-book SERE training refresher. I can’t even reach them for another two days. But Graham and I can be in the air as soon as I find a plane willing to take us. You gonna tell me why?”

  Dax pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s Trev. He’s been extradited to Caracas. They going to try him on multiple counts of murder.”

  “No. They’re not,” Ryker says with a grave finality to his tone that leaves me cold. “They’re going to kill him. No one escapes The Crypt.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Trevor

  United States military aircraft aren’t designed for comfort. Or quiet. But compared to this piece of shit I’m currently on, they’re like flying first class.

  When the transport van arrived at an airstrip half an hour south of Boston, the two MPs who walked me up to the plane both gave me looks that said they’d be shocked if we didn’t crash halfway there.

  And that was the last bit of sympathy I’m likely to ever receive. The four angry Venezuelan soldiers, two of whom had to carry me up the boarding stairs—the chain between my cuffed ankles too short for me to manage on my own—shoved me to the ground at the back of this rust bucket and locked my wrists to a metal bar welded to the floor behind me. I can’t get comfortable. The plane isn’t much bigger than the one Dani and I took to Belize, and every time I stretch my legs, I earn a kick from one of the two soldiers sitting in the rear seats.

  I don’t have any way to tell time, but if I had to guess, I haven’t had any food in more than twenty-four hours, and nothing to drink in at least six. But these fuckers don’t care.

  My head is pounding, made worse by the not-quite-pressurized cabin of this death trap. If I lean back, the vibrations from the plane’s hull threaten to give me a TBI. So I try to sit up as straight as I can.

  Once you land, you’re dead. Probably won’t hurt so much if you’re already concussed.

  The only thing keeping me going? Dani’s not on this plane. The MPs tried to find out what had happened to her. They weren’t total dicks. Even apologized when they couldn’t get an answer for me.

  “Listen, I’m former CIA, but before that, I was army. My boss was Special Forces. Call him. Dax Holloway at Second Sight. Tell him where I’m going. Please. And get him to find Dani Monroe.”

  “We have our orders, sir. I’m sorry.”

  The rumble of the engine changes, and pressure builds in my ears. We’re descending. I flex my fingers, trying to dispel the numbness that set in hours ago. Whatever comes next, I have to be ready.

  It’s not going to be good.

  By the time the wheels touch down, I can almost make a fist. The soldiers work quickly, freeing my cuffs from around the pipe and locking my hands to the waist chain in front of me. They don’t give me a chance to stand on my own—not that I think I could. Instead they drag me off the plane, letting my knees hit each one of the metal steps.

  Headlights blind me for less than a minute before someone shoves a hood over my head, cinching it around my neck tight enough to override my brain’s control over my limbs. Panic sets in, and, unable to calm myself down, I thrash and shout obscenities at the men holding. me.

  And then they let go. My legs won’t hold me, and my palms scrape against blacktop before my head hits, and I see stars against the dark hood. Boots and fists and pain. That’s all I feel until I give in and let unconsciousness take me.

  Dani

  One of my favorite sights? New snow on the sidewalks. When the Pritchards adopted us and moved us to New Haven, I’d never seen snow before.

  Ford offers his hand to help me out of the car, but I wave it away. I’m not exactly speaking to the men of Second Sight at the moment.

  “Dani.”

  “Don’t ‘Dani’ me. You need me down there.” I stalk through the fresh snow, then have to wait until Ford talks to the building security guard before we can head for the elevator and up to Trevor’s apartment.

  “It’s too dangerous.” Sliding a key into the lock, Ford pauses. “If Trevor finds out I didn’t do everything I could to keep you safe, he’ll kick my ass six ways from Sunday.”

  “No.” I lose my words when Ford opens the door. The apartment smells like Trevor. Like sunshine and warm sand at the beach. Like strength and ocean breezes and…home. I make a beeline for his bedroom and find myself standing in front of his dresser.

  Three photos.

  “My dad always showed up. Until he didn’t. Until he couldn’t.”

  “I didn’t want to go to Seattle. Weddings…they just aren’t my thing. But family shows up. I wish…I wish I’d figured that out before you needed me and I failed you.”

  “Dani, if we don’t get out of here, we’re going to disappear, and no one—not one single person—is going to come to look for us.”

  Ford stands in the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets. “I’ve worked with Trev for more than three years now, and I’ve never been here.”

  “Trevor doesn’t let anyone in.” But staring at the picture of him from the wedding, I realize how badly he wanted to.

  I point to the photo. “What do you see here?”

  His lips curve into a slight smile. “Everyone who matters to me.”

  “And when you look at what Trev keeps in this room, right here, what do you see?” Stepping back, I let Ford peruse the three frames, then watch as he takes in the rest of the spartan space.

  His smile falls away, and he scrubs his hand over his chin. “Those photos are everything that matters to him. The only things in this room that matter to him.”

  “Bingo.” I sink down onto the bed, dig into my bag, and pull out my thinking putty. The familiar feel of it between my fingers helps me gather my thoughts into something I think Ford will understand. “Trevor was never adopted. Gil and I were. After his dad died, no one ever came for him. Supposedly, he had some extended family. A second cousin, a great-aunt. But no one wanted him.”

  “He told me he aged out of the system, but why the fuck wouldn’t his family want him?”

  I don’t say anything. Just watch and wait for him to put the pieces together. When he does, the harsh realization pales his eyes. “We’re his family now.”

  The room takes on a shimmer as I blink back my tears. “So am I.”

  “We called everyone in for Ripper. But for Trev... We need more than just Ry and Graham.”

  “That’s not it. You don’t need an army.” With a small shake of my head, I sigh. “An army would just attract more attention. But you do need me. Because if I’m right, he’s already been sent to The Crypt, and I can get us in there. General Ochoa is after me. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he only took Trev to get to me. I can contact him and offer myself in trade.”

  “No fucking way,” Ford
says, almost on a growl. “You think Trev would ever want you to put yourself in danger for him?” He straightens, standing up a little taller, and if I don’t figure out the right thing to say in the next few minutes, I’m going to lose any shot at this.

  But God—or whoever’s in charge up there—must be looking out for me, because I pick up my phone to give myself a minute to collect my thoughts and find a text message waiting for me. Along with a photo that threatens to stop my heart from beating.

  “Ford? You need to see this.”

  I angle the phone as I tap the screen, and Ford swears loudly. The text is from an unknown number, but Ochoa isn’t fooling me.

  We have Señor Moana. If you wish him to remain alive, you will surrender yourself to La Cripta in the next twenty-four hours.

  In the picture, Trevor lies on his back under a bright light. His eyes are closed, and blood trickles from a split lip and a cut on his cheek. The dark red jumpsuit is stained with dirt and sweat, and his wrists and ankles are chained.

  “Ford, you can’t stop me. Either put me on a plane to meet up with Ryker and Graham, or I’ll find my own way there. Trevor isn’t alone anymore. He has at least one person who will always show up.” I tap my chest, right over my heart. The heart Trevor owns. “Me. I’ll always come for him. So either help me or get out of my way.”

  Ronan, one of Second Sight’s guys, parks outside a small public airfield thirty minutes north of Boston. “I don’t like this,” he says as he pulls a large duffel bag from the trunk of the car.

  “I don’t either. Let’s get that straight right now.” An hour ago, Ronan showed up at Trevor’s with a whole complement of tactical gear that’s mostly my size, a small arsenal, a laptop, batteries, comms units, and multiple GPS trackers. One of which is now embedded in my right ass cheek, thanks to Ford’s handy little dart gun.

  I rub the sore spot, then sling the new rucksack over my shoulder. It’s at least thirty pounds, and I stifle my grunt. I can’t show weakness. I won’t.

  “I know the drill,” I reassure Ronan, who continues to eye me with skepticism. “Do exactly what you, Ryker, or Graham say, don’t go off alone—at all—and don’t get captured or killed.”

  “At least you know how to fight,” he mutters as he approaches a man in brown fatigues. “Sergeant Smith?”

  “To you, anyway. If anyone finds out where we’re going, I might as well be named Sergeant Fuck-Up. Strap in. Ear protection’s in the locker under the bench. We’re flying high and fast, so if you’ve got anything warm in those bags, get it out now.”

  This isn’t my first military transport plane flight, but most of the others were in full daylight, officially sanctioned, and involved a bunch of guys who—once they found out I was an Aikido expert—became overly protective of me. Tonight? My partner’s a red-haired, green-eyed kid who looks like he’s closer to his twentieth birthday than his thirtieth. But his gaze is steady and deathly calm, and he handles himself with a confidence all of the Second Sight guys seem to have in spades.

  “I hate to fly,” he says as the plane’s engines start to spin up for takeoff. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  I give him a saccharine-sweet smile. “Don’t fuck up, and I won’t.”

  Ronan’s eyes widen, and he chuckles as he leans back and closes his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Trevor

  Rough fabric scrapes against my cheek as I try to raise my head. It’s dark. I’m still wearing the hood. But it’s no longer strangling me. My senses return slowly without the use of my eyes. How the hell Dax does this every damn day, I’ll never know.

  Then again, it’s not like he has a choice.

  My whole body aches. I’m sitting up, that much I know. And I’m barefoot. Rough stone or concrete under my toes. Ropes secure my ankles to whatever they have me sitting on. A metal chair, I think. As I try to twist my legs back and forth, the thin, rough bindings abrade my skin.

  My wrists are similarly bound, and I give up trying to free myself quickly when I realize there are more ropes at my elbows and knees.

  I don’t know how long it’s been since they dragged me off that plane. Hours? A day? I don’t feel side effects from any sort of sedative, so it’s probably only been a few hours. My head pounds, dehydration leaving me feeling like my tongue is two sizes bigger than it should be.

  Listen.

  If I have any hope of getting through this, I need to rely on my training.

  Don’t panic. Assess the situation. Make a plan. Bide your time. Execute with conviction.

  A dull, low noise around me starts to coalesce into sounds I can recognize. Human suffering on a mass scale. Quiet moans. The occasional scream or curse—in Spanish.

  No footsteps. Very little movement. Scuffing noises, like an arm or a leg sliding over the rough concrete. I try to recall the few photos and online rumors I was able to find about The Crypt.

  Think.

  My thoughts feel sluggish. Five underground levels. The first isn’t rumored to be all that bad—for a prison. Standard six by eight foot cells, each with a toilet, sink, and cot. But those are largely for show only. Those the Farías government only want to receive “a slap on the wrist.”

  Each level below gets progressively more…inhumane.

  I don’t know how long I sit quietly, controlling my breathing, counting the different pitches of coughs and moans. There could be up to thirteen separate prisoners within earshot. Maybe more. For all I know, some aren’t making any noise at all.

  I can’t go much longer without water. My muscles are starting to cramp painfully, and with no ability to move, every time they do and I jerk, the ropes cut deeper in to my wrists and ankles.

  “Hey, assholes! Some food and water would be nice! Unless you flew me all this way just to let me die on day one! Seems like a waste of jet fuel.”

  Several voices call out, urging me to stay quiet.

  “Silencio.”

  “Cállate.”

  “No los hagas venir.”

  The last one—don’t make them come—is exactly what I want to happen. I need information. I need to see what’s on the other side of this hood and face the shitstains who think torturing a former CIA assassin is a good idea.

  “You want me dead? Ignore me, then. I’ll just sing the national anthem until you come shut me up.”

  Too far, Trev. Too far.

  But I’m committed now. And possibly fucked in the head.

  “Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light. What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?”

  My throat is so parched, it seizes up on me, and after I cough hard enough I probably would have thrown up had there been anything in my stomach, I continue.

  “Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, o’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming? And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air—“

  I’m shouting so loudly, I don’t hear a thing. Until someone punches me in the gut, and I double over, unable to breathe.

  Before I can recover, my head snaps back, the hood is pulled tight, and water drenches my face. Fuck! I can’t stop myself from inhaling when my diaphragm stops spasming, and the lukewarm liquid floods my lungs.

  “You wanted water, sí?” a man asks, and the water stops.

  Coughing and pulling at the ropes tying me down, I fight my body’s reflexes until I can rasp, “Yeah. Thanks. Next time…ice it…will ya’?”

  I’m ready for the second round, and manage to get a healthy swallow in before I have to hold my breath and try to convince my body I’m not really drowning.

  “Look,” I manage after the third bucket empties over my head, “I can do this all day. Or night. Whatever the hell time it is.” Another coughing fit leaves me out of breath, but I don’t stop, even though it’s only going to earn me more pain. “I’m…former CIA…fuck face. You keep…waterboarding me…you’ll either…kill me…or make me think…it’s a day at
the beach.”

  My captor says something that might be “fucker” in Spanish, then rips off the hood.

  Bright lights burn my eyes until a shadow falls over me, and I squint up at him. One of Ochoa’s men. The one who manhandled Dani.

  Footsteps approach from behind me, General Ochoa’s chuckle smooth and full of confidence I’ll use to strangle him with if I get the chance.

  My chair is spun around to face him, and his lips twist into an insincere smile as he leans down to meet my gaze. “Señor Lejune. Or should I say Señor Moana? You are enjoying your stay with us?”

  Now that my eyes have adjusted, I scan my surroundings. I’m in one of the cells on the first level. It’s small, but with enough room for Ochoa and the guard to stand inside the door. Concrete walls. Low ceilings. A drain in the center of the floor next to me. A metal electrical pipe runs the length of the cell with a single bare bulb in the center. There’s no cot. No toilet or sink. “Yeah. Barrel of laughs. Five-star accommodations, too.”

  “That…will change soon.”

  Of course it will.

  I say nothing, challenging him.

  “You were not my target, Señor Moana. Merely my way to get to Daniella Monroe. However, the lawyers for her newspaper were able to get the charges against her dropped. You, on the other hand, murdered two members of the Venezuelan National Police. Not to mention Gilberto Sosa and half a dozen others five years ago.”

  Dani’s safe. Still in the United States. Thank fuck. I’ll die here, but Dani won’t.

  “I thought your only use would be as leverage against Daniella. But then I realized there is so much more you can assist me with.”

  I snort, the motion tearing at my split lip, and I taste blood. “You obviously don’t know me at all, asswipe. You might as well just kill me.”

  He wants to break me, he’s going to have to work a hell of a lot harder than this. I have nothing left to lose. Dani’s safe, and while Dax and Ford might want to launch a rescue mission for me, they’d figure out pretty damn quick it would be suicide. Not even Ryker and his team are good enough to get inside The Crypt. They’d need a fucking army.