Call Sign: Redemption

by Eddy, Patricia D

  “All in good time.” Ochoa whistles sharply and three other soldiers loom on the other side of the cell door. “Show this pendejo the finest accommodations La Cripta has to offer.”

  I don’t fight as one of the men slices through the ropes. He nicks both of my arms and one leg in the process. I’m in no condition to best anyone at the moment. Instead, I let them cuff my hands in front of me, then drag me out of the room, past three other cells with prisoners huddled under blankets, and into a rickety elevator. With one man holding each of my arms and the other two watching me, their backs to the door, there’s no hope of escape. But I take in everything.

  A service weapon at each hip. Slight bulges close to their ankles—backup pieces, likely. Billy clubs. One of the two in front of me pulls a set of keys from his front chest pocket. Do they all carry them? Or just him? I have to find out.

  The elevator jerks to a stop, and we’re moving again. Where it was hot and humid on the first level, now it’s freezing, and my thin prison garb is still soaking wet.

  The tops of my feet scrape along the rough floor, but my legs are too weak for me to even try to walk. I must have been in that fucking chair for at least five hours.

  Another bright hallway. So bright, the soldiers pull sunglasses from their pockets. Squinting, I think I can make out bars. Cells. The occasional hint of movement.

  At the end of the row, the soldier with the keys unlocks a cell, and the two dragging me suddenly let go and shove me inside. As soon as I hit the floor, I start to shiver uncontrollably. It’s like lying on a block of ice.

  The door slams, and I raise my cuffed hands to shield my eyes. A set of bars has been cemented three feet above me. There’s no way to stand. The most I’ll be able to do is get to my knees. The toilet is just a hole in the floor, and light floods the entire space, making it impossible to tell if it’s day or night.

  “You make noise, you starve,” one of the soldiers says before he slides a cup of water and two small cornmeal cakes through the bars, then stalks away.

  My stomach twists in on itself as I grab one of the cakes and shove half of it in my mouth. It tastes like shit. Stale, crumbly, and…is that mold on the edge? But I don’t care. I have to keep up my strength as long as I can. If I’m going to die, it’ll be on my terms.

  Dani

  A gentle hand shakes me, and I force my scratchy eyes open. The thin wool blanket covering me is surprisingly warm, but my cheeks sting as hot, humid air fills the belly of the plane. We’re on the ground in Venezuela, and Ronan stands over me, his rucksack already slung over a shoulder.

  “Time to go.” Holding out his hand for the blanket, he gives off an obvious air of impatience.

  “You could have woken me when we started our descent,” I say sharply. Taking the blanket in both hands, I fold it in under three seconds, then shove it back into my own bag. At his scowl, I arch a brow. “My dad served for more than twenty years, my brother’s still serving now. You think I didn’t pick up a thing or two?”

  “I like her.” The rough, raspy voice is familiar. Ryker. I push to my feet and turn towards the lowered cargo ramp. The man clad in all black is taller than anyone I’ve ever seen. He didn’t look that tall in the photo on Trev’s dresser. He’s in front of me in four steps and grabs my rucksack. “Ryker.”

  “Dani. And I can get my own pack.” I draw up to my full height, which still puts my eyes level with the center of his sternum.

  “Didn’t say you couldn’t.” Ryker jerks his head towards the ramp. “Let’s get this shitshow on the road.” He strides out of the plane, followed by Ronan, and I stalk after them, my memories playing on a loop in my head.

  “You are the most infuriating man on the planet, Trevor Moana.”

  He chuckles. “Pretty sure that title goes to Ryker McCabe.”

  “Who?”

  “A guy I’ve worked with a time or two. You’ll meet him some day.”

  A black van sits at the edge of the runway with another man loading metal storage boxes into the rear cargo area. He’s built…that much I can tell, even at 6:00 a.m.

  “Peck, this is Dani,” Ryker says.

  “Graham Peck,” the younger man clarifies. “Graham, I mean.”

  Graham and Ronan exchange greetings, and I get my first clear look at Ryker under a light from the hanger fifty feet away. Half his face is scarred, his left eye doesn’t open as wide as the right, and the corner of his mouth turns down slightly. I try not to stare. After all, I saw some of the devastation in the photo from the wedding. But apparently, I don’t succeed, because Ryker’s expression hardens.

  “You don’t want to know, Dani. But if we get out of this country alive, I might tell you.”

  With a nod, I climb into the back of the van and turn on my cell phone. Nothing from Ochoa, but one new message from Austin. “You got my brother’s ETA?” I ask Ryker as he slides behind the wheel.

  “Yep. He’ll meet us at the safehouse at oh-nine-hundred. Just about exactly when we’ll get there.” The van accelerates smoothly, and once we hit the main roads, Ryker scans the rear view mirror and locks gazes with each of us in turn. “If you can manage to sleep in this no-shocks-piece-of-shit, do it. Because once we arrive, we’ve got a fuckton of work to do.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Trevor

  Gritting my teeth so I don’t groan, I let myself collapse onto my side under the constant blinding lights. One of Ochoa’s soldiers stomps towards my cell, banging his Billy club on the bars as he goes. They patrol regularly—every fifteen minutes or so—keeping us all awake.

  Training taught me how to sleep in short bursts, but if I’ve gotten more than an hour in the past six—hell, in the past twenty-four—it’d be a miracle. I’m still shivering, thank fuck. It’s when you stop you have to worry. Frigid air blows into the cell, and I have to curl into a ball to try to protect my fingers and toes.

  The footsteps recede, and I force myself up to my hands and knees again. I have to keep moving as much as I can. Keep my muscles from locking up completely.

  I know every one of Ochoa’s tactics. I’ve used them. One more reason I quit the CIA. Sometime in the next few hours, he’ll pull me out of here. Take me somewhere warm. Offer me food. Water. Some sort of carrot to get me to help him.

  Fat fucking chance.

  I inch closer to the bars and press my face against them. “¿Cuales son tus nombres?” I whisper. No one answers, so I repeat my question. I need to know the names of the others down here with me in case I ever get out of here. “¿Cuales son tus nombres?”

  “¡Cállate! Los guardias nos harán daño.”

  The voice is weaker than my own, older. Warning me the guards will hurt us if we keep speaking. But I think…it might be Luis.

  “Me llamo Trevor. Estaba con Dani Monroe.”

  “Dani? ¿Está segura mi hija?”

  Is his daughter safe? He knows. Of course he knows.

  Two other prisoners tell us to be quiet, and I won’t risk drawing the soldiers’ attention to them. They’ve been here longer. They don’t have my training. But I have to reassure Luis, so I chance one more word. “Yes.”

  Another three patrols pass by, and I can feel myself getting weaker by the minute. Two cornmeal cakes and a single cup of water isn’t enough to keep me alive for long, and the world spins when I push myself up.

  Keys rattle from just outside my cell, and the door bangs open. Fuck. They were quiet, and now that they know I’ve been moving around, things are likely to get a lot worse for me. Rough hands fasten around my upper arms and drag me down the hall.

  Back into the elevator, where they drop me in the corner and start kicking me. Curling my arms around my head, I twist until my back is against the wall and let all of my muscles go limp except for my abs. Liver, kidneys, head, dick, and balls. Those are the most vulnerable spots.

  As the elevator jerks to a stop, the soldiers stop their assault and grab me again, and before I can get my bearings, I’m in another room
. This one’s bigger. Emptier. No chair. No bars. Just concrete walls and floors with old stains I recognize. Bodily fluids. Blood.

  With nowhere to strap me down, the soldiers keep hold of my arms. My bent knees are just touching the ground, and I keep my head bowed, hoping Ochoa will believe I don’t have the strength to raise it.

  “Señor Moana. How was your first night with us?” Using a fistful of my hair to yank my head up, he slaps me across the cheek with his other hand.

  “Peachy,” I manage. “Three stars. You’re spending way too much…on air conditioning.”

  I expect him to order the soldiers to beat me for my sarcasm, but instead, he laughs. “Oh, Presidente Farías subsidizes our power. We are not concerned. But you should be, my friend.”

  “Not your fucking friend.”

  This earns me a quick punch to the stomach, but I’m ready for it and tighten my abs just in time. Ochoa stifles a grunt at the unexpected resistance, and his eyes narrow. “You are a strong man, Señor Moana. I respect that. So I will give you another chance to help me get what I want.” He releases his grip on my hair, and I stop pretending, lifting my head to stare him in his cold, brown eyes.

  “And what’s that, dickwad?”

  “Names.”

  “Tom. Dick. Harry. That good enough for you?”

  Anger twists his expression for a brief second, and then he schools his features into a mask of calm. “Those are not the names I am interested in. You will tell me all of the American assets in Caracas.”

  “Did you miss the part where I’m ex-CIA? That information’s well above my pay grade now.”

  Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell him. And he knows it.

  The warm air in the room is playing on my exhaustion, dulling my senses and my reaction time as my body yearns to sleep for even a few minutes. The next two punches hit soft tissue, and I retch, spitting blood and bile onto the floor at Ochoa’s feet.

  “For every name you give me,” Ochoa says, stepping over the bloody mess, “I will allow you one hour of sleep. For every five names, a hot meal. But only if you tell me the truth.”

  There it is.

  He’s practically following the advanced interrogation and torture handbook to the letter. Every time he drags me out of my cell and into this room, I’ll be colder, hungrier, and more exhausted than I am right now. Self-preservation will kick in, and I’ll have to fight my base need to survive.

  The lights never go off. Not even here. I’m already losing track of time. Soon, I’ll forget what the sun looked like, how it felt on my skin. And Dani. I won’t be able to call up her scent. The sound of her voice. The feel of her body against mine.

  “One name, Trevor. Just one and you can sleep for an hour. Up here, where it is warm.” Ochoa’s voice is calm and reassuring. I can still see through his act. But for how much longer?

  Raising my head, I spit in his face. “Fuck you.”

  He pulls a square of linen from his pocket and casually wipes his cheek, but when he speaks again, his voice is hard and cold, his anger barely contained. “Take him back to his cell.”

  Dani

  It takes us an hour longer than expected to get to the safe house, and I have two messages from Austin that he’s stuck in the same terrible traffic we are.

  Ronan is snoring in the seat across from me, with Graham and Ryker keeping a constant watch for any car that might be following us. We’ve taken half a dozen detours because Ryker “had a bad feeling” about something. Only one because of Graham.

  I have so many questions. What’s the plan being the most important one. But Ryker cut me off when I tried to ask with a terse “no distractions while we’re out in the open.”

  Ronan jerks awake with a loud snort, and Ryker mutters, “About damn time. You’re sleeping in the van tonight.”

  “Give me a break, will ya’? I broke my damn nose two weeks ago and it’s not healed properly yet.” Ronan’s voice carries just a hint of an Irish accent when he’s pissed off—which seems to be most of the time.

  Ryker turns down a short dirt driveway and blows out a breath when he pulls the van around the side of a squat, dilapidated house. “We’re here.”

  I check my phone. No update from Austin. At least I know he landed. But if they’re watching for me, they’re also watching for him.

  Twenty minutes later, everything’s unloaded, and Ryker and Graham are setting up a command station of sorts in the house’s sparse living room. Ronan is going through a metal crate full of weapons and taking inventory.

  I find a seat at the small kitchen table with the encrypted tablet Ford gave me before we left. Ryker asked me to sketch the layout of the upper floors of The Crypt, and I replay our time there, trying to remember as much as I can.

  A new message dings my phone, and I grab it, expecting to see Austin’s name. Instead, I freeze and the device clatters to the floor. “Ryker.” I can barely hear myself, but he’s on his feet in a split second and headed towards me.

  “What is it?” He scoops up the phone, and as he taps the screen, his multi-hued eyes turn almost an icy blue-green. “You have less than twelve hours,” he reads, “to keep him alive. I do hope you are on your way.”

  In the attached photo, two of Ochoa’s soldiers hold Trevor up by the arms. His head is bowed, he’s unbelievably pale, and blood spatters the floor in front of him.

  “The bastard’s baiting you,” Ryker says. His very large fingers fly over the screen with a deftness I don’t think he should be capable of, and after another minute, he passes the phone back to me. “This sound enough like you for Ochoa to believe it?”

  I need more time. Even the Post can’t get a Visa application approved this quickly. One more day. Please.

  “Y-yes. But...we can’t leave him there another day. They’re torturing him.” My stomach is in knots, and my hands start to shake.

  Snatching the phone back from me before it falls again, Ryker sends the message, then pierces me with his hard stare. “There is no fucking way we can get him out without reconnaissance and a shitton of luck. Going in there today is suicide. This whole mission is suicide.”

  “Then why did you come?” I stand, holding on to the back of the chair to keep myself upright. “If you’re so sure this is going to fail, why even bother?” He doesn’t answer right away, and my anger flares hotter. “You know what? Maybe you should just go home. I don’t trust Ochoa for a second, but if I have to, I’ll let him have me on the chance he’ll let Trevor go.”

  “Not happening.” Austin’s voice startles me. Everyone else too, apparently, as he has three guns pointed at him before I can blink.

  “For fuck’s sake, Pritchard. Don’t you know how stupid it is to sneak up on me?” Ryker asks as he holsters his weapon.

  “Wasn’t trying to. You were all distracted.” Austin pushes through the wall the three other men made around me and folds me into a bear hug. “I’m sorry, squirt. I never should have let Trevor do this. I should have been the one to go with you.”

  The tears I haven’t let fall since I discovered my birth father’s name soak into his shirt, and I cling to him with all the strength I have left. “We can’t leave him there,” I say between sobs.

  “Everyone in the living room. Now,” Ryker snaps, and I flinch in Austin’s arms.

  “McCabe, watch your tone,” my brother says as he guides me into the main room.

  “You should know me well enough by now, Stars and Bars. This is my nice voice. Sit down and shut up while I explain how this is going to go.”

  Anger radiates off Austin in waves, and he works his jaw back and forth. I’ve only seen him this tense two or three times in my life, and when we sit, I scoot out from under his arm in case he blows up.

  “Dax called me because this is what I do,” Ryker says, his hands on his hips and his gaze fixed on me. “You don’t know me, Lois—“

  “Lois? You’re supposed to be the best but you can’t even remember my name?”

  “Lois Lane?
You are a reporter. Outside of this safehouse, we use codenames. You’re Lois.”

  Graham, who’s seated in an old wooden chair next to me, leans over and cracks a smile. “Guess that means I’m Jimmy Olsen.”

  Ryker shoots him a look, and he snaps his mouth shut.

  “If the peanut gallery’s done?” No one responds, and he nods his approval. “Dani, you don’t know me. But that story I said you didn’t want to hear?”

  I nod. His scars. He stripped off his jacket when we got inside, and his forearms and biceps are covered in them—along with numerous tattoos.

  “Fifteen months. The Taliban tortured Dax and me for fifteen months. Ripper, the only other member of our Special Forces team to survive, went missing before I broke out, and we only found out back in June that he’d been held for six fucking years by an asshole who tried to erase everything about him. Broke him in more ways than I thought a man could break. When we found him, he was down at the bottom of a goddamned well. And he’d been there for days. Trevor helped us rescue him. So when I tell you that I will die before I leave another man behind, know that I am fucking serious. We are not leaving Venezuela without him and every single person in this room. But we also can’t go in there without a plan, and my tactical specialist is somewhere in the middle of the Everglades, unreachable. So we’re going to set up comms and connect with Dax, Ford, Wren, and whomever else we need to get this shit done, and all of you are going to follow my orders here.”

  He scans the room, making eye contact with each person in turn. “Anyone have a problem with that?”

  One by one, we all shake our heads.

  “Good. Now let’s get to work.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dani

  Four separate laptops are spread out on a coffee table, and I’m pretty sure my mom’s knitting projects had fewer strands to them. Austin’s been on the phone for over an hour trying to track down sources who might know the layout of The Crypt’s underground floors.