by E. J. Mellow
Distract. Distract. Distract.
“Do you like word games?” In this moment it’s a ridiculous question, random, but I’m desperate.
“What?” Carter glances back my way, forehead crinkled.
“Scrabble.” I nod to my screen. “You seemed like you knew what you were doing.”
He studies the forgotten book in his lap. “My mother,” he says quietly. “She loved playing.”
I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t pry. I know better than most how the smallest detail of someone’s past can often be the most painful to share, the most important to keep for oneself. And Carter’s family, their stories, belong to a different man than the one who’s currently sitting beside me. They are owned by the Carter I was with in the jungle, saw glimpses of over the fire’s light. And as much as a deep hidden part of me wants to see more of him, I also really, really don’t. For it’s not just him that slips into a different person in those moments.
With a nod I turn back to what’s in my hand hands, the air around us shifting from crackles of flames to a humid summer’s day. The heat may be different, but it’s still unbearable.
We remain separate, the tangle of sheets a divider as we feign being engrossed with tiles on a screen, words on a page. And the longer we sit, silence stretching out endlessly as I finally play the word Carter suggested, my points adding up to me now winning, something in my chest tightens and screams for release, demands to be voiced, and despite my best efforts to choke it back, it streams from my lips anyway.
“Thank you,” I say. It’s barely a whisper, but those two words fill the room, paint the walls, and take up all the air. Carter turns to find my gaze, but I can’t meet his, my eyes stay locked on to my screen, waiting for him to respond, but he doesn’t, and immediately I regret saying them. I want to take them back, want to rewind time and force myself out of bed so I never get the chance to utter what I just did. Because what is a simple exchange between most is a world of complication for people like him and me, especially when neither of us know if my thanks was in regard to more than just the game.
40
Carter
ON ROUTE TO VIENTO DEL ESTE PLANTACION
MEXICO: 0812 HOURS
Setting out early, we left behind a mist-covered Cuetzalan, where past spirits still wandered the cobblestone streets before the sun rose to burn them away. Now heading east toward the plantation, we drive through lush, green, and windy roads, our views just as beautiful as all our trips along this region. With the windows rolled down, a warm breeze filters into the car and mixes with the low music of Miles Davis pouring from the speakers. 3 drives (yes, pigs must be flying) with one hand on the wheel, the other dancing through the wind as wisps of her braided hair play around her face. She’s in a summer green dress, her shoulders exposed to show a speckling of freckles recently acquired from being out in the sun, while I wear one of my gray T-shirts and black jeans. We haven’t said much since the incident last night, which is what I’m now calling it, an “incident.” One that needs to be logged, placed into a folder, stamped CONFIDENTIAL, and never talked about again. Which I’m more than happy to oblige and have no doubt 3 is too.
Forcing it from my mind like every other painful or confusing thing I’ve experienced, I look back at the pamphlet in my hand and read about the plantation we’re about to visit for the weekend.
“Though some beans are sold in North America,” I read out loud, “Viento del Este’s main place of business is here, in its homeland of Mexico.” I turn the paper over. “It also says it’s still owned by the family that founded it in 1918. Pretty cool.”
“Sure,” 3 says. “Especially since that means they definitely have a connection with the Oculto, being as old as they are.”
I glance her way, watch as she studies the road, her face masked in its usual impassive state. “Do you ever see beyond your job when on a mission?”
Her brows crinkle. “What do you mean?”
“Do you take time to enjoy yourself? Go to a restaurant to merely taste the food rather than because a potential mark eats there?”
She’s quiet for a moment, Miles Davis’s trumpet filling the space before her answer. “No.”
I huff my displeasure. “How many countries have you been to on assignment? Fifteen?”
“Twenty-one.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, no. Tonight, on this trip, we’re fixing that.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you really do.”
Her lips clamp. “We’re not here to enjoy ourselves, Carter.”
“Would we have stuck with this career if we didn’t?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what did you?”
She inhales deeply. “These missions…what we ultimately have to do on them is not meant to act like a holiday wrapped in a few hours of work. Every second our targets stay alive is another second they could be harming others, selling weapons that could kill thousands. So if I don’t stop to smell the roses while I’m on a job, it’s because I’m too busy making sure the rest of the world continues to have that luxury, even if I never get to.”
The car dips into quiet, the wind and subtle jazz the only sounds as I study her porcelain profile. “Bullshit.”
“What?” She swings a narrowed gaze my way.
“Bullshit,” I say again. “Sure, we’re here to make the world safer, kill villains, be the silent heroes by committing the ultimate mortal sin, blah, blah, blah, but our jobs are ninety-nine percent of our lives. Even God, if you believe in Him, wouldn’t expect us to keep from enjoying the beauties of this world because of that. We see and carry out carnage practically every day. If we didn’t ‘stop to smell the roses,’ as you put it, what would be the poultice to our souls? What would stop us from becoming the monsters we seek to kill? If we can no longer find or appreciate the joy in the things we are trying to protect, why continue to do any of this? I respect your duty to the job, 3, I really do, but there is such a thing as too much.”
“And too late?” Her blue eyes bore into mine.
“Too late can wait.” I wave a hand. “We’ll work this weekend, we’ll do what we were sent here for, but you will enjoy at least one thing while at Viento del Este, or we won’t leave until you do.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you care if I…find something to enjoy?”
Good question.
“Because then maybe you’d smile more.”
3 frowns. “I smile.”
“Like you are right now?” I laugh, making her pout deepen. “Just trust me on this one. Can you do that?”
She turns away, back to studying the road that stretches out before us, and though we remain quiet, I know we’re both flipping over the word that has become so blasphemous in our lives.
Trust.
I don’t know why I said it, why I asked her in that phrasing, but I did. It’s done, and while she doesn’t answer me with a yes, she doesn’t say no either.
Reaching the plantation a little before lunch, we check in under Mr. and Mrs. Nickels before dropping our bags in our private bungalow that’s part of a row of nine others. Each is a couple dwelling, constructed of teak stained wood with white-framed windows and a small porch that overlooks the lush green hills of Viento del Este’s property. Purple flowers grow along the perimeter, and a manicured stone path leads from our small village to the main house. The setup reminds me of a kid’s summer camp, except for the large king-sized bed that greets us as we enter, and the full modern bath off to the side. There’s no kitchen, which is a gentle nudge to visit the plantation’s restaurant and enjoy mingling with the other guests.
After grabbing a quick bite in the café, we head out with a tour group to learn about the art of coffee making. Because Akoni and Jules have already visited here, they’ll be checking in later and meeting us for dinner.
Our guide, Dominique, a sturdy old man with bright hazel eyes an
d a weathered complexion, leads us down a path through the jungle to an uncovered slope where rows of green coffee shrubs stagger down a hill. In accented English he explains how Viento del Este grow their coffee facing east so the sun shines on it only in the morning, which keeps it from drying out, and how the iconic beans we all love so much are actually the pits of coffee cherries. He encourages us to pluck any dark-red or black ones we find tangled in the leaves as we walk along the rows, for those are rotten. Bright green or pink are what eventually gets harvested. As I snap off a few, I sweep a glance around the expansive land and lush foliage. The sun is high with few clouds stroking the blue sky, and workers down various strips collect baskets, with large-brimmed hats shielding their faces. It’s peaceful here, almost in a meditative way, and I try seeing where the Oculto would plot their operation among such hard-working innocents.
3 is a few steps ahead of me, her rose-tinted hair vibrant under the afternoon light, talking with Dominique about how big of a territory Viento del Este covers and if we’ll see all the buildings involved with making their delicious coffee. To anyone else it would sound like she’s an enthralled tourist, but knowing her as I do, I understand that not one of her words are wasted. I let out a sigh. This might be harder than I thought, getting her to switch off. How do you rewire a person who’s been molded since birth to put her job first and herself last?
As Dominique gets pulled away by another guest, I watch 3 roll a black cherry between her fingers. She gives it a gentle sniff, jerking back at the apparent sour scent before chucking it to the ground, annoyed, and I hold back a chuckle.
Yes, I’m not sure how I’ll do it, but I have no doubt that I will, for I’m nothing if not up for a challenge.
And 3, she’s the very definition.
Later that evening we step through patio doors into Colina, the restaurant at Viento del Este. The room buzzes with life, and the smell of fine cooking surrounds us like a grandmother’s hug as we leave behind the cool mountain air that followed us on the walk from our bungalow. 3 slips the maroon shawl from her shoulders, revealing toned arms that are gracefully wrapped in a loosely fitted cobalt dress, while her apricot hair pours down her back in gentle waves. No matter how many times I try for it not to, her beauty still takes my breath away, and to distract myself from it, I roll up the sleeves of my charcoal oxford that’s tucked into my simple black slacks and peer around the quaint establishment.
Warm candlelight halos across each rustic table that’s laid with modern furnishings, patrons leaning forward to enjoy each other’s conversations while dipping forks into their meals. Viento del Este might be famous for its coffee, but Colina has been rated one of the best restaurants in the region. Add on its exclusivity with only allowing those staying at the plantation to score reservations, and it makes the whole compound a much-sought-after experience, leaving me little doubt that hacking was involved to get us in on such short notice.
Speaking of our computer whizzes, I quickly find Jules and Akoni sitting toward the back of the room by large bay windows that showcase a breathtaking view of the dusk-covered Sierra Madre mountains. Seeing us, they wave us over to where they’re accompanied by two blond strangers who appear in their midthirties. As we sit we’re introduced to Olivia and Liam, a Swedish couple they met as they were checking in. Jules explains how they know 3 and me, or rather Ben and Stephanie, from running into us in Cuetzalan. Liam has a thick beard and an easy smile, while his wife matches with her quick fluttering laughter.
“It’s so fun meeting other groups when traveling.” Olivia beams, placing a hand on 3’s shoulder.
She stiffens.
“Yes,” I agree, biting back a grin. “I was just telling Stephie how it would be fun to find people we could meet up with in different places once a year.”
“Oh.” Olivia claps. “Yes, wouldn’t that be amazing?”
With her short blond pixie cut and cherub blushed cheeks, Olivia exudes cheery innocence, and I can practically feel 3’s displeasure with having sat next to her.
“How long have you been in Mexico?” Liam asks.
“Almost a month now,” I say before diving into the breadbasket.
“So long.” His brows rise. “Olivia and I can’t sit still in one place for more than a few days.”
“There’s just too much world to see,” his wife adds with a nod.
“Yes, well, Stephie and I have just been really enjoying ourselves.” I glance to 3 with a knowing smile. “And when you find enjoyment, why run from it? Right, dear?”
Her lips tighten before she copies my grin. “Oh yes, especially when Benjie here is usually such a bore everywhere else.”
Akoni snorts into his beer as Liam and Olivia bark out laughs. Jules merely shakes her head, her blond hair winking honey in the warm light, while motioning to the waiter for another drink.
As 3 and I lock eyes, my chest flutters in excitement. Oh, it’s so on.
But before either of us can play our next move, a tall, well-groomed man with salt-and-pepper short hair and sharp brown eyes floats over to our table.
“Buenas tardes, damas y caballeros.” He greets us with a smile. “My name is Rodrigo, and I am one of the owners of Viento del Este—”
“Oh!” Olivia squeals, interrupting whatever he was about to say next. “What an honor! We love your coffee. My cousin brought a bag back to Sweden a little over a year ago, and ever since we’ve been dying to make a trip here. It’s become our favorite, hasn’t it, Liam?”
“Let’s just say we might have an issue with customs on the way back.” He laughs good naturedly.
Rodrigo’s grin widens, and he gives a little bow. “This makes me very happy. We’re always pleased to receive visitors from all over the world. Are you traveling together in our lovely Mexico?” He glances to our group.
“No.” Akoni pushes up his black-rimmed glasses. “We actually all met recently, while traveling here.”
“Maravilloso, wonderful.” Rodrigo interlocks his fingers over his stomach. “Well, I do hope you enjoy your meal and the rest of your stay.”
As he says the word enjoy, I make a point to nudge 3 under the table, to which she responds by stomping my foot. I grunt against the pain before covering it up with a tight smile when Olivia glances my way.
“Rodrigo.” 3 addresses the man before he turns to greet the other guests. “I was wondering if you knew whether Ramie was here?”
Jules, Akoni, and I all stiffen.
What are you doing? I eye her from the side, but she ignores me.
“Ramie?” Rodrigo frowns.
“Yes, a friend of mine met him in Cuetzalan a while ago and told me he was family to one of the local coffee growers. If I ever visited they said I should try to meet him.”
Rodrigo’s gaze travels over the table before locking back on 3. “I’m sorry, señorita, but I know of no Ramie. There are a few other plantations surrounding Cuetzalan. Perhaps it is one of those your friend meant.”
My K-Op partner only studies the man for a millisecond, but from the quick dilation of her eyes, I know she took down his profile. Whatever information she gathered, her face reveals none of it. “Ah, my mistake then,” she says while producing the prettiest blush. “I feel silly for asking now.”
Rodrigo tuts, easily charmed. “I don’t think you could ever be considered silly,” he says while lifting her fingers from the table and gently kissing her knuckles. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll make the other diners jealous if I stay here too long.” And with a playful grin he disappears from our side.
Olivia sighs, watching his retreating form. “What I’d do if I weren’t married…”
“Not be in Mexico, that’s for sure.” Liam raises his brows. “Remind me again who booked our tickets?”
She pushes her husband’s shoulder, her eyes dancing with amusement as a waiter comes to take our order.
The dinner progresses with Liam and Olivia leading most of the conversation while Akoni, Jules, 3, and I fill
in where we can with our various lies that deal with our cover profiles. While our Swedish friends are a nice change of pace, after catching 3, on more than one occasion, staring into her meal with a clouded expression, I wish they could vanish so we could discuss whatever she’s flipping over in her mind.
Does she think Rodrigo was lying about Ramie? He didn’t appear to be. There was no stiffening or stuttering or pause at her question, only a man at ease with whoever this stranger was that she mentioned. It was a ballsy move she pulled, asking like that, but I have to say, I’m impressed. That’s a tactic I would have used…our techniques seem to be rubbing off on each other.
“So…” Liam’s deep voice cuts into my thoughts. “How long have the two of you been married?”
“A little over two months,” I say, draping an arm around 3’s chair. “This is our honeymoon.”
A pleased breath escapes Olivia. “Ah, how exciting. I remember when we were first married.” She glances to her husband. “Couldn’t take our hands off each other.”
“You couldn’t take your hands off me,” he corrects. “She’s a randy one, this girl.” He nods to his wife, and we all laugh, well, except 3. She merely sits up straighter.
“We remember how it was though,” he goes on. “You two don’t have to be polite for our sake.”
My forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean?”
“I know you want to be draped across one another right now,” Liam explains. “I see the way you’ve been eyeing your wife throughout the meal.” He shoots me a knowing wink, and my frown deepens.