Freedom Fighters

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Cristián lifted his chin and stared at him. “I’m nobody,” he said. “The Insurrectos don’t care who I’m chatting with.”

  “You’re the primary communications hub for the Loyalist war effort. If you think the Insurrectos don’t care who you are, you’re delusional. If they thought grabbing your girl and threatening to shoot her through the temple or rape her into unconsciousness would bring you out into the open where they can identify you, they’d do it without a quiver.”

  Cristián swallowed. “No more Internet, then.” His voice was weak.

  “Sorry, kid.”

  Cristián shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve thought it through until now, with you here and code books and…and…”

  “You’re a spy,” Daniel said. “You get all the high risks, the sleepless nights, the sick feeling that never goes away. You get none of the girls, the fast cars, or the glamor. That’s just in the movies.”

  Cristián grimaced. “Only, you did. You got the girl.”

  Daniel sighed. “For about five minutes, yes.” He picked up the bottle and poured himself one last shot. “I have no idea when I’ll see Olivia again.” If I do at all, he added mentally. He didn’t say it aloud. Cristián was already completely unnerved.

  * * * * *

  The Secret Service agents took Nick and Olivia to the Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, which wasn’t the hotel Minnie had booked for them. The suite they were escorted into had two bedrooms and an elegant sitting room between. Their luggage, as promised, sat neatly next to each of the bedroom doors.

  A man with iron-gray hair and an upright, square bearing sat on the sofa. He wore a handmade suit and his Italian loafers were planted on the carpet. He didn’t get up when they walked in. The two guards on either side of him walked to the door, stepped out and shut it behind them.

  “Hello, Dad,” Olivia said. “I might have known you’d arrange everything to suit yourself. You’ve been doing it all your life.”

  Nick walked over to the man. “Colonel Davenport. Was the hotel switch for your convenience?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Davenport said, getting to his feet. He thrust out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Señor Escobedo.”

  Nick shook his hand while Olivia settled herself on the club chair in front of the sofa, kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her. “The Willard is used to hustling high-profile politicians through the service corridors,” she said dryly.

  “Olivia, honey,” her father chided her. He leaned over and kissed her temple. “I’m so pleased to see you.” He picked up her arm and examined the bandaged fingers. “How bad is it?”

  “They tell me I’ll lose the nails on two fingers. They don’t know if they’ll grow back.”

  He winced and straightened up, letting her wrist go. “I’d say something about barbarians, only this is the world we live in.” He turned back to Nick. “Please sit down.”

  Olivia could feel the old, familiar ache in the chest she got whenever she had to deal with her father. “We can’t visit the White House officially,” she said. “Are you here in your capacity as Chief of Staff?”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?” her father asked and settled back on the sofa. Nick took the other club chair. “Your privileges haven’t been revoked. You can visit me any time you want.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” Olivia told him. “Or has White House security relaxed their tolerance for foreign nationals wandering the halls?”

  She could see he understood what she was implying by the way his eyes narrowed. “You’ve given up your United States citizenship?”

  “And your name, too.”

  Nick took in a breath. “Perhaps I should leave you two alone for a while and let you catch up.”

  “No, please stay, Nick,” Olivia told him. “You’re family now. You should get to know my father properly.” She looked back at her father, who had shown no surprise at her reference to Nick as family. How much did he already know? “I am Señora Castellano now. I am also the Vistarian Ambassador to the United States.”

  “For a faction that has no control over the country they call theirs,” her father shot back. “Really, Olivia, can we at least be civilized? You said…” He glanced at Nick. “When you made that call from Vistaria, you said you would work to find a way for us to at least speak to each other once more. I have met you more than halfway. This…” he waved his hand at the room in general, “is more than any non-recognized nation would receive from the United States.”

  “We appreciate your gesture of good will,” Nick said smoothly. “And I appreciate the opportunity to speak with you, even if it is not in an official capacity.”

  Olivia could almost see her father switch mental gears. The politician was piloting, now. “The United States and I are grateful for everything the Loyalists have done to protect our citizens,” he told Nick. “Although there is the matter of three Blackhawk helicopters that we would like back.”

  “You should take that up with my civilian and military quarter-masters, through normal channels,” Nick replied just as blandly. “I am not aware of what happened to the Blackhawks after the raid on the White Sands. I was busy arranging transport to take your daughter to Acapulco for medical treatment.”

  Nick was in effect saying, “I made your daughter a priority and you should, too.”

  Her father sighed. “I don’t care about the choppers either. As this is the most official meeting you’ll get from anyone in the White House, it is my duty to speak of them. Nicolás…may I call you Nicolás?”

  “Nick, preferably,” Nick said easily, although Olivia could tell he hadn’t dropped his mental guard.

  “Nick, then. Thank you. Your arrival in Washington puts the White House in an awkward position. You are not in control of Vistaria.”

  “Yet,” Nick said flatly. “That will change. Soon.”

  “You sound sure of yourself.”

  “I know the quality of the men in my army. I know the Insurrectos are recalculating their position and double-guessing ours, after the raid. Serrano is wondering if we have the silent support of the United States, a possibility that will keep him awake at nights. His spies would have told him by now I am in the States. Depending on how entrenched his intelligence system is, in the next few hours he will learn that you and I met, too. That will give Serrano nightmares.” Nick’s smile was predatory.

  Her father gave a small smile back. “It is because of your assistance with the White Sands exercise that I am here at all. That, and my daughter, of course,” he tacked on.

  Olivia shook her head in wonder. He hadn’t changed at all.

  “However,” Davenport continued, “you should not consider the goodwill you have generated to be in endless supply. There is only so much we can do unofficially.” He hesitated. “Unless the situation changes, of course.”

  Nick didn’t twitch in reaction. “Isn’t it unusual for the United States to be hanging back and waiting for a cue from another country? Mexico is not considered to be a world leader.”

  “Mexico understands your nation’s strengths and weaknesses far better than we do,” her father replied. “If they feel it prudent to acknowledge your Loyalists and open diplomatic dialogue, that would be the best indication to us that your efforts will bear fruit.”

  It was diplomatic double-speak, full of passive verbs and indirect references. Olivia sighed mentally.

  Nick shook his head. “Mexico is waiting for you to acknowledge us officially. They won’t move until you do.”

  Callan Davenport smiled. It was a dry expression. “A genuine Mexican standoff,” he mused. “You do have a problem, don’t you?”

  “Not necessarily,” Nick said, his tone as stiff as her father’s smile. “We’re not shooting at either Mexico or the United States. Your real standoff is with the Insurrectos. If you’re looking for a sign of weakness, Colonel, then consider this—the first person to shoot in a genuine Mexican standoff is the loser, because the
third person can fire at leisure.”

  “An interesting analogy,” her father replied and for the first time, Olivia saw something other than diplomatic indifference in his eyes. His attention had been pricked. “Are you saying the Insurrectos shot first?”

  “They haven’t shot their bolt yet,” Nick said. “However, we know Serrano much better than the Mexicans do. Serrano will shoot first. He won’t be able to help himself. He has sloppy impulse control. He’ll go off half-cocked and he’ll do it soon.”

  “That’s what you’re waiting for, isn’t it?” her father asked sharply.

  Nick inclined his head in an almost regal nod. “That is what I am waiting for,” he confirmed. “Then I’ll drive a stake through the weakness he reveals. I’ll drive it right through the weakness and into his heart.”

  Olivia detected a faint air of admiration from her father. She didn’t blame him. She was impressed, too.

  Chapter Five

  Carmen found Garrett in his little monk’s cell, bent over patient charts on his desk. Despite it being seven in the morning, he had a gas lantern hissing on the corner of the desk, shedding a white glow over the desk. The lantern told her Garrett had not gone to bed.

  “If you haven’t slept, perhaps you shouldn’t come to the rendezvous,” she said.

  “And who would go instead?”

  “I could. I started this.”

  He snorted and turned back to his charts.

  “What?” she demanded. “You’re laughing at me?”

  “I’m laughing at your notion that you could lead anyone to do anything.”

  Carmen swallowed her ire. “I’m trying to do something nice for you,” she said, her jaw tight. “My fucking mistake.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t do anything nice for me. Don’t pity me. Don’t make allowances for me. In fact, don’t think about me at all, okay?” His clear gray eyes skewered her and it was almost painful being pinned by his glare.

  “I wasn’t making allowances!” Carmen shot back, although the relentless voice in her mind challenged her. Didn’t you spend most of your night wondering how damaged he was? “Look, Garrett, what happened to you was shitty. It was the worst luck in the world and I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy. I wouldn’t even wish it upon you. So yeah, there’s a little part of me that feels a smidgen of sorrow for what you went through. You’re not the only sad sack stuck in this war, though.”

  Garrett’s eyes narrowed.

  Carmen didn’t give him a chance to respond. “My father was a good and kind man and a brilliant leader. He was a moderate and he ran this country like Swiss clockwork for two decades. Then, because some deluded nuts with guns thought they could do a better job, they dragged my father out of the palace by the scuff of his neck and tossed him onto the earth. They stood around him and took pot shots with their hand guns, betting each other who could hit him and not incapacitate him. He crawled around on that dirt for two hours until he died from his wounds and the whole time they jeered and kicked him.” Her voice wobbled. She stopped, trying to repress the sadness and the fury that always rose whenever she thought about the report she had found on Nick’s desk, outlining exactly how her father died. Where Nick had got the report from was a mystery. She didn’t doubt it was true, because Nick had never shared it with her.

  She swallowed the sense of helplessness that swamped her whenever she thought of her father and looked Garrett in the eye. “Everyone has a story, Garrett. Only, you’re not letting yours out to breathe. You’re holding it all in and brooding on it.”

  Garrett considered her for a long, silent moment. “That’s where you get your hatred of the Insurrectos from.” He reached out and turned off the gas lamp. The room was washed in pale early morning light from the high window. “Do you know what a shaped charge is?”

  Carmen narrowed her eyes. Why on earth was he talking about explosives? “C4 that is molded into a shape,” she replied. “Why?”

  “Do you know why they shape it?”

  “Because it’s more powerful that way.” She shrugged.

  “Because the explosion is contained and directed,” he said. “That’s why it’s more powerful.” He stood up. “I don’t let my story out to breathe, because by holding it in, I’m containing it. Then I can direct it where I need it.”

  He directs it at the Insurrectos. Carmen bit her lip. “That’s no way to live.”

  “No one picked this life,” Garrett told her dryly. “They’re doing it to survive. The survival instinct is strong in people who have no choices. They understand in their gut what will give them the best chances of living. They follow me because they know they have a better chance of surviving with me. You are a rank amateur who has little talent at war. No man in this outfit would follow you to a town picnic because you’re an unknown quantity and you have weaknesses.” He picked up the hem of his teeshirt. “Get out of my office so I can change, Escobedo. I have a rendezvous to make.”

  Carmen swallowed. The toxic taste in her mouth made her want to moan. How could she have felt any sympathy for him at all? He was cold, ruthless and calculating. There wasn’t a human bone in his body. “Sometimes, I hate your guts.”

  “Feeling’s mutual.”

  Carmen didn’t bother shutting the door behind her. He could damn well shut his own door.

  * * * * *

  Minnie said she would only be away for a few minutes, which was the only reason Téra could sit still and read. The book she was reading was The Once and Future King, in English. Reading English still challenged her, and it kept her mind on the story.

  The office they were in had once been a bedroom in the big house. Not a big bedroom, yet two small desks and filing cabinets were squeezed into it. Rubén Rey, the army’s quarter-master and Minnie, who was the civilian quarter-master, worked together to keep supplies flowing for the big house and the army quartered on the beach below. They had laptops hooked together to form a small network and used some sort of miracle purchasing system Minnie had invented that saved oodles of money.

  The bedroom office was tucked away in a quiet corner of the house. Téra liked to sit in the corner and read, while Rubén and Minnie did their mysterious magic. The pair of them would comment to each other every now and again. The comments had no context for Téra because they were looking at figures and spreadsheets that Téra couldn’t see. The sound of human voices was comforting, though.

  Minnie would be justified if she got mad about Téra constantly at her elbow. Téra didn’t need anyone to tell her she was clinging to Minnie for security. She knew it perfectly well. The need to always be in someone’s company would fade…or so the books assured her.

  Not all her reading was fiction. She had read the few medical texts in the house and knew she was suffering a mild form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

  Minnie probably knew it, too, for she never complained when Téra settled nearby. Duardo would have warned Téra if Minnie didn’t like it.

  Rubén Rey didn’t complain either, although he never spoke voluntarily.

  Twenty minutes went by before Téra lifted her head and noticed that Minnie wasn’t back. She had been lulled by the quiet click of Rubén Rey’s keyboard. “Do you think she’ll be back soon?” she asked, uneasiness touching her.

  Rubén looked at her over the top of his laptop screen. “I hope so. I need her data to finish this order.”

  Téra bit her lip. She closed the book. “Perhaps I should look for her.”

  “You’re welcome to stay if you want,” Rubén said. “You’re quite safe here.”

  Téra could feel her cheeks heating.

  Rubén glanced at the door to the room, which was not quite closed. Then his gaze met hers. “I’ve never had the chance before to tell you how sorry I am about what Lucas De la Cruz did to you.”

  Téra pressed her hand to her stomach, which was hurting. “Does everyone know about that?”

  Rubén shook
his head. “It’s not gossip. I was part of the debriefing so I got to hear the details.” His gaze behind the glasses was direct.

  Téra was almost overwhelmed by the urge to get out the room now. She forced herself to stay seated. Her heart hurt, so fast was it beating. She had broken into a sweat. “Why were you part of the debriefing? You questioned people?”

  Duardo had been relentless in his scouring of army personnel, their records, their backgrounds and histories. Those who needed a second look were given a complete, exhausting debriefing. Téra had been one of them, of course. Her debriefing had taken three days, while every moment she had spent with Lucas had been examined, prodded and poked for nuance and meaning. When it was over, she’d felt hollowed out and empty. She had been incapable of any emotion, including embarrassment that her brother had listened to her describe her sexual obsession with Lucas and how it had played out.

  Over the three days of questions, the people doing the questioning and the listening had changed. Nick had been there for one day. Duardo for two days. There were others, always three at a time. She had at first resented the revolving roster of questioners, which forced her to repeat herself and describe moments painful to talk about. Duardo had pointed out that the repetitions and the different listeners were a way to unearth details she had forgotten, or that no one else had thought to ask.

  She never wanted to go through that process again.

  It was possible that Rubén Rey had been one of the questioners for other people. Even Duardo had been debriefed because he was her brother and Lucas’ unit had reported to him. Perhaps Rubén had questioned Duardo. Everyone in the big house seemed to trust Rubén, after all.

  Rubén shook his head. “I was questioned.”

  “You? What for?”

  Rubén glanced at the door again. Téra hoped Minnie would choose this moment to step back into the room. Rubén would shut up if she did.

  He spoke, his voice low. “Before Lucas De la Cruz set his sights on you, he tried another target.”

  “You?” Minnie breathed, shocked. “Why didn’t you report him?”