The Red Ledger: 8

by Meredith Wild

  My gut tells me we’re not here for a random drug search, but for the time being, I’ll play along. The cops are standing guard by the door, never taking their eyes off me.

  “Are you going to search my bag?”

  “Rivero can do that when he gets here,” the big one answers.

  I nod like that doesn’t sound like a total bullshit answer. “How long is this going to take?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  I’m about to compliment him on how helpful he’s being when someone knocks on the door. They move to the side as Rivero enters. He jerks a thumb behind him, a silent order that sends the smaller cop out of the room.

  Thinning out the company doesn’t make me feel much better. The other cop is still glaring at me like I’m a walking weapon. I worry he may know who I am. Rivero doesn’t seem entirely at ease either. He takes the seat across from me after dropping our passports onto the table.

  He lets out an exaggerated sigh like he’s been on his feet all day. I’m waiting for him to get to it, but he’s just looking at me, tapping his thumb on the edge of the table.

  “You going to search my bag or what?”

  He purses his lips a little. “Let’s talk about Paris a little bit first.”

  Great. This should be fun. Internally I roll out the red carpet for the wave of dread I’ve been holding back since they stopped us.

  “How was the trip?” Rivero begins, his voice mockingly friendly.

  I reach for patience I don’t have. “Romantic.”

  “Which part?”

  I lift my eyebrows. “You want details?”

  He chuckles. “Not really.”

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say. I took my girlfriend to Paris. We had a great time.”

  “Where’d you go while you were there?”

  “We stayed at a hotel near the Champs-Élysées and walked around the city a lot.”

  “Did you ever go outside the city?”

  “No.”

  “No? No road trips?”

  His sarcastic tone keeps the lie trapped behind my lips. I’m done playing this game with him. He must sense this, because he takes a four-by-six glossy photograph from his jacket and puts it in front of me.

  “Know him?”

  I glance down at the photo of Crow. It’s the same photo they’re plastering all over the news.

  “I just saw him on the news this morning. I don’t speak French, so I don’t know why.”

  “Let me enlighten you, then. This is Lorenzo Generazzo, and the French government is pretty sure he blew up a building north of the city this week. He had a few friends with him.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Thought maybe I’d jog your memory.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t have anything to do with this guy.”

  We stare at each other for a while, a long, awkward standoff.

  If he’s found a legitimate way to link me to the Chalys explosion, we wouldn’t be having a conversation about it. I’d be in handcuffs. Unfortunately for Rivero, I’m not going to be confessing and neither will Isabel. I hate to think of the anxiety she’s going through right now, but she’s not stupid. She knows what’s at stake.

  Finally Rivero picks up the top passport and flips it open to the photo page. “Isa Santos.” He tosses it back down like it’s trash. “How’d you two meet?”

  “We met at a bar a couple months ago.”

  “And you’re already jetting off to Paris together? Sounds like a real whirlwind romance.”

  I shrug. He drums his fingers on the table, a steady rhythm that starts to wear on my nerves after a few seconds. For once, I’m grateful when he pauses to talk.

  “Did she tell you about the trouble she’s in?”

  I frown. What the hell does he know?

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Her real name is Isabel Foster. Did she tell you her real name?”

  Fuck.

  “Did she ever talk about her dad? He’s CIA, by the way.”

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  “I’ve been tracking her for the past two weeks,” he continues. “Whatever shit she’s got you mixed up in, Gallo, trust me, it’s not good. I suggest you tell me what you know before she pins all this on you.”

  I maintain my game face, but confusion is ripping through me. I’m trouble. I’m the guy with the checkered past who Rivero should be pinning every suspected act on, not Isabel. Rivero’s preoccupation with her is totally throwing me. I’m so curious how he’s drawn these conclusions about her that I’ve momentarily suspended my plan to knock him out on the surface of the table, deal with the cop, and steal out of here with Isabel.

  “It might be easier to help you out if I knew what you were after.”

  His dark eyes light up with a hungry glimmer. He leans in closer, resting his arms on the table. This would be an ideal time to reach for him, but I rein in the instinct.

  “Listen, you seem like a smart guy. If you want to work with us, we can figure something out,” he says.

  “You’re offering me protection.”

  “Yeah, but you have to talk. I want details. Names, dates, everything. And I want to know exactly what happened in Paris. Don’t even try to tell me you weren’t involved with this.” He stabs his finger onto Crow’s picture.

  I tilt my head slightly. His proposal is genuinely fascinating. If only we could turn the tables and I could offer him the same deal. Protection in exchange for all the information he knows. As it is, his fate is perilous at best.

  “How did you track her down?” I ask.

  “It hasn’t been easy. I’ll be honest, everything around this girl is a giant clusterfuck. I don’t know how her father is involved yet, but I’m guessing I’ll find out as soon as he realizes we brought her in.”

  “She hasn’t had contact with him in weeks,” I clarify, just to see what he’ll do with the tidbit.

  He leans back in the chair again. “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  He nods. “All right. Then I’m guessing you know Isabel Foster officially died in Rio de Janeiro two months ago.”

  I don’t need to answer because we both know it’s true. Lucia and Morgan Foster buried their daughter’s name days after she left DC to keep her safe.

  “Faking her own death wasn’t even how we found out about her. She came onto our radar when one of our informants was found dead in New Orleans a couple weeks ago. Shot in the head in her own church. She ran a safehouse in the neighborhood. Turns out Isabel was her last guest.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Isabel

  Rivero told me to sit down, but I’m alone now, so I’m pacing the room. Instinctively I search for anything I can use as a weapon. Then I remind myself I’m being held captive by the authorities, not mercenaries. I’m not going to kill a cop. I have to get out of here, though.

  With each passing minute, I worry we’ve turned onto a path with no chance of return. Unless my idealistic notions and Rivero’s unconvincing promises are actually true and we’re only here for a random search, we’re on our way out of the underground world we’ve been living in.

  I wonder what they’re doing with Tristan. What they’re asking him. His fuse was too short with Rivero before. I don’t trust that whatever they’re talking about is going well. I’m not looking forward to facing Rivero myself either. I’m a mess. I’m decent at lying when I’m prepared to, but I’m not here on my terms. Already it feels like Rivero could know more than he should about us. I don’t know how to act or who to be.

  My throat is painfully tight. I would almost prefer imminent danger than the possibility of discovery. I trust my ability to protect myself more than my ability to say the right things if pressed.

  I halt my pacing when male voices carry down the hall. I strain to hear them. The sounds are muffled but contentious. Then someone’s yelling. Is it Rivero?

  I walk to the door and mold my ear
against it.

  “I don’t care who you take your orders from,” a man shouts angrily. “You’re going to tell me where she is.”

  I freeze. It’s a familiar voice. Not Tristan’s, but one I used to trust.

  “I’m not supposed to let anyone in or out. As soon as Agent Rivero is done—”

  A dull thud of someone getting shoved against the wall vibrates the door.

  “You listen to me right now. That’s my fucking daughter he has in custody, and unless you want the deputy director of the CIA breathing down your neck over this, you’d better stand down and tell me where she is.”

  Dad.

  He’s here. He came for me…

  Desperate now, I grab the knob, turn, and yank the door open.

  He’s snarling at the cop, murder in his eyes. I’ve never seen him like this, but I’ve never been happier to see him either.

  “Dad,” I sob. Emotions I’ve been holding back for too long surface in a deluge at the sight of him. Anger and resentment and regret and weeks on top of weeks feeling fear like I’ve never known.

  He forgets the cop and takes long strides to reach me. Even before he manages to get his arms around me, I’m crying—desperate sobs that produce hot, unstoppable tears. He hushes me, but nothing can calm me down. I can’t bury myself any deeper into his embrace, though I wish I could.

  “Dad…” I keep saying his name, and every time feels like an apology. For what, I don’t know. I didn’t create this hell, but I’m so sorry for this place I’ve found myself in that I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault. All the lies and all the evil that have driven us apart. Suddenly it’s so much more overwhelming than I ever let myself believe.

  “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay now,” he says in a hushed, soothing voice that seems to pull me down even deeper, reminding me of home and that sense of security I’d always taken for granted.

  Even though it’s exactly what I want to hear, I don’t believe him. He doesn’t know who I’ve become. There’s so much he doesn’t know…

  “Come on. Let’s sit you down.” He guides us into the room and leads me to the chair I abandoned earlier.

  He hunts down a box of tissues and places it in front of me, pulling his chair close beside mine. I hiccup over the tears that have slowed but won’t seem to stop. He brushes his thumbs over the apples of my cheeks, stopping each new one. His eyes are kind and sad at once. The lines around them are deep with worry.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Another tear falls.

  “Me too, sweetheart. I should have never let you go.”

  I close my eyes. “This isn’t Tristan’s fault.”

  “He promised to keep you safe. He promised me he would.”

  “It’s not always up to him.” I blow my nose and try to collect myself. “How did you know I was coming back?”

  “I have a contact at Homeland Security who’s been pinging me every time there’s a search for you in the shared databases. Someone at the FBI started digging, so I started watching. Your mother told me about your other alias, so when no one could tell me where you were, I made sure I’d find out if you got in the air. I didn’t have time to follow you to Paris, but I was sure as hell going to meet you back here the second I saw you book a flight.” His lips tighten. “Unfortunately the FBI beat me to you, but we’re going to figure this out.”

  “What do you think they want?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He closes his eyes before speaking again. “Isabel, what the hell has been going on? Your mother convinced me that letting the world think you were dead was the right thing to do after Brienne died. I believed her then, but then you cut us out. Now the FBI is looking for you. It’s getting hard to help when you’ve left me in the dark.”

  The way he says it compounds my regret. He could have helped us, but I never let him. Somewhere deep down, I convinced myself that my straight-and-narrow, follow-the-rules father wouldn’t believe me when I told him the truth. That his distrust of Tristan would hinder his willingness to use his resources to get us out of this together. More than anything, I kept telling myself that him finding out about Mariana would hurt more than it would help anything.

  “I want to tell you everything. It’s time. But…” I stumble, not trusting myself to say anything with grace. “Bringing you deeper into all of this will have serious consequences.”

  He winces. “Do you think I’m worried about my job, Isabel? I’m your father. You’re the most important thing in my life.”

  I believe him. Telling the truth could cost him his job, but it could also cost him his marriage. Life as he knows it.

  I think back to the day Tristan left me at the hotel so he could find Jay, trusting my mother would keep me emotionally grounded in the wake of Brienne’s death. I remember my mother’s intensity then. This nervous, panicked energy that didn’t make sense until she finally told me the truth. She had to. Nothing else could have made me sign away my name and my life.

  “I’ve been dreading this day since I left DC. I guess I thought maybe after everything that’s happened, I wouldn’t have to be the one to tell you. I just don’t think Mom ever will.”

  TRISTAN

  “Isabel’s grandfather and her mother were really tight-lipped when I questioned them. As soon as I figured out about Isabel’s supposed death, I got suspicious that there was more going on. And of course I was right. I interviewed a couple of the girls staying at the safehouse.” He grins. “One of them slipped up and mentioned another girl. Isabel.”

  I’m not the betting type, but I’d put my money on Skye. Whether she led them to Isabel on purpose or not, we’ll probably never know. One mention of Isabel was blood in the water after that, though.

  “As soon as we figured out she might be involved, we decided we needed to bring her in,” Rivero continues. “We couldn’t figure out what name she’d be traveling under, though, so we used her last DMV photo and plugged it into the system to scan CCTV footage for a match. We got a hit in Boston, more in Paris. As soon as we knew she was on a plane, we were ready to welcome her home.”

  Someone bangs on the door, interrupting his excited retelling of how he finally tracked us down.

  Rivero glares at the door. “What?”

  I’m almost as frustrated, because somehow I’ve managed to get him to tell me more than he should have. I don’t want him to stop.

  Martine’s power lust and questionable ethics definitely make more sense. Selectively feeding information to the FBI would have given her a degree of immunity against her more questionable ventures. Securing a place of trust in the Company would have been the ultimate coup—as an informant and as someone who was helping herself along the way.

  Rivero doesn’t realize any of this, though. All he cares about are the two dead bodies at St. Joan of Arc and the family who was poised to take over everything Martine left behind. And of course Isabel.

  A little part of me wants to give Rivero credit for sniffing out at least some of the truth with so little to work from. We’ve been so focused on evading the Company, it never occurred to me that the legitimate authorities would make this much progress.

  Of course, none of this is really good news. Even if Rivero is largely wrong about Isabel’s motives, he’s still onto us, and our chances of getting out of here without a scene are getting slimmer.

  The cop inside opens the door so the other can peek his head in. “Agent Rivero, there’s someone here. He’s with the CIA. He says he’s her father.”

  “Damn it.”

  Rivero slams his hand on the table and pushes up. That quickly, his mood has shifted from arrogant delight to totally pissed off. Any progress he thinks he’s made is about to hit a brick wall. That wall is Morgan Foster.

  He’s only here for one reason—to protect his daughter. Unfortunately I don’t think Rivero is going to let him open up the back door and let us slip away.

  Over the next few seconds, I figure how it’ll all play out. Rivero and Morgan are goi
ng to clash. They’ll both try to claim jurisdiction. More people are going to show up. My guess is Morgan will land on top because of his time with the agency. Rivero is definitely outranked. Smart, but maybe a little too green to realize how this works.

  Either way, as soon as anyone finds out I’m more than an accomplice boyfriend, they won’t be holding me in a tiny interrogation room. The jail cell I’ve been trying to avoid since Jay adopted me into the Company is looking imminent. Rivero may have his sights set on Isabel, but my gut tells me Morgan isn’t going to let that happen. I doubt he’s going to start advocating for me.

  Rivero steps out. I can already hear him arguing with Morgan down the hall.

  “You’re interfering with a federal investigation.”

  “Are you trying to tell me my missing daughter is a federal investigation?”

  “When she’s traveling with fake identification, it is. You need to back off and let us do our jobs,” Rivero says, his tone authoritative enough that even from here I can tell it’s going to send Morgan over the edge.

  I can’t wait any longer to see who wins. The cop who should be keeping an eye on me isn’t. As soon as he disappears into the hallway, I take the window. Soundlessly I get up, grab my bag, and jump onto a filing cabinet in the corner. Pushing up a tile in the ceiling, I spot a thick water pipe and hoist myself up onto it. The yelling in the hallway hasn’t stopped, but I can’t understand any of it now. I replace the tile and drag myself along the pipe until I reach a beam that will hold my weight and take me farther away.

  Their voices are nothing but angry muffles now. I can’t worry about any of it. I need to get out of here. I may have only seconds before they figure out I got away. Maybe a few more until they realize how.

  I’m crouched but trying to move fast. The space above the ceiling is too warm. Perspiration lines my forehead.

  Unfortunately I don’t have a map of Dulles in my head, so I have no idea where I am. I follow the water pipes and stop at a juncture where they go below. Another large grid of ceiling tiles spreads around it. I lower and lift one up. The sound of kids yelling and toilets flushing filters through the small opening.