“If Dani was able to gain access to Luis Rojas, it was only because Farías has some purpose behind letting him be interviewed. You’ll be with her?” Concern creases his brow, and he takes a healthy swig from the second drink.
“Yes. I’m her official photographer. As far as the government is concerned.” I’m suddenly no longer hungry, but lack of fuel is just as dangerous on a mission as lack of sleep, so I force myself to take a second bite, then a third.
“Trev, The Crypt is an appropriate name. It’s nothing but an office building above ground. But below? Fuck. The official prisoners are held on the first sublevel. The cells aren’t even half bad. Small, but humane. Go deeper, though…that’s a whole different shitshow. Insist on interviewing Rojas above ground. Donotlet them take you down there.”
“I’ve heard the rumors.” Prisoners held for days in stress positions, tied to chairs, forced to sleep bent almost in half in a cell so small, they can’t stand up. Freezing temperatures. “As far as I know, Dani doesn’t have any details about the interview yet other than the time.”
“Find out.” He sets his now empty glass down hard enough the rum left in my glass splashes halfway up the side. “I’m fucking serious.”
“You’re fucking drunk.”
Leo lurches to his feet, then reaches into the pocket of his linen pants. A hundred Bolívar note lands on the table between us, and he grabs my shoulder and squeezes hard enough to send my defenses into overdrive. “Don’t judge me, you bastard. You try living like this.”
Two seconds later, he’s back in his chair with my hand around his right wrist, which is now bent to the point of pain. “Watch yourself, Basher. You don’t want to fight me.”
“It’s better than going to your funeral.”
As soon as I release him, he’s up again, and this time, I let him walk away. I got what I came for. Firepower and intel. He’ll get his shit under control after he sleeps off the rum, and he knows better than to compromise my cover. We’re brothers in arms, bonded by blood and pain, and I trust him with my life. But that doesn’t mean I won’t kick his ass if he touches me again. Or can’t keep himself sober long enough to have a fucking conversation.
When the server comes over to check on me, I order a second plate of arepas to go and force myself to clean my plate. I need to get back to Dani and prepare for tomorrow.
* * *
Dani
My timer goes off, and I jump onto the side rails of the treadmill and pick up my phone. Though I hate feeling like I’m a teenager checking in with Mom and Dad again, I promised Trevor I’d text him, and I keep my promises.
Close to 4 miles in. The gym’s empty. I’m fine.
He replies with a terse:Stay that way.
Great. I’m traveling with the world’s greatest conversationalist. Hopping back on the treadmill, I push myself faster, trying to banish the demons that have haunted me since I first looked up my birth father’s name.
When I hit eight miles, I stagger over to the water dispenser and fill a plastic cup to the brim. Even inside with air conditioning, Venezuela is almost unbearably humid. The run and the icy liquid help focus my thoughts, and I head back to my room, just like I said I would.
Trevor hasn’t returned yet, so I lock up, then get in the shower. My muscles ache after so many hours in the air, and when I spill some of my jasmine shampoo into my hands, the familiar scent relaxes me almost immediately.
I can do this. Walk into that prison tomorrow and look Luis Rojas in the eyes for the first time. Will he have any idea who I am? Will he care? Will I?
As I exit the bathroom wearing only a loose tank and a pair of sleep shorts, movement catches my eye, and I lunge for my phone on the bed.
“Whoa. It’s just me.” Trevor stands in the doorway between our two rooms, a foil-wrapped plate in his hands. “I brought you dinner.”
“Oh.” Heat creeps up my neck, and I realize how little I’m wearing. Even though more of me is covered now than when I brazenly walked by him in a sports bra and running shorts, I feel so much more exposed. My nipples tighten under the tank, and I turn to my backpack and fumble around for a sweatshirt, only to realize I didn’t bring one because we’re in Venezuela and it’s the middle of summer. Giving up, I turn back and cross my arms over my chest. “Thanks. Did you get what you needed from Leo?”
“Yep.” He sets the plate on the little table in the corner, along with a plastic knife and fork, then turns on his heel and heads back for his room.
There’s something wrong. He’s twitchy, and a muscle in his jaw is working overtime. I’d swear he was chewing gum if I didn’t know better. He’s close to the edge, but the edge of what, I don’t know.
“Trevor?” He stops, and I scramble to figure out what to say to keep him here. Just like every other time he’s walked away from me. “This smells great.”
“I couldn’t remember if you ate meat.” He shrugs, but still doesn’t face me. “So I got you a shredded beef, a swordfish, and a veggie.”
“I like everything but zucchini and SpaghettiOs.”
“What do you have against SpaghettiOs?” he asks as he finally turns around.
“One of our foster homes, that’s literally all we got for dinner. Every night for six months. I can’t stand them anymore.” My admission shifts something in his demeanor.
