I expected to see the Pritchard house. But instead, they take me to the summit of East Rock in New Haven. Where Dani always used to go when she was upset. Where I proved her right. Men suck and you can’t count on anyone but yourself.
I found her there dozens of times over the years when Austin had been a jerk—as only teenage boys can be—and was too much of a coward to face his little sister. There’s a reason I call her Danisaur. That girl could blow the roof off a place with her temper.
The compass had that as her true north. Why? Because that’s where she so often found comfort? Or because that’s where she learned the world is a shitty place and people let you down? I have to know.
But not today. Today we’re heading into the lion’s den, and I have no idea what we’re going to find.
When I hear the shower in her room, I drop the robe I’m wearing onto the bed and pull on a pair of black boxer briefs. Specially ordered from a guy who used to be a spook, they’re tailored with four hidden pockets that are lined with a special material made to foil x-rays and metal detectors.
In the first, at the back of the waistband, I tuck one of the GPS chips. Ford has the ID and frequency it’s using, so if things go sideways, he can find me.
Next, one of the small ceramic knives slips into a pocket at my hip. On the other side, I add a flat multi-tool. And next to my dick? A micro-thin lock pick. Adjusting myself, I run my hands over each pocket to verify the lining is thick enough to hide my shit from a standard pat down.
“Trevor—“ Dani’s gasp makes me jerk. She’s standing in the doorway wrapped in her robe. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. The door wasn’t closed.” Cheeks flushed, she whirls and heads back to her room.
I pull on a shirt and follow her. “Rules, remember? These doors are never supposed to close. You’re lucky I didn’t pick the lock and open yours last night. And what are you apologizing for? You’ve seen me in my swim trunks hundreds of times.”
“You weren’t, um...masturbating all those times.”
My laugh surprises her, and she gives me a look of disbelief as I half-double over, my hands on my thighs. “Dani, you need to watch more porn. Or better porn. Most men don’t jerk themselves off through their underwear.”
She sputters a little, and I pull the ceramic blade from the pocket on my right thigh. “I was making sure this—and a few other things—were properly hidden.”
That shuts her up. It also puts a look on her unadorned face I can’t quite read. “You’re...you really think you’re going to need that? The Farías government knows I’m here on assignment for the Post. They’re not going to attack me at the prison.”
“Maybe not. But I’d be a shit bodyguard if I wasn’t prepared for the worst.” Sliding the blade back into its pocket, I run my hand over my hip again to ensure I didn’t disturb the smooth lines of the underwear. “What can I do for you?”
Her cheeks flush a dark crimson, like I just asked her favorite sexual position, and she folds her arms over her chest. “I wanted to know if you needed help with the camera equipment.”
“I’m good.“
“Okay. Well, um...I need to get dressed.” She stares pointedly at the door, and I take the hint and retreat to my room. Dammit. Without any makeup on, there’s a vulnerability to her that’s sexy as hell, and after last night, I just want to take her in my arms and kiss her until she forgets her own name.
But, I can’t. And twelve hours from now, we’ll be on a plane to the States. After that, we’ll go back to being strangers. And that’s probably for the best.
* * *
The driveto the prison leaves us both on edge. Lane markings in Caracas are suggestions that everyone ignores, and in places, cars fly down the roads five across. Two kilometers ahead, The Crypt looms. The sixteen floors above ground house the Bolivarian Intelligence Service. Windows shine in the late morning sun, though the structure is foreboding with its dark concrete walls and sharp angles.
Dani doesn’t say a word the whole time, her gaze fixed on a small notebook in her lap. Before we left, I slipped a GPS tracker into her bag, hidden inside a ballpoint pen.
“You okay, Danisaur?” We’re trapped in a long line of cars at a stoplight, and she sighs as she closes the notebook and then rubs the back of her neck.
“I didn’t sleep much last night,” she admits. “Otherwise, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me, Trevor. This is my job, and I’mreallygood at it.”
“You are.” She looks surprised, and I glance over at her, the corners of my mouth twitching into a smile. “I’ve read every story you’ve ever published.”
“Really?”
“Really.” I want to tell her how proud I am of her. How much I admire her. But I don’t have the words. At least not ones I’m ready to say. Like how much I worried about her when she went to Darfur or how glad I was to see her byline in the Post once she’d returned.
“You never said anything. Hell, we haven’t talked in what? Eight years?” A hint of pain creeps into her voice, though she does her best to hide it. “Why didn’t you...?”
“We had this discussion last night. What was I supposed to say to you? ‘Hey, Dani. Long time no talk. Sorry I had to kill your brother, but that story you wrote on the Congolese water crisis was amazing’?”
“Point made.” She turns away to stare out the window as we make the left turn into The Crypt’s gated parking lot. At the entry booth, a man carrying an AK-47 lumbers over to the car.
“¿Cuál es su propósito aquí?”
