Dani leans over, close enough I can smell her shampoo, and replies,“Estamos aquí para entrevistar a un preso. Me llamo es Dani Monroe, y él es Travis Lejune.”
Good. She remembered my alias. Trevor Moana can’t step foot in this country ever again, but Wren—Second Sight’s tech genius—created half a dozen fake identities for each of us, and this is Travis Lejune’s first trip to Venezuela.
“Your Spanish is very good,” the guard replies.
“So’s your English.” Dani passes him our press credentials, and he takes them inside his little booth and picks up the phone.
After a brief discussion with whoever’s on the other end, he nods, hangs up, and returns to the vehicle. “Park in the first row. You will be met.”
We follow the arrows through the lot and find a space less than a hundred feet from the building’s entrance. “Remember, Danisaur,” I say quietly, “my rules. You don’t go anywhere without me.”
She nods, and as soon as we reach the door, a man in a military uniform with close to a dozen medals pinned to the lapels approaches us, flanked by two soldiers carrying pistols and AKs.
“SeñoritaMonroe. I am General Ruben Ochoa. Welcome toLa Cripta.”
* * *
Dani
General Ochoa wears a fake smile along with his many commendations.
“Please come with me,” he says, and Trevor keeps his hand on the small of my back as we follow the man. His two armed companions fall in to step behind us, and I fight every instinct I have not to look back at them.
Men like this, in countries like Venezuela, expect to be feared. Bullies. All of them. I try to motion to Trevor to drop his hand, but he’s not looking at me. He’s scanning our surroundings constantly. Likely mapping all of the potential exits and any threats I don’t see.
When I quicken my steps to put a few inches between us, he finally pays attention, and I give him a quick shake of my head. His eyes say it all. He’s not happy about any of this.
“SeñoritaMonroe, you will be in here,” General Ochoa says as he scans a keycard over a door sensor. Two female soldiers wait inside, one heavily armed. The other wears a pair of purple skin-tight gloves. “Señior Lejune, please follow me to the next room.”
“We stay together,” Trevor says.
“I am sorry.” The general shakes his head. “But we cannot have that. You will be searched before you are allowed into the detention facility. I assure you, Señorita Monroe will be fine.”
Trevor’s about to go apeshit on the general. I can feel the anger rolling off of him in waves, and I step between the two men, placing a hand on Trevor’s chest as I stare up at the general. “You’ll have to forgive my photographer, General Ochoa. This is his first overseas assignment, and he has this mistaken belief that he has to protect me.” Turning to Trevor, I level him with a hard stare. “This is standard procedure for entering most of the world’s prisons. Get over it, Lejune. You’re here to take pictures only.”
“Da—Ms. Monroe, I’m notquiteasinexperienced as you think,” he growls. “And next time, maybe you should brief me onstandard proceduresbefore I have a chance to make a fool out of myself.”
Great. I’m going to get an earful for this later, but at least he turns to the general and says, “My apologies, General. My previous job required me to be much more...protective of my colleagues.”
The general chuckles and motions for Trevor to follow him while I enter the first room and set my bag on the table. “Buenos dias,” I say to the two women. “Me llamo Dani Monroe. Y usted?”
“Strip,” the one wearing gloves says to me. I guess niceties are out the window. The name tag on her uniform reads Chavez. The other one is Vidal.
I shed my jacket, laying it carefully on the table, then stoop to loosen the laces on my shoes and step out of them. Two minutes later, I’m standing in front of them in only my bra and panties.
Chavez motions for me to hold out my arms and spread my legs, then gives me the most thorough pat down I’ve had outside of the interview I did from Fukushima. That one required a cavity search, and I stifle a shudder at the memory.
“You may dress. We will examine your bag now,” Chavez says when she steps back, satisfied I’m not wearing a wire or hiding any contraband or weapons.
“Gracias.”
“Your accent is quite good,” Vidal says, earning a glare from Chavez.
“I was around native speakers for most of my childhood.”
By the time I put my shoes back on, Chavez is done checking out my bag, and she steps back, then presses a button on the microphone she wears clipped to her shoulder.“Esta limpia.”
The radio squawks once, then the general responds, “Show her out.“
