It’s a canned answer. And not a truthful one. But it’s the only one he’s allowed to give, I’m sure. “What lie did you tell?”
“I told many,Señora.”
“Señorita. Can you tell me what they were? These lies?”
Luis looks from me to Trevor, then swallows hard. “I spoke to crowds all over the country,” he says. “I convinced many people that Presidente Farías was stealing from funds meant to help them. Using the money for his own gain.”
“How did he do this? According to your lies?” My need to protect this man doesn’t surprise me, but I also have a responsibility to the Post to get the story I came for.
“He demanded the people pay for social programs he never provided, for health care that was substandard, and for clean water processing plants that were never brought online. Those were the statements I made.” Luis’s gaze darts to ceiling behind me, and I kick myself for not checking for cameras. He quickly adds, “I have been shown proof all of those statements are untrue.”
“Do you wish to recant now?” I ask.
“There would be no point.” The resignation in his voice breaks my heart. He doesn’t believe he’ll ever get out of here. Not under a Farías regime. “I did not understand the repercussions of my actions. How much pain they would cause. Brother against brother, families torn apart…infeelings. Those scars will never heal. For that, I am deeply sorry.”
“Are you being treated well here?” I’m testing the boundaries of the questions I’m allowed to ask, but I have to. Whatever his answer is, I’ll know if it’s the truth.
As Luis starts to speak, Trevor snaps the second of our three allowed photos. “I am being treated as I should be.”
* * *
Trevor
Change the damn subject, Dani. You’re pushing your limits here.
Standing by while this woman I’m supposed to be protecting dances with the very dangerous line General Ochoa drew in the sand is almost impossible. I want to carry her out of here, go right to the airport, and get her back to DC—or Boston—as soon as humanly possible. Because Luis Rojas is more dangerous than I thought. He’s not just some random political prisoner.
We’re going to have a serious talk when we get out of here.
Dani shifts in her seat, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Can you tell me about your life before your arrest, Señor Rojas? Did you live in Caracas?”
His gaze softens, and he stares down at his hands. “No. I am from a small town south of here. Calabozo.”
“Do you have family there? Children?” Her voice has changed now too. It’s gentler. Warmer.
“One daughter,” he whispers as a tiny smile threatens his lips. “I do not know her. She was never in Calabozo.”
Fuck. Luis knows.
I clear my throat, warning both of them to shut the fuck up with this line of questioning. It’s too dangerous.
“Are you married?” Dani asks.
Before Luis can answer, an alarm blares, and bright strobes flash in the corners of the room. The doors behind and in front of us bang open, and guards pour into the room. Two of them grab Luis by the arms while a third unlocks his hands. As they drag him away, I catch sight of his legs. They don’t move. He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t even try to walk. And his shoes? They’re brand new. The soles don’t have a single mark on them. Not even a speck of dust.
“You must leave. Now,” a guard shouts as he wraps his hand around Dani’s arm.
“Take your hand off of her.” My anger flares, but I can’t knock this guy on his ass. If I do, I’ll put us both in even more danger.
The guard already has Dani out of her chair, and she lunges for her voice recorder, but can’t quite reach it. “Tr—Travis!”
I snatch the device off the table and shove it into my pocket then rush after her before the other guards tackle me. I can see it in their eyes. They’d love to take me down.
The sirens continue to blare loudly, and out in the hall, the overhead lights have cut out and the emergency strobes are the only illumination. Instead of retracing our steps, we’re ushered down a different route. But I’m finally able to get to Dani’s side and wrap my arm around her waist. I don’t care if General Ochoa thinks it’s odd for a photographer to hold onto his reporter. I can’tnottouch her right now.
“We’re going to be okay,” I say quietly as we reach a stairwell and the guards order us down to the first floor.
When we reach the lobby, General Ochoa meets us, his rage barely contained as he clenches his hands at his sides. “I am sorry, Señorita Monroe, Señor Lejune. A small group of prisoners started a fight, and we had to lock down the entire facility.”
