Finally, I turn the knife over in her hand, back to the forward grip, and skim the very tip of the knife along my upper arm over my light gray jacket. “Brachial artery. Severing any of those three will drop a man in under five minutes.”
I need Dani more than I need my next breath. But not like this. Not when I can’t give her…everything. All of my focus, all of…me. She tosses the knife onto the bed and wraps her arms around my neck. “I don’t want you to go.”
Groaning, I pull her against me and bury my face in her hair, the scents of jasmine and vanilla washing over me in calming waves. When I pull back, her lips are parted, and my dick feels like it’s being strangled. “I have to, Danisaur. I don’t trust room service. They know our names. Who’s to say Ochoa hasn’t paid off someone at the hotel? Hell, I’d do anything not to leave you here alone, but it’s still early, and there are enough people around you should be safe for an hour or two.”
“You’re not making me feel any better,” she says, then snorts softly as she turns back to the bed and picks up the knife, examining it and trying out both grips I taught her. “I won’t leave, Trevor. I need to write up my notes from the interview. Start cobbling together something for my editor so he doesn’t go batshit when I tell him we’re staying another day. But just…hurry back, okay?”
I grab my hat and tug it down low, then reach out and trace the line of her jaw. “Nothing will keep me away from you again, Dani. Nothing.”
* * *
Dani
He’s been gone half an hour, and I can still taste him on my lips, smell him on my skin. And never—ever—has being taught how to use a knife been so damn sexy. Something shifted between us when I fessed up to all of my secrets, and I’m desperate to have him back in my arms so we can finally have an honest conversation about thisthingbetween us.
Sitting at the hotel room desk with a small keyboard attached to my tablet, I start to cobble my notes together into something approaching a story. What Luis looked like, his quiet voice, his reserved demeanor.
After eight months of imprisonment, Luis Rojas is a changed man. In video shot just before his arrest, he stands tall, shoulders straight, with a fire in his eyes that compelled thousands to gather, risking detainment themselves, just to hear him. The Luis Rojas of today speaks carefully, measuring every word. He says he is “being treated as he should be.”
In an interrogation room on the third floor of The Crypt, Luis spoke of growing up in a small town south of Caracas. His two brothers, Andrés and Franco, are younger by five and seven years, respectively. Only one month after Luis was arrested, Andrés was also detained. His whereabouts are now unknown.
I make a mental note to ask General Ochoa about Andrés Rojas if Trevor thinks it’s safe to return to the prison tomorrow.
Despite how often I’ve traveled to dangerous countries for a story, I don’t trust myself here. Because this isn’t a story, this is someone who risked his life to free my mother from a horrible situation. He’s not my father, and I need to stop thinking he is. But we’re connected, and he knows it.
I add another paragraph on the Farías regime and the history of The Crypt, then save the draft and upload a copy to the Washington Post’s server. After that, I transfer copies to three of my flash drives, and tuck two of them into the hidden pockets in my backpack.
Satisfied for now, I shut down the tablet and start to pace the room. Sunset is less than an hour away, and I don’t want to be alone after dark. Not in a country where the police work for a corrupt government and they probably know I’m hoping to expose them.
Picking up the knife, I practice the grips Trevor showed me for several minutes until it hits me. I’m lying to myself. It’s not that I don’t want to be alone.
I don’t want to be without Trevor.
* * *
Trevor
I wander the streets of Caracas like a man without a care in the world. Or so I pretend to be. In reality, I watch everything. Everyone. My frequent stops to browse jewelry, sunglasses, and little trinkets in the stalls of an open-air market a mile or so from the hotel? They’re all planned. Executed at regular intervals to scan my surroundings.
I haven’t seen a tail the whole time, but with Dani consuming my thoughts, I worry I’m off my game. We’ve turned some sort of corner and there’s no going back. We’re going to talk about everything once we’re back on US soil, and I’ll grovel if I need to. Beg. Anything. If she’ll give me another chance.
A scarf vendor catches my eye, her racks filled with hand-dyed silks in every color, and I run my fingers along one that bears long streaks of purple, pink, and gold. “¿Cuánto cuesta?”
The woman—who looks to be close to seventy—shuffles over and peers at me. My father was Hawaiian. My normally dark stubble is now almost a full beard—intentional to mask my appearance. While there’s no way I can pass for Venezuelan, my skin tone and extensive language training don’t automatically mark me as American either.
“Para ti, vendo por doscientos bolívares.”
“No. Ciento cincuenta bolívares.”
Not haggling? That definitely wouldn’t help me blend in.
“Si.”She gently eases the scarf from its hanger and wraps it in brown paper while I pull out a hundred and fifty bolivars and pass them over.
“Gracias, Señora.”
Best to be seen buying something. It’s good for my cover. Or so I tell myself. I certainly didn’t buy this because it reminds me of Dani and her thinking putty.
The package peeks out of the pocket of my lightweight jacket, and I return to scanning the area. Leo should be here soon, and I head to a bakery a block away. The window’s filled with all sorts of local delicacies. The sight of sweet plantains, arepas filled with fruit and dusted with powdered sugar, cakes, and cookies reminds me I haven’t eaten since the protein bar I had for breakfast.
