I lay my head on the table. If everyone went home, maybe I can catch an hour or two of sleep. But not more than a minute later, an ear-splitting cacophony fills the room. I jerk up so quickly, I lose my balance. The chair tips over, and so do I.
Twisting so I can peer up at the ceiling behind me, I curse—silently. I didn’t notice the speaker mounted high on the wall. No sleep. No food. No water. I’m fucked.
Domina, I’m sorry. I should have protected you.
* * *
Domina
I am so tired, but when I try to sleep, all I see is Leo fighting against three IPS agents. I do not care how dangerous it is. I want to go home. This is one of the nicer hotels in Panama City with luxurious sheets, a feather duvet, and a mini-bar—that is now empty of everything but the alcohol. The National Police did not see any reason to feed me, and as soon as I opened the small refrigerator, my stomach reminded me I had not eaten since breakfast.
I took a shower, but I still feel dirty. The new t-shirt is scratchy, my eyes are dry, and the emptiness inside me aches. I need Leo, and I’m afraid I will never see him again.
When I arrived, a little after 10:00 p.m., I sat on the bed and watched the local news coverage of the rally. I cannot bring myself to call it what it was, despite the reporters repeating the two words—assassination attempt—over and over again.
My name flashed across the screen every ten minutes. “Domina Sanchez, the Vice President’s speechwriter, was arrested only minutes after the shot was fired. She has yet to be charged with a crime, but the National Police say it is only a matter of time.”
Huddled under the duvet, I hug my knees to my chest and stare at the bedside clock. The numbers blur, and I jerk when someone knocks on the door.
“Who is it?” I ask as I check the peephole. The two men carry themselves with authority. Like Leo.
They exchange glances, either amused or annoyed, I cannot tell, and then the taller one clears his throat. “Clark and Jimmy.”
I cannot unlock the door fast enough. “Have you found Leo?”
“Inside,” the shorter one says. The look in his eyes…it’s the same one Leo had when he told me about his scars. But I think…this man carries pain with him every day of his life.
“I’m Austin,” the older, taller one says after locking the door. “That ray of sunshine is Trevor.”
I nod, backing up until my legs hit the bed. “Where is he?”
“We don’t know,” Austin says. “Yet. Zephyr hacked into Panama City’s traffic camera network, and she ID’d the SUV they put him in. But after ten minutes, it went through a dead zone. She won’t stop until she finds him, and President Garcia is getting a very unpleasant wakeup call any minute now.”
“The President? I don’t understand.” I’m so tired, nothing makes sense.
“Pritchard—Austin—used to run the United States Joint Special Operations Command,” Trevor says. “Basically, he’s a big fucking deal and knows people who know people who know your president.”
“My God. And you…know Leo? How?” I ask.
Trevor’s shoulders hunch, and he stares down at his boots. “Austin and Leo had to get me out of a jam in Venezuela a while ago.”
“One of the only men I trust in this world had some trouble last year. He and his girl had to get out of the country quick.”
Leo’s words haunt me every time I close my eyes. But I understand now. Who Trevor is. “Leo’s friend. From the CIA. That was you.”
Trevor nods. “I retired seven years ago. I work for a security company in Boston now. That’s how we got here so quickly. Without going through Customs.”
“And armed,” Austin says. “West, Inara, and Graham—they’re based in Seattle—are on standby. If we need them, they can get here in a little over eight hours.”
I stare at the two men, amazed they are even here, let alone withmorehelp potentially on the way.
“Domina?” Austin asks, holding out his hand. “Do you want to go home?”
Tears sting my eyes. “More than anything. Or…can I go to Leo’s?”
Austin chuckles. “Zephyr was right.”
“There’s something in the water,” Trevor adds. “Everywhere.”
