Moses glares at me. “Yourneighboris the head speech writer for Vice President Cortez. You just put a target the size of the Pacific Ocean on your back.”
Well, shit.
“One phone call, and you’re on a plane to the States. Two, and I can get your fucking passport revoked. You step one toe out of line, and you’re gone.”
I narrow my gaze at him, straightening my shoulders so he has to look up at me. Ferrier’s a good four inches shorter than my six-foot-six frame. “Which toe would that be,sir? Because three of mine never left Venezuela. Along with my right eye, a handful of bone fragments, and my spleen.”
Ferrier sputters what might be an apology, but I’ve stopped listening.
“I did what any halfway decent spook—or person—would have done and I’d do it again. I’m not the CIA’s lap dog, Ferrier. Not anymore. After twenty-two years, I’m finally free. Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”
Slamming the door behind me, I lurch through the halls until I’m back out in the sunshine. My hands shake, and nerve pain snakes down my right leg.
“Tell us what we need to know, cabrón.”
The memories swirl around me like a tornado. My captors’ voices. The god-awful music they blasted nonstop. My own screams.
And what I did to each and every one of them just three months ago.
All I wanted was to spend the rest of my fucked-up life in a country where no one actively wanted to kill me. And Ferrier could put an end to that dream.
Time to put another call into Trevor and pray he can convince someone—anyone—to listen.
* * *
Domina
The morning briefing starts promptly at 9:00 a.m., and I slip into the room at the last minute. Despite my exhaustion, I only slept four hours. My alarm went off at six so I could transcribe my notes andtryto finish the draft of Manuel’s speech. I only finalized one page.
Even with all the makeup tricks my mother taught me, it still took me much too long to cover the bruises on my cheek and neck. My eyelid is still puffy, and the small bandage over the cut on my temple is only partially covered by my hair.
Manuel’s campaign manager, Rafael Perez, leans against a podium at the front of the room. His eyes meet mine, then widen, disapproval furrowing his brow.
I was attacked. Not out partying until all hours. Jerk.
Rafael sweeps his gaze over the eight other men and women gathered with cups of coffee and pastries from the communal kitchen. “On Thursday, Cortez is giving the most important speech of this election. We are ahead in the polls, but Muñoz is stepping up his attack ads, and our win is not guaranteed. If we do not find a way to convince an additional five percent of the population that Manuel is the right choice for President, we may still lose, and all our hard work will be for nothing. Domina, do you have copies of the revised speech for everyone?”
Almost as one, the other members of Cortez’s staff turn toward me. My assistant, Larissa, mouths, “What happened?”
The whispers set my cheeks aflame as I fumble for my tablet. “I do. But the last page still needs work.” With a few taps to the screen, I send it to the rest of the team.
“You gave me your word the speech would be done first thing this morning,” Rafael says with a frown.
Pushing to my feet, I do not bother to hide my wince. “Last night, a man broke into my apartment and attacked me. So please forgive me if I could not work after that. I will finish the last page by the end of the day.”
With his shoulders hunched, Rafael mutters an apology and gestures to the podium. “Please read us what you have so far.”
Most days, I would be happy to recite my words in front of my colleagues. But today, looking like someone’s punching bag, I would rather chew broken glass.
Tucking my tablet under my arm, I make my way to the front of the room. After a moment to compose myself, I take a deep breath and begin.
“Panama stands at a precipice. The divide between the rich and the poor is growing every day. Our children learn from outdated books with missing pages and broken spines. Many have only a single meal each day or work for hours before and after school to help feed their families. We have failed them. We. Must. Do. Better.”
The pain of last night’s attack fades with every word. While I carefully crafted each sentence down to the dramatic pauses and emphasis Manuel will give them, it ishisplatform. His passion. His beliefs. When I move on to the lack of potable water outside the major cities, even Rafael looks impressed.
“And this is why there has never been a more important time for the people of Panama to come together and vote. Vote for hope. Vote for change. Vote for Manuel Cortez for President!”
The room is so quiet, I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. But a moment later, Larissa, Tomas, and Rafael applaud, Isobel whistles loudly, and even Omar Modelo, Cortez’s chief of staff, inclines his head in approval.
