A young girl sat up and blinked sleepily. And Chessie had to fight the urge not to scoop Gabrielita up in her arms.
The little girl wiped her eyes and yawned, her attention landing on Chessie, a smile brightening her little face.
“Hello, Gabrielita,” Chessie said, taking a few steps and kneeling down next to the cot. “Sorry to wake you.”
The child obviously didn’t understand, but held out both arms, and Chessie lost the battle, scooping the tiny body into her arms and settling on the dirty floor to hold her. Gabrielita looked up at Ramos as if she expected to be reprimanded for the move, but Ramos smiled.
“Is it okay for you?” he asked Chessie.
She nodded and stroked the girl’s hair, holding her closer. “It’s fine. It’s perfect.” Her gaze shifted to Mal, who looked exactly as he had when he’d warned her earlier…you can’t save them all.
Well, she could hold this one and love her for a few minutes.
Ramos sat on the edge of the bed and dropped his head in his hands, threading his fingers through his hair. Chessie held her breath, praying and hoping and trying not to squeeze the little girl too tight.
“His mother hid here, and we helped her.”
Chessie almost fainted with relief. “Hid? From who?” she asked.
Ramos shrugged. “I do not ask questions when that much money is offered,” he said, his expression unapologetic. “She gave us enough money to buy many books and desks. Everything came from her.”
“What was her name?” Mal asked.
The man’s eyes narrowed as he peered at his visitors. “I am not ever supposed to say.”
“But the boy”—Chessie leaned closer—“is family.”
Ramos gave the shakiest smile. “I can see that.”
She sucked in a soft breath, the words stirring her. Her nephew looked like her? The baby had blue eyes like hers? Of course, she and Gabe were the only blue-eyed Rossis. She couldn’t stop the smile pulling at her lips.
“We called him Rafael.”
“Oh.” Chessie couldn’t help the little sound that escaped and the tears that welled up. “Rafael.”
Mal leaned forward and put a hand on the man’s arm. “Do you know where he is?”
He looked from one to the other. “I know who took him when his mother…”
“She died,” Chessie said. “We know that.”
“Can you tell us how?” Mal asked. “It would be a great comfort to the child’s father to know.”
Ramos turned, his eyes growing cold. “She died in a car accident, hit by a truck. It was very tragic, and the baby was less than a few months old.”
“Oh my God,” Chessie whispered. “How sad.”
He nodded in agreement. “During her pregnancy, she’d been teaching the children, and we were all devastated.”
Emotions swamped Chessie at the news, along with some relief. She could give Gabe closure. He needed that.
“Why was she here?” Mal asked, apparently not satisfied with that closure. “Why would she choose this place to hide?”
Even in the dim light, Chessie saw the flash of something in the man’s dark eyes that disappeared just as fast. “A friend sent her here. And that friend”—he puffed out a breath—“adopted the baby.”
Chessie’s heart swelled, hope overtaking the ache. “Please, please, Señor Ramos. I’m not going to take the child or upset him if he is in a happy home, you have my word. But…I want to meet him. I want to arrange for him to meet his father.” She blinked and didn’t care that a tear trickled and slipped under her glasses. “I beg you with all my heart and soul to tell me the name of the family who adopted him.”
He took a deep breath and let it out. “It is why I gave you the rosary,” he admitted. “I knew what she would want.”
“Isadora?” Chessie whispered. “The child’s mother?”
He nodded. “She was very special. Very beautiful. In here.” He tapped his chest. “Like you.”
Chessie leaned forward, her arms wrapped tightly around a sleepy child, her heart flat-out on full display. “Please,” she whispered.
“Her name is Alana Cevallos.”
Alana Cevallos? Chessie dropped right back again, shocked. She closed her eyes to take it in and opened them to see Mal looking just as shocked. No, worried.
“Señor Ramos,” he said, getting closer to the man. “This visitor you had. CIA. Thinning hair. Blue eyes? Marks on his face?” He touched his cheeks. “’Bout this tall?”
Ramos nodded. “And he knew Alana’s name. Asked if she was with you.”
Mal muttered a soft curse and turned to Chessie. “It’s Roger Drummand, the guy who’s after me. We have to go to her tonight. Now. Before he does.”
“Okay.” Chessie lifted the little sleeping girl back onto her makeshift bed.
Gabrielita moaned, and her eyes fluttered open. “Mamá,” she whispered, holding her arms out. “Mamá.”
“Shhh,” Chessie patted her back.
“Her mama is gone,” Ramos said. “And her father, too.”
“Your daughter told me,” Chessie said.
“If the government finds her here, they will take her. This is why…” He held out his hands. “I do this.”
“God bless you for it,” Chessie murmured.
“We have to leave now,” Mal said. “We have very little time to drive to the town where she lives. It will take hours, maybe all night on back roads.”
“Your vehicle is…” Ramos shook his head. “No bueno.”
“No kidding,” Chessie said. “Do you have a better one we can borrow?”
“Something that can get us there fast,” Mal added.
Ramos considered that for a moment, then gestured for them to follow him.
He rushed them back to their car, where they got their bags, then hustled them through the darkness, walking a good seven or eight minutes without saying a word.
Finally, they came to a large stand-alone garage, and as Ramos worked the lock on the oversize pull-up door, Chessie stepped closer to him.
“Señor Ramos,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Can we offer you some money for this?”
He shook his head, his eyes flashing negative. “No, no. This is for Rafael.” He smiled at Chessie and touched her cheek. “He is your blood.”
Impulsively, she hugged him. “Kiss Gabrielita for me. Tell her I will be back.”
He gave a sad smile, probably because she might not be able to keep that promise, and yanked open the garage door. Inside, he flipped a switch that cast a harsh yellow light over the whole area. “Can you fly, señor?” Ramos asked Mal.
Chessie stared at the propeller biplane crop duster not a whole lot bigger than the Prefect.
“Well enough,” Mal replied.
Chessie let the words echo in her head as she walked into the homemade hangar without hesitation. When she reached the plane, she realized it was even older than she’d thought, and her seat would be tiny, in front of the controls, which consisted of a joystick that looked older than Nino. No roof, no windows, no helmet, just frayed seat belts and some ancient dials behind filthy, cracked glass.
When she looked over her shoulder at Mal, she caught Ramos handing him a pistol and waited for an expected wave of worry or even fear over this latest turn of events on her rookie mission. This was not in the plan.
But no worry or fear came. Screw plans. She was nothing but ready now.
Chapter Twenty-four
Alana Cevallos locked the last file drawer, put her computer to sleep, and turned off the lights of the tiny office in Guantanamo Bay, as she had every weeknight for almost ten years.
She went through her checklist once again, forcing herself to think only in English, no matter how exhausted the long day had left her. After a decade of working in high-level administration at the American owned and operated prison that had, over its lifetime, gone from a tent shelter for Haitians to the home for the most dangerous prisoners, she spoke perfect English, b
ut often slipped into her native Spanish when she was tired.
And after an eleven-hour day, much of it spent staring at spreadsheets, she was bone tired. At least there hadn’t been any crises on the home front.
She checked her phone again to see if there were any new messages from her mother, but things had been quiet for the last few hours. Mamá, who’d finally mastered the art of texting and used the phone that the US government provided all of the local Gitmo employees, would have texted if anything were happening with her children.
But, at twelve, Maria was as much in charge as her abuela when it came to watching out for the littler ones. Alana had weathered the worst storms in their younger years and kept this position as a secretary to the director, one of the best jobs in the entire country. For the first time in many years, Alana felt something very few Cubans ever experienced: security.
Of course, the prison would close eventually. At least, that’s what the rumors were. There were only about a hundred detainees left, and most guests were attorneys trying to work out the details of their release.
The president of the United States had sworn that Guantanamo Bay had outlived its usefulness, but now with everything changing in Cuba, who knew?
What she did know was that she had a little bit of money, healthy children, a helpful mother, and a home that had been in her family for several generations. She was a widow now and had accepted that.
She said a silent prayer of gratitude to the Holy Mother, who had put true angels in her life when she needed them the most. Still smiling and humming a quiet tune, she stepped into the darkened hallway, ready to make the forty-minute drive to her home in the village of El Salvador. She would stop and—
A hand slapped over her mouth, and a man pulled her backward, stealing her breath and sanity. Ay Dios mio! Her worst fear. A detainee had escaped, and she was a hostage.
“Nice to see you again, Alana.”
For a moment, she couldn’t even process the English words, let alone the voice. But then it hit her with vicious clarity.
Roger Drummand.
“Aren’t you happy to see your old boss?”
Fear and shock vibrated through her as she tried to hold perfectly still and think. Should she try to kick him? Scream? Get to an alarm?
But she just grew weaker as he dragged her back toward her office.
She didn’t wonder how he got in; the former CIA supervisor still had top clearances at the prison, and he’d been there now and again in the past few years. But never when no one else was around.
“Let’s get back to your desk,” he said. “And I don’t think you want to make any noise or even think about that alarm, because I have your kids.”
She froze again. What did he want? “Qué quieres?”
“No Spanish, Alana. Remember how much I hate it.” He jabbed her back with something hard and cold. Of course he had a gun. “Get the keys and open the office.”
She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. Her hands were exactly the opposite, vibrating with terror as she dug in her bag for the office keys. When she pulled them out, he yanked them away with his free hand, keeping the gun firmly in the middle of her back.
“Where are my children? My mother?” she managed to ask.
“Detained. By the government.”
She let out a soft moan. Those were the last words she’d heard about her husband until she’d gotten word he had died in service of his country. “Why?”
“To get you to cooperate.” He got the door unlocked and shoved her inside. “Remember your old friend, Malcolm Harris? Did you know he is in Cuba?”
Mal. Why was he here? What did he want?
“He’s dragging around a computer hacker, which tells me he wants something, and you can get to it before he does.” He added some pressure. “Something I know you can do.”
For a moment, she couldn’t think, in any language, but then clarity came. The account…would be empty. “No, señor. I can’t do that.”
He pushed her into the chair and banged the back of the pistol against her shoulder. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Alana. You know exactly where that money is, and I’ve done you a big favor by staying away.”
He’d done himself a favor, more like. He’d kept his distance from the crime scene and she’d counted on him never coming back.
“But now I need some cash,” he continued. “So now it’s time to move it, safely and silently, to where it belonged in the first place: my account.”
She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. “You stole the money, Mr. Drummand. Or did you forget that you made it look like I did it with my husband? My husband…who was taken away and killed not long after.”
“It’s good that you know the consequences of bad behavior in this country.”
Except Guantanamo Bay was not Cuba. It was the United States of America, and Roger Drummand was a dirty, deadly thief who had the power to ruin her life and harm her children.
He gave her a hard push. “Turn your computer on and get ready to transfer the funds. I have a brand new account ready to take them.”
She’d never thought he’d take this chance. Never. Once Mal had gone to prison for the crime Roger Drummand had committed and tried to blame on Alana, she’d hoped to be done with this man.
“Hurry!” he ordered.
Ice crystallized in her veins. She couldn’t transfer funds that weren’t there. And what would he do to her children and her mother when he found out what she had done with that money?
Buying time, she did as she was told, her fingers shaking over the keyboard.
“You know the bank,” he said when the screen lit up. “And you have the right fingerprint. Do it.”
She logged into the bank site. Waited. Heard him breathing. Knew what was about to happen.
“Mr. Drummand…”
The screen flashed for the request of a fingerprint and password. If she did that, he’d know she’d already moved the money. And then he’d kill her…
“There. Fingerprint.” He gave her arm a shove. “Now.”
She did, pressing her index finger on the scanner, getting the immediate prompt for the password. “Now the password. Now!”
Dear Holy Mother, help me. She slowly typed in the ten digits and letters that were burned in her brain, closing her eyes when the screen flashed to show the amount available.
“Ten dollars?” he shouted in her ear. “Where the fuck is the rest of it?” He smacked her head with the gun, sending shock waves ringing through her.
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t tell him.
But he leaned close to the screen and used his free hand to click to the last transaction. “Money transferred to another account? Whose? Where is that money, bitch? And I know it was you because you and I are the only people who knew where it was. You had no right to take my money!”
“You had no right to take my husband.” He’d arranged for Jorge’s death as sure as he’d pulled the trigger on a pistol.
“Well, you’re going to join him right now.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and stopped breathing, bracing for the pain, needing and wanting to live so badly. “I didn’t take it,” she whispered. “I moved it to another account.”
“Whose?” His hand slipped around her throat and squeezed. “Where is the goddamn money, Alana?”
She couldn’t breathe. He pressed so hard on her windpipe, all the air was cut off.
“Do you really want to die?” he demanded. “Because I will kill you if you don’t tell me where it is.”
She tried to choke in air but couldn’t, blinking as her vision darkened. But if he killed her, he’d never get the money.
“You die and your kids go to the government,” he rasped in her ear. “Is that what you want, Alana? Is it?”
Or maybe he would. Maybe he was just mad enough, and desperate enough, to kill her. “Mal,” she managed to say.
He loosened his grip. “What?”
“I put it in an account
that only Malcolm Harris can access.”
He loosened his grip as if he needed to really think about that. “So it will look like he really did steal the money?”
No, so he could have it. But she didn’t argue.
“That was brilliant,” he said. “Get it.”
She slowly shook her head. “You need his fingerprint and his password to take money out. I don’t know them.”
His eyes flashed as he grabbed a handful of hair and wrenched her head backward, shooting pain down her spine. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.”
He twisted her hair and jabbed the gun harder. “Then this is what we’re going to do, Alana. You’re going to bring him here to me. Tonight.”
“I can’t get him here. He’s not allowed on the base.” She was thrashing for excuses now, trying to get time to think.
He gave a sharp laugh. “Alana, I’m surprised at your lack of creativity. When you worked for me, I thought you were one of the smartest people around Gitmo. You’ll think of something.”
She closed her eyes. The last person in the world she should betray was Mal Harris. And yet…her family. Her children. Her mother. Her whole world…they could be gone so easily. That was how a Cuban lived, even one who worked at Guantanamo. They lived on the edge of death.
He finally released her, pulling out a cell phone, and she knew one phone call could be way more fatal than one bullet.
“I’ll arrange for your kids and the old lady to be taken to Havana. Could be years before you see them again. If ever.”
Her babies. Her mother. Or Mal. Who needed her more? Once again, she chose family over a friend. “I’ll bring him here.”
He gave a dry smile. “I’ll wait in my old office. It’ll be just like old times, won’t it?”
* * *
Dead reckoning. That lovely sounding concept, according to Mal, was their navigation technique. It amounted to knowing the direction, estimating the approximate miles, and hoping for fair winds.
That did not sound like a flight plan to Chessie.
Barefoot With A Stranger Page 22
