Alana Cevallos lived in a small house tucked into dense woods at the end of a dirt road. Mal scanned the place with the small light that highlighted a well-kept front yard and a recently painted home that had a welcoming feel, except for the utter blackness of everything.
“This whole freaking island is dark,” Chessie said. “It’s like the land of blackness.”
“True enough,” he agreed.
“Wouldn’t there be a light on somewhere? It’s only nine or ten o’clock.”
Mal didn’t answer, his eyes narrowing as he looked around. “Yeah, I’ve been here this late before, and she had working electricity, and there’d been plenty of activity in the house.”
Working electricity, which Chessie now knew was not always the case in rural Cuba. Did Alana Cevallos have some special deal? Or…a lot of money? Money that was “never recovered”?
“I want you to wait out here, over there.” Mal aimed the light to a clearing about fifty feet from the house. “I don’t know what I’m going to find when I get there.”
“I have a better idea,” she said. “If this somebody who’s following you is in there and I knock on the door, he won’t know me. I’ll say I’m lost or my car broke down or something. If he’s not, I’ll tell her that I’m with you.”
He cut her with a look. “Not a better idea. A really dumb idea. Whoever it is knows we’re together. You’re going to stay hidden. With this.” He held out the gun to her, barrel down. “You know how to use it?”
“In my family? That comes before riding a bike, but you need it. I’ll stay out of sight, I swear.”
He moved suddenly, turning toward the road, and a second later, Chessie saw a beam of headlights and heard the hum of an engine. A sizable engine, possibly a truck.
“Someone’s turning in.” Mal gave her a solid nudge to the side, making her take the gun. “Hide in the bushes back there. Stay there until I tell you.”
“Mal, I—”
“Holy shit,” he murmured, staring at the double headlights turning into the drive. “That’s a Gitmo van. Go.” He gave her a gentle push. “Hide and stay out of sight, no matter what you see or hear.”
She didn’t hesitate, darting away before she got caught in the lights. She practically dove into a thicket of bushes, not caring that they scratched as she found a place where she wouldn’t be seen. She squinted through the darkness at Mal’s shadow, watching him hang just outside the beam of light as the van approached and stopped. The door popped open, and Chessie instantly raised the gun, ready to shoot to defend Mal.
But the woman who climbed out of the driver’s seat didn’t look like she’d hurt anyone. Small, wiry, with enough wear on her forty-some-year-old face that it was clear she’d been through plenty of hell but had landed on her feet.
“Alana,” Mal said, making no move toward her. “Where are the kids? What are you doing in a detainee van?”
“Malcolm.” Alana didn’t exactly exclaim his name, more like exhale it in sheer frustration. She muttered something in Spanish. Then, “My car was taken away by the government. They are still watching me, Mal.” She spoke accented English, crossing her arms and shrinking back in a little as he approached her. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Chessie didn’t know the woman, and she had to remember she wasn’t speaking her native language, but she didn’t sound sorry.
“Where are the kids?” he repeated, more edge in his voice.
“My mother has them because I had to work late.” She sounded scared. Tentative. Mal moved one step closer, cautiously, it seemed, as if he sensed the same thing.
Of course! The little boy. She probably guessed that’s why he was here and felt protective about him. Chessie wanted to just come forward and tell her story, explain who she was and see the child. But she’d promised Mal she wouldn’t, so she hung back and listened.
“I need some information, Alana. And I need it now.”
“I…I…can’t do this.” She looked from one side to another, her voice cracking. At the sound, Chessie’s heart did the same thing. She’s not going to give him up.
“I’m not asking you to do anything.”
“But he is,” she hissed in a whisper.
“Who?”
Chessie cursed the sudden uptick of her heart and the pulse in her ears. She wanted to hear this.
Alana walked toward the house, muttering. “It’s not enough that you went to prison,” Chessie caught her saying. “Not enough that you protected me when I needed it the most.”
Mal turned and signaled to Chessie to stay, then followed. “Alana, I understand you adopted an orphan.”
Alana slowed, glancing back at Mal with a strange look. Guilt? Surprise? Chessie couldn’t tell from this distance.
“Isadora Winter’s child?” he prompted.
She let out a long, slow sigh. “He is over there now, in the field.” She pointed to the bushes, not far from where Chessie stood, then pivoted and walked into the house.
Mal froze for one second, then he asked, “What?” as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“Come in here. I’ll tell you.” And he stepped inside, the door closing behind him.
Chessie looked at the wide-open area free of bushes or shrubs about twenty feet away. No structure, no place for a child. What was…in that field?
Deep inside her, somewhere dark and shadowy and sad, Chessie knew. But she walked there anyway, slowly, with the pistol at the ready.
Once there, she could barely make out anything in the dim light, just about eight or nine large rocks, evenly spaced, slightly off the ground.
Oh no, they weren’t rocks…they were grave markers.
“No.” The word slipped out of her mouth as she rushed closer, all thought of staying hidden forgotten as the very real possibility of what in the field meant slammed her heart.
No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
“No!” She practically flung herself on the first stone, flattening her hand on the name and moaning in relief.
Jorge Mario Cevallos 14 octubre 1967—3 abril 2009
Her husband? A brother? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t him.
She leapt to the next stone and squinted at the name.
Roberto Jesus Cevallos 21 agosto, 1943—15 diciembre 1993
Older, maybe that was Alana’s father. There were only six more stones. Six more.
She moved a little more slowly to the next one.
Elia Maria Cevallos 14 junio 1945—29 marzo 1995
A tendril of hope wrapped around her heart as she crawled on her knees to the next one. She had to have misunderstood. He couldn’t be…
She just stared at the words carved into the stone as another set of chills tumbled over her. Her breath caught as she tried to inhale, her heart beating too wildly for her to get any air.
Gabriel Rafael Rossi Winter Cevallos 29 junio 2011—7 febrero 2013
Rossi. She stared at the added middle name, one that wasn’t in the municipal records. One that eliminated any need for testing. One that shattered her heart.
It wouldn’t compute. It just wouldn’t process. He was dead?
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, fighting tears that did not want to be held back. Her nephew had been born and died before she ever had a chance to hold him. She tried to get to her feet, wanted to run to Mal, to tell him and be comforted.
But nothing could comfort her now. Nothing. He was dead. How…how could she ever tell Gabe?
She pushed herself flat on the ground and dropped the pistol so she could cradle the little stone in her arms and cry.
It was the closest she’d ever come to holding this lost member of her family.
Chapter Twenty-six
Mal knew what was in the field. The family graveyard where a few generations of Cevallos members were buried. He stared at Alana, waiting for more, refusing to accept what she was telling him.
“I’m sorry you came all this way to find him, Mal,” Alana said again
. “And I’m sorry you have to break the news to Gabe.”
Not to mention Gabe’s sister, who was outside, in the dark, about to have her heart ripped out of her chest.
Alana crossed her arms, still tense and flustered, it seemed, at the sight of him. Usually a pretty cool cucumber and brimming with nurturing empathy, this Alana looked like she was wired for sound and ready to pop.
Something was definitely up.
Mal stole a glance toward a front window, but saw nothing in the shadows. He trusted Chessie to stay put, but not for long. First, he had to get more information for her. And for Gabe. He couldn’t leave Alana’s tonight without everything he’d come to Cuba to get…except for the child.
He obviously wasn’t leaving with DNA samples.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He got ill. Very ill.” She looked from one side to another, as if expecting someone to jump out at any second. “A high fever and…would you like to see a picture of him?”
“Yes.” Gabe would like that. That would help, wouldn’t it? At least it was something rather than nothing.
“It’s in my room.” She started to turn, then gave him another look. “I’m really sorry,” she added. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I hope you believe me.”
Why wouldn’t he? Something in her voice didn’t sound right. He angled his head, looking hard at this woman he’d once known so well and cared about. But he couldn’t forget…she had stolen a lot of money. Money that disappeared. She couldn’t be all good.
“How did you get the boy, anyway?”
“Nestor Ramos is my friend,” she said.
“Who runs the school.”
“And he gets children to the States, you know. Or into good Cuban homes.”
“So she was trying to get the child to the US?”
“Of course! But then Isadora…” She shook her head. “It was a terrible accident, Mal. So young.”
“And you took her son.” Which made sense. She loved children, and he recalled Alana and Isadora were friends. “What about…the father?”
He wasn’t sure if she knew about Isadora and Gabe. Their relationship had been a secret, but if she and Isa were friends.
“She never told me who the father was,” she said. “So, yes, I adopted Rafael and…” She stepped away. “I’ll go get the picture.”
While he waited, he leaned out to check outside, scanning what he could see of the property for any movement. “How old was he when he died?”
For a long moment, she didn’t answer, and Mal stood straight, cocking his ear toward her bedroom door, waiting for the answer. “Alana?”
“Not yet two,” she finally said.
“What kind of illness did he have?”
Again, he waited a good thirty seconds for the answer. Then he heard a click. A familiar click. A click that sounded like…
The sound of a safety being thumbed. What the hell?
He bolted toward her door, but something caught his eye outside. A movement, someone walking. Chessie? Of course, she’d come to check on him, but if Alana had a—
“You’re coming with me to Gitmo.”
He whipped around to stare at a SIG P229, a CIA-issued weapon he’d seen all over the prison.
“I need you to come with me,” she said again, her hand shaking ever so slightly.
Mal stayed very still, thinking through his options. She didn’t seem to know Chessie was outside, but that didn’t help him if she came bursting in here and Alana shot her.
He could jump her and get the gun, but she seemed nervous enough to shoot. He had to relax her. Talk her down.
“Not to sound like a cliché or anything, but after all I’ve done for you, Alana? This isn’t a very nice thank-you.”
She swallowed hard. “I’m not very nice.”
“Then you’ve changed.” Maybe Drummand had beat him here, after all. “What happened in the past five years?” Or five hours?
“I need you to do something for me.”
“I think I’ve proven I have a difficult time saying no when you’re in a bind.”
“Go with me to Gitmo.” She nodded to the door. “You can hide in the back of the van, and I’ll get you in. No one will stop me.”
Hide in the detainee hot box? Hell no. He’d shoved enough terrorists in that space to know it was airless and small and not happening tonight.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you’re doing this.”
“For my kids,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
He scowled at her, shaking his head. “What the hell is going on, Alana?”
“You have to come with me to Guantanamo, Mal. It’s the only way I’ll ever see them again. Please come with me.”
“Why?” he demanded.
“Because Roger Drummand is going to kill my kids if you don’t help me move the five hundred thousand dollars that’s in an account that only you can access back into his.”
Nothing about that made sense. “That I can access?”
“The money isn’t lost, Mal. I was waiting until you got out of prison to tell you where it was and how to get it. Remember they installed that biometric scanner at the prison? I had your fingerprint on file and used it. No one can ever get that money but you. Especially Drummand. He can never get it back into his account.”
“Back into his?” But as soon as he asked the question, the answer was obvious. “He stole the money.”
She sighed, visibly pained. “He did and made it look like I did it to save his ass. And you saved mine.”
“And by default, his.” He practically choked the words as rage rocked his whole body. “Why didn’t you tell me, Alana? I didn’t go to prison for him, damn it.”
“No, but I would have gone if you hadn’t.” She blinked back tears in her dark eyes.
“And you put the money into an account in my name?”
“He didn’t want to touch it because he knew there’d be an investigation, so when you helped me, I decided to move it. I thought, well, they think you stole it anyway, so if they ever found the money, it would not make any difference. And if they didn’t, then you could do what you want with it. Return it, if I know you. Or use it to build a new life.” Her eyes shuttered in agony and guilt. “I owe you so much.”
But not half a million dollars that belonged to the US government.
“He knows about the account now,” Alana said. “And he wants the money, which is why he wanted me to get you here.”
“Sorry. I’m not going to help either one of you.”
She lifted the gun and aimed it right at his heart. “You know I’ll do anything for my kids.”
“Alana, give me the gun.”
She stared him down. “Do as I ask.”
“Give me the gun.”
She took one slow breath, her nostrils quivering, and lifted the pistol higher. Mal lunged just as the shot went off.
* * *
Chessie jerked up at the sound of a gunshot, pushing herself up from the ground with Mal’s name on her lips.
“He’s too much trouble.” A man grabbed her from behind, wrenching her hair and snapping her whole body into his chest. “But you’ll do.”
In the house, she could hear a woman screaming. Someone had been shot. Mal!
Chessie’s whimper turned into a holler for help, but the hard stab of a pistol in her side silenced her as the man dragged her away from the field.
She tried to look over her shoulder to the house, but he had her twisted in the other direction, her feet stumbling to keep up with him.
“Stop it!” She jerked her arm, risking a shot to pivot again. She opened her mouth to call out, but he whacked her head with the side of the pistol.
“Move it, or you’ll both be in that graveyard.”
She squinted into the blurry darkness, realizing her glasses had fallen off when she’d been crying. Her glasses…were with the gun Mal gave her.
A rookie mistake. A wave of fury and frus
tration rolled over her, momentarily blocking out any chance to reason. But she had to think. Think, think, think!
He threw her forward and shoved the gun in her back. “Faster or you’re dead. And no one will ever find you out here, Francesca. Your country can hardly come looking for a documentary producer who doesn’t exist.”
He knew her name? And her cover?
“Who are you?” She took a chance on another look at him, getting a quick, unclear glimpse of thin, light hair and narrowed eyes. “What do you want with me?”
“Just your brain and fingers.” He shoved her toward a dark compact car hidden near the end of the drive, yanking the driver’s door. “Get in and drive.”
She didn’t move.
He pushed her into the seat and slammed the door, pointing the gun at her head while he hustled around to the passenger side. Damn it, why was she just sitting there while Mal was shot? She feared a bullet?
Mal could be dead!
She smashed her hand on the ignition, feeling for keys. None. As he reached the passenger side, she grabbed for the door handle, but he was in and pointing the gun at her before she could escape.
At least now she could see him. See his beady eyes and pock-marked face. So this was the son of a bitch trailing Mal.
She couldn’t show fear. Hadn’t she learned that from everyone in her family? What good were all those damn family dinners if she hadn’t picked up a single tip on What To Do When Kidnapped in the Field?
“Where to, Rog?” she asked, purposely cocky.
He flinched a little, then glared at her. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“By what?”
“That Gabriel Rossi’s sister would be a pain in the ass, too.”
“It’s a family curse.”
He lifted the gun to her temple, any trace of amusement gone from his scarred face. “Drive where I tell you, or I’ll kill you. It’s very simple.”
“If I drive without my glasses, I might kill us both.”
“I’ll tell you where to go. Drive.”
She twisted the key hanging from the ignition and switched on the headlights—at least this Hyundai had them—and then she squeezed the steering wheel with raw determination.
She could do this. She could get out of this. She had no idea how, but damn it, she would.
Barefoot With A Stranger Page 24
