Barefoot With A Stranger

by Roxanne St Claire

  The room was empty. A tidy office, an empty desk with a computer. He walked around to the screen, tapped a mouse to flicker it to life, picking up the last screen where she must have left it in a hurry.

  Place finger on scanner to enter account.

  His account? Of course, she’d gotten this far with Drummand and stopped because they needed his fingerprint.

  Slowly, he touched his index finger to the small scanner next to the mouse.

  Balance $523,694.58

  Holy shit.

  Could he do something with that money now? Move it? Transfer it to the government? Prove it came from Drummand? With this password Alana gave him, he might be able to.

  He slid the tiny corner of paper towel under the edge of the keyboard and—

  Suddenly he heard the sound of boots pounding on the linoleum. Guard boots. Instantly, he cleared the screen, just before the door flew open, and Mal was face-to-face with three M16s.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Drop your weapon,” one of the guards demanded.

  “And get away from the computer,” another man yelled from behind.

  No, not another man. Roger Drummand.

  Mal slowly lowered his weapon as his gaze met the blue-eyed slits of his nemesis. Where was Chessie? What the hell did he do with her?

  “In here, Francesca.” Drummand turned, but not before he sent a smug look to Mal, who was already surrounded by the sergeant on patrol and two other men.

  “Francesca…” The word slipped out, a little desperate, a lot relieved.

  The SOP shifted his attention to Chessie as she came in from the hall a second later, dirt on her face and the beach cover-up, her hair a wild mess, her eyes…hard. Cold. Focused.

  “This is my technical assistant,” Drummand said to the SOP. “We need some privacy to see what damage this thief has done to the computer system.” He nudged Chessie to the computer.

  And she practically flounced to the keyboard without so much as a glance to Mal.

  “This man needs to be put in a cell,” Drummand said. “Immediately.”

  “Should we take him to Delta?” the SOP asked. “Or medical?”

  “Take him to the north block,” Drummand said. “First floor.”

  Camp No. As in no one knows where it is, and it would be completely deserted. At least he wasn’t going to the third floor for a waterboarding date.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Drummand put a possessive hand on Chessie’s shoulder, guiding her into the seat in front of the now darkened computer screen. “Francesca, can you please find that missing file now?”

  “Of course,” she said, settling into the seat with her fingers on the keyboard.

  She turned to glance over her shoulder. “I can find anything.” For one millisecond, her eyes grazed Mal, telling him nothing.

  Except that she was so damn good in the field, even he might buy this act.

  He realized he still held her glasses in his left hand. Reaching out, he offered them to her. “You’ll need these. So you can see clearly.”

  “I can see perfectly.” She took them, but their hands brushed in the exchange. At the electric touch, her gaze flicked to his, a millisecond of eye contact, long enough for her to communicate that she had a plan.

  But a plan wasn’t going to keep her alive. He squirmed as the guards surrounded him and grabbed his arms, preventing him from scooping her up and getting her out of here. Instead, he was led away like a dirty prisoner, powerless to protect the only woman he ever…oh, hell, why fight it? The only woman he ever loved.

  * * *

  Blood. Caked to his T-shirt sleeve. Splattered all over his chest and stomach. Dripping down his arm and smeared on his face.

  Chessie’s stomach turned as she remembered how defeated Mal looked, and her heart stuttered with fear at how much blood he’d lost and where they could be taking him to lose even more.

  She wanted to scream and throw her arms around him, but this was a mission and she had to play her role or they both would die.

  She had to clear his name. Had to.

  She picked up her glasses as though his smeared fingerprints were their only connection. She didn’t need them to see what she was about to do, but if she had to make a quick getaway, she sure did.

  First, she had to find the proof—or create it—that Roger Drummand committed the crime that put Mal in jail, and get that proof into the hands of someone who could, and would, do something about it. Then Mal could be free…for her.

  Holy crap, that was a lofty plan and impossible goal under these circumstances. But it had to be done, by her fingertips, on this computer. She had the power now, and she had to use it.

  She touched the screen, and while it flickered to life, glanced around the neat office, her gaze falling on a picture of a family. Four kids and a mother. She recognized Alana Cevallos as the woman she’d been spying on in the bushes. Those must be her children. But there were four. Mal had told her Alana had three kids.

  One of them must be Gabe’s son.

  She reached for the photo and brought it closer to look at the smallest child in the photo.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. He was a carbon copy of his father. The same blue eyes, the same black hair, the very same mischievous smile and teasing tilt to his head, even though he was maybe a year or fifteen months in this photo.

  But now he was dead.

  She set the picture down, remembering the pain that the last hour’s adventure had numbed. She had to fight through that, and think.

  Think, Chessie, think. This is what you do.

  But she also made fake deals with criminals and pushed cars out of ditches and jumped on crop dusters and sneaked out of rooms half naked.

  They’d been through so much…only to discover little Gabriel Rafael was dead. This mission couldn’t be a complete failure. She had to clear Mal’s name and kick Drummand’s sorry ass to jail in the process. She had to.

  “What are you waiting for?” Drummand demanded, coming up behind her.

  To be alone. “Where’s Alana?”

  “Never mind. Start working.”

  “No, not never mind,” Chessie shot back. “Mal was in her office, on her computer. She might be hiding because there are men with guns everywhere, but what’s to stop her from getting in our way?”

  “The fact that I locked her in a janitor’s closet.”

  “Oh, that. Is she okay?”

  “What do you care?”

  Think, Chessie. “But what if someone comes in here? Anyone. Those guards. What if she makes noise or gets out? Check on her,” Chessie demanded. “Make sure no one is in the hall. We don’t need a witness, Rog.”

  He took a slow breath, rattling his nostrils, before he finally turned to step outside. “I’ll watch. You work.”

  He’d have to come around the desk to see what she was actually typing, but she still wanted him out of the room.

  “You can do this, can’t you?” he asked when she hesitated.

  “Not with you in the room instead of watching out for witnesses.”

  “You think I’m leaving?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” She flicked her fingers in the air, wishing she could actually hit his face. “You are not dealing with a rookie, Rog.”

  He shook his head. “A family curse, all right. Hurry up. We don’t have much time.”

  “I’m not putting my fingers on this computer with that door open,” she said. “Close it and stand outside. Knock if someone’s coming.”

  At his hesitation, she threw her chair back and her hands in the air. “Fuck it, Rog. Find your own damn money.”

  The bluff worked. He walked out and closed the door. Chessie brought the screen to life again and started to dig through the bank website.

  Bank IP address. Wait and scan. Credits transferred to that IP. Wait and move that information to a file. Find the ACCNO number. Get out of one page and to the next. Save logs. Move them. Delete logs. IP scan.

&nb
sp; The door popped open, and she gasped.

  “Do you have it yet?” Drummand demanded.

  She just glared at him until the bastard backed away. God, this would be fun if her life wasn’t on the line. And Mal’s.

  Refusing to give in to the little squeeze of anxiety that thought caused, she focused on the screen, determined to prove the man outside the door was the mastermind of this whole half-million-dollar embezzlement.

  Her fingers were shaky, but with each new keystroke, each fallen firewall, and each file logged and copied and moved, she felt closer.

  Finally, she found her way to the original account, where the money had first accrued. Dropped in over a two-year period, taken from government accounts using what she was certain were bogus invoices that got lost in the bureaucracy.

  Invoices submitted by a company—a shell company, no doubt.

  Her gaze moved to the picture a few inches away, focusing on little Gabriel Rafael Rossi Winter. Finally, the screen flashed, and a new name and account appeared.

  Roger Drummand, Primary Account Holder. Please enter password.

  The door popped open, and Drummand marched around the desk, staring at the screen. Then the pistol smacked the side of her head, hard. Then again, twice as hard, knocking her right off the chair. She couldn’t help grabbing the side of her head now as waves of pain ricocheted around her brain.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  She looked up at him, vaguely aware that blood trickled from her mouth. “Moving money into your account.”

  “No, you’re not.” He yanked her up from the floor and tapped the screen to life. “Where is it? Where is the money?”

  Tucked away in a temporary account she’d just made. But first she needed to get into his original account and get a screenshot of the embezzlement proof. She wouldn’t quit until she had it. He pushed her further aside, the gun still on her as he tapped the back arrow and landed on the temporary account. “What’s the password?” he demanded.

  She shook her head.

  He stuck the gun in her face. “One second to tell me the password or you die.”

  “You won’t kill me here,” she said, seizing a lot of bluster she didn’t actually feel. “You won’t pull the trigger and kill an innocent American citizen in an office in this place.”

  “You’re right. I won’t kill you here.” He shoved her to the door. “We have other ways of getting information here at Guantanamo Bay.”

  She closed her eyes and stumbled to the door knowing exactly what ways he meant.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  As two guards escorted him through a series of covered, outdoor pathways through various buildings, Mal forced himself to remember every little thing he knew about this place.

  “This way,” one of the guards said, the first and only thing out of the young Marine’s mouth.

  The north end had been like a second home to Mal. That’s where they’d worked, where they’d tried to convince terrorists to be double agents.

  And then Gabe’s voice came back to him.

  There’s a Beretta Nano stashed in that cubbyhole.

  But was it still there? If he could get into the Country Club…he could get out of it, too.

  Memories flooded as they turned the corner and headed toward that hall. But there were six holding cells where prisoners waited their turn to go to the Country Club, and the guard slowed enough that Mal knew they were putting him in one of them.

  “Have a little mercy, Private Mullins,” Mal said to the closest guard. “Gimme the last room on the left.”

  “That’s not a cell.”

  “There’s a real bed in it. You and I both know I could be here a long time.”

  “This one, right here.” The other man, an Army National Guardsman whose badge said Harcourt, pulled out a key to one of the holding cells.

  Mal eyed him. “California or Texas Guard, Corporal?” he asked.

  The man ignored him and unlocked the door.

  “I was with Maryland Reserves,” Mal said. At least that had been his cover when the CIA sent him here.

  The guard turned to him. “You’re a fucking thief, Harris. Not a soldier. This is where you belong for what you did.”

  But the other guard, Mullins, moved closer, obviously intrigued. “You’re the embezzler?” Mullins asked. “I’ve heard about you.”

  “I did my time in a cell for that crime,” he said.

  The guardsman looked disgusted and backed away. “I’m going to do the paperwork. Lock him in here.” He gave the key to Mullins. “And don’t leave this hall, Private.”

  When his footsteps faded, Mullins nodded toward the open door, a wretched stench already wafting out. The cell was less than six by six, with a wooden box the only thing to sit on.

  “C’mon, Private,” Mal said. “That key works in the last room, and you know as well as I do Corporal Harcourt is going to sit in his office and jack off until he’s off duty. He left you with the shit job.”

  Mullins sniffed and turned his head, the ancient smells of a room where men were held for days with no bathroom still offensive. “No way,” Mullins said. “I’m not going to stand out here and suck in that shit.”

  Mal’s spark of hope turned into a full-blown bonfire.

  Mullins let him into the Country Club and gave a dry laugh when he looked inside. “Bed’s gone, Mr. Harris,” he noted, tapping a hideous overhead light. Air conditioning likely hadn’t been run since the project closed, leaving a different kind of fetid, moldy stench.

  The bed was, indeed, long gone. All that was left in the room were two beat-up leather sofas, a table, and benches along the wall, with wooden tops that lifted for storage.

  Storage for secret notes exchanged by an agent and a translator. Storage for porn they gave to the detainees. And, God willing, storage for a Beretta Nano.

  “I’ll be fine. Thanks.” Mal went in, pretending not to be in any rush.

  “I’ll be out here,” Mullins said. “Pound on the door if you need to piss.”

  He left Mal alone, the thick metal door blocking out any sound of the private’s footsteps. Which meant he couldn’t hear Mal, either. Not that what he was hoping to do would make any sound.

  Without hesitation, Mal walked to the wood slats that covered the benches, going to the spot at the end where he remembered Gabe leaving or retrieving notes for his lover.

  Mal put his hand on the last wooden slat and tried to lift it. Nailed shut. Damn it. He yanked again, and again, ignoring the pain in his arm, determined to tear the wood off.

  His fingers bled as he worked, sweat streaming and heart pounding, but he finally cracked a slat open enough that he was able to stick his hand in the hole and get a little more leverage. He couldn’t get his right arm all the way down without excruciating pain, so he tried his left, biting his lip with the effort.

  It had to be there. Had to be. Finally, he bent over and stuck his arm deep in the hidey-hole they’d made, and his fingers grazed…paper.

  Not the pistol they’d put there.

  He tugged at the slip of paper and pulled it out with two fingers, swearing under his breath. There was something written on the tiny page, probably “suck it, dickhead, I took your gun” in Arabic.

  But the words were in English, in a woman’s handwriting.

  Gabriel, my angel…

  He closed his eyes. Guess Gabe missed one. He stuffed it in his pocket, more determined than ever to get home and hand that letter to Gabe.

  He shoved his right hand into the hole again, grunting as the jagged wood stabbed his wounded arm and drew more blood. Just as he was about to give up, he heard the lock of his door unlatch—

  And his fingers touched the barrel of the gun.

  He pushed all the way in and managed to grab the gun, tugging it out and getting it behind his back just as the private walked in.

  He stared at Mal and the broken wood.

  “We hid porn in there,” Mal said coolly. “Figur
ed I might as well pass the time.”

  Mullins gave him a strange look, but he didn’t make any effort to go for his own weapon.

  “I’m getting coffee,” he said. “You want some?”

  Such a nice kid. But probably not nice enough to help him, so Mal would have to make his night duty hell.

  “Listen, Private Mullins.” Mal walked closer, the pistol in his right hand behind him, but he covered by holding the other hand over his bullet wound. “I really need to see medical.”

  “I can’t take you—”

  Mal whipped the gun around and slammed the barrel against the kid’s neck, instantly getting his arm and twisting it. He fought, but Mal had adrenaline and determination and years of experience in this kid’s shoes on his side. Mal flipped him around in a flash.

  “Drop your firearm, or I shoot,” Mal said into his ear.

  Private Mullins complied immediately.

  “Arms out.”

  Holding the gun steady on Mullins’s neck, Mal reached in and took his com device. “Where’s your phone?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  Liar. They all had them.

  “Boots off,” Mal ordered, backing away but not taking his aim or eye off the guard.

  He obeyed again, and an iPhone fell to the ground.

  “Give it to me.”

  Mullins didn’t move. “You won’t kill me. I heard about you. You’re legend around here.”

  “Don’t push me, kid. Give me the phone.”

  Mullins dropped slowly, got the phone, and Mal tossed it out the open door. He ripped the keys from Mullins’s other hand and didn’t wait for one second to let the young guard remember his training.

  He closed and locked the door and ran toward the back entrance that only employees knew existed, but just as he stepped outside, he saw a light flicker on and off from the third floor. No one should be up there. Not anymore. That was all over.

  No one should be in those hideous, heinous rooms where men had been reduced to animals and treated worse.

  The light went out, nearly as fast as he thought it had come on. Was it Mal’s imagination? Who could be up there?

  The pain in his arm stabbed, like a reminder of the pain that could be inflicted in those rooms. But it wasn’t his problem anymore…his problem, the one that mattered most to him, was Chessie.