Bound by Lies

by Rebecca Shea

  I puke some more as I listen to Agent Hoffman give him the run down on me—from my concussion to early pregnancy. Anger roils through me as he talks about every little detail of my life like I’m not here. I should be angry with Hoffman, but I find myself suddenly angry with Sam for telling him such private details in the first place—but then, I’m business to them. A means to an end. It all makes sense to me now as I see how I’m just a pawn in their game.

  A gentle hand rests on my back as I hold my hair and spit. “Emilia, I think you should come with us. Just get checked out.”

  “No,” I say quickly, standing back up. “I’m fine. Really. I was cleared for the concussion. I think it’s just nausea from the pregnancy.”

  “How far along are you?” He presses two fingers to my inner wrist and looks at his watch.

  “I’m not sure. Early. A few weeks,” I tell him, looking away in embarrassment. He’s quiet and, when his hand falls from my wrist, I look back at him. There’s a concerned look on his face, and I look between him and Agent Hoffman, who stands back with his hands on his hips. “I just found out a week or so ago. I’m going to find a doctor. I’m fine, really. I just need to sit down and drink some water.”

  “Okay. You need to see an obstetrician, though, and watch for signs of infection on those hands and knees.” Then he bends down to collect the soiled gauze pads, water, and wrappers.

  “I will.” I wrap my arms around my waist and look at Sam’s Mercedes, which is now covered in bullet holes and broken glass. It all feels so surreal. How do these things keep happening?

  Yellow crime scene tape is wrapped from a tree trunk, across the driveway, and secured to a mailbox to keep everyone out. A news van pulls up, and that’s when Agent Hoffman finally moves.

  “Let’s go.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder. “I don’t need anyone seeing you until we figure out what we’re going to do with you.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That means this,” he gestures to Sam’s car riddled with bullet holes, the driveway covered in crime scene police tape, the police laying down evidence markers, “wasn’t supposed to happen—”

  “Are you blaming me for this?” I cut him off.

  He exhales loudly. “I don’t know, Emilia. I don’t know who’s to blame. But what I do know is that anyone connected to you ends up shot—or dead.” His tone is accusatory, like this is my fault. But he’s right, and my heart skips a beat.

  In a daze, I let Hoffman guide me to his unmarked car, and I slide into the front seat. He pulls some tissues from his center console, and I wipe my mouth and blow my nose while he settles in and plugs his phone into the charger. I reach across me and buckle the seatbelt, then he pulls away from the curb, zigzagging through the dark neighborhood and out into the busy downtown streets.

  After minutes of silence, his phone rings. “Hoffman,” he barks into the phone. “Yes. Adams is with me, and we’re en route.”

  I twist my fingers into knots in my lap and glance over at Agent Hoffman. I catch him looking at me out of the corner of his eye before he says softly, “Affirmative. Subject was accounted for at the time of the shooting.”

  I assume he’s talking about me, and my heart races. Do they think I’d actually do something to harm Sam?

  “Yes, sir,” he says before hanging up the phone.

  “I heard what you said,” I tell Agent Hoffman as I turn and look out the window. “I’d never do anything to hurt Sam. Ever.”

  I can hear him sigh, but he doesn’t respond. He just weaves through the series of one-way streets toward the downtown ATF offices. We pull up to the parking garage, and he scans us in with his badge, pulling into a reserved space.

  “Do you believe me?” I ask as he opens his car door.

  “Believe you?” he questions.

  “About Sam. That I wouldn’t hurt him.”

  “I don’t trust anybody these days,” he says quietly. “No offense.”

  Good to know, I guess. Although I wonder what could make a man so distrusting. Probably the job. Still, it hurts to think he doesn’t trust me, and a chill runs up my spine as we walk quickly to a secure door where he badges us through. We remain silent in the elevator, but once we reach the main floor of the ATF offices, there is commotion everywhere.

  I stare at everyone and frown. It wasn’t even this busy when I was here with Sam during the day. People are on phones, others are gathered in small groups and talking quickly, and people filter in and out of several conference rooms that line the perimeter of the office space. The entire office is buzzing with activity, except for Sam’s office, which is noticeably dark.

  “Wait for me in here,” Hoffman says, opening the door to a small conference room. He flips on the lights and gestures to the large wood table. “I need to make a few calls first.” He rubs his hand over his face. “I want to see if I can get an update on Sam, and I’ll be back in little bit. Make yourself comfortable.”

  The door closes behind him, and I immediately notice how cold the room is. Cool air pushes through the vent just over the table. I pull out a leather chair and take a seat, running my hands over my arms to warm them. Minutes pass and I finally rest my head on top of my hands against the shiny wood surface. As I close my eyes, I whisper prayers for Sam.

  A while later, I hear a voice that jars me awake.

  “Emilia.” A hand gently nudges me. “Jesus, you’re freezing.”

  My teeth clatter as I lift my head, rubbing my blurry eyes. “Did I fall asleep?”

  “Yes, and you’re freezing,” Agent Hoffman says as I push myself up to sitting. He’s frantically pushing the buttons on the thermostat on the wall. “I’ll be right back. I have a sweatshirt at my desk.” He jogs out of the room, and I yawn and stretch, rubbing the goose bumps on my skin.

  “Here.” Agent Hoffman rushes back in the room with a grey sweatshirt and a bottle of water. “It’ll be big, but it’ll keep you warm.” He hands it to me, and I pull it over my head. It’s fluffy and warm to the touch. I wonder why he’s suddenly being so nice to me, but honestly, I’m too exhausted to really care.

  “University of Iowa?” I ask as I take a swig of the water he brought me.

  “Yeah, just undergrad.”

  “Good school.” I remember once wanting to attend college there, back when I had dreams. Dreams that were shelved because when you have no money, your dreams simply become surviving.

  “It is,” he says, settling into a chair across from me. “But enough about Iowa.” He pulls out a pen and sets it on top of his notepad. “I need to get your official statement, Emilia. This has really escalated, and quite frankly, I fear there is nothing Antonio Estrada won’t do.” He pauses and laces his hands together on the table; his tone is less condescending now and more concerned, the gravity of the situation bearing down on us. “I know you told me at the house, but I need you to really think about what you saw. Even the most minor details could be something big for us. Think about clothing, hair, height, weight.”

  “Okay.” I nod quickly, wanting to help. Anything for Sam. “But before we start, do you have an update on Sam?” I rub my cold hands together nervously.

  “He’s in surgery. He took three bullets to the chest,” he says quietly, his eyes full of concern for his friend. “I don’t know how bad it is yet, but three to the chest is never good.” He looks down at his hands, hesitates, then asks, “Do you know why he was out without his weapon? I’ve worked with Sam for years, and he never leaves without his weapon.” He looks at me curiously.

  “I don’t know.” My eyes tear up because I’m sad and worried and I feel so helpless. I wish there was something I could do. “He left after—”

  “After what?” he interrupts, eager.

  I blink and gulp, not wanting to admit this out loud, but it doesn’t look like I have a choice. “After he kissed me. And then he suddenly stopped when I said I couldn’t do this. He pulled away and told me to go to bed.” His eyes widen, but I ignore it and
continue. “He left shortly after that. He didn’t tell me he was leaving or where he was going. I heard the door close and his car drive off. I was so confused, I just went to bed. Hours went by and I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to get a glass of water, and that’s when I heard the gunshots. I was standing in the kitchen, and then I ran to the door. I wasn’t even thinking it was Sam that was shot; I assumed it was him shooting.” My voice is so thick with emotion, I can barely get the words out. Somehow, I find the strength to finish.

  “That’s when I saw Sam’s car. The headlights were on, and I could see him in his car, and then the man running away.”

  Hoffman scribbles notes in his notepad and rubs his head simultaneously. “What happened next?”

  “I ran to him. His window was busted out, and I tried to open the door, but it was locked. I reached through the window and pressed the lock release and pulled the door open. That’s when I saw how bad he was.”

  “Was he trying to speak?”

  “He was, but I pulled his phone from the cup holder and called the police. I knew he was badly hurt.”

  “Did he say anything other than that Saul Trujillo shot him?”

  “No.”

  Hoffman continues to scribble on his notepad, writing frantically.

  “Wait,” I say. “He did say something else.”

  He stops writing and looks up, waiting. “What?”

  I glance away, trying to make sense of it. “He said Alex’s name. More than once.” When my eyes return to him, they’re full of questions. “Why would he say Alex’s name?”

  “Stay here, Emilia,” he says quickly, jumping up from the table. He rushes from the room and I’m left in a haze of confusion.

  “I SAID, NO, you motherfucker!” I slam my hand on the wood conference room table. “I have no idea where that piece of shit is. I’ve been cooperating with everything you asked of me.” I ball my hands into fists on top of the table. Saul. Fucking Saul.

  “First of all, keep your voice down!” Agent Hoffman yells at me. He leans forward and narrows his eyes. “So then why is Emilia Adam’s telling us that Sam said your name right after he admitted Saul Trujillo shot him? Did you order that hit?”

  Why the fuck won’t Hoffman listen to me! “Goddammit, no, I didn’t order a hit on my own brother, and I don’t know why he told Emilia my name. He had just left the house. He brought over some beer and wanted to talk. So we talked. Then he left. Less than ten minutes later, there were sirens everywhere, and my house was under siege. Your detail out in front of my house can account for everything I just told you.”

  “What did you talk about when Agent Cortez was at the safe house?” Agent Hoffman asks, leaning back in his chair and running his hands through his hair.

  I sigh and lower my head. Like I was going to tell that asshole all our personal shit. No fucking way. “A lot of things. There was a lot of air that needed to be cleared, so we cleared it.”

  “What else?”

  “Emilia. We talked about Emilia,” I say quietly.

  “What about her?” he asks suspiciously.

  I hesitate, but I finally decide to share what Sam and I discussed. “Agent Cortez wants to use Emilia to draw out my father and his associates. He expressed concern that you all couldn’t locate him.”

  “And what were your thoughts on that?”

  “I told him the only reason I made the deal was to keep her safe. If he used her, the deal was off. He agreed.”

  Hoffman huffs, then smirks at me. “Looks like we didn’t need to use her. They already knew where she was. Do you want to know my theory?”

  “Not really, but I bet you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  A smug grin pulls at his lips. “Damn right, I am. Your father knew where Emilia was all this time. My guess is Saul Trujillo was there to take care of her, and Sam arriving home spooked him. Sam ended up the victim instead of Emilia. Your father is a very smart man. He doesn’t want murder charges for a federal agent on his sheet. He left the dirty work and the pending charges to his go-to boy, Saul.”

  I seethe as he talks, and bob my knee up and down anxiously. Sadly, I believe this may be exactly what happened. “How is he?”

  Hoffman stops tapping his pen on the table and just looks at me. “Sam. How is Sam?”

  Yes, you prick. Who the fuck else would I be talking about? I raise my eyebrows in answer.

  “Last I heard, he was still in surgery. I was told we’d get an update soon.”

  “I’d like to go to the hospital.”

  “Yeah, that’s not really an option,” Hoffman sneers at me.

  “Then signing that deal really isn’t an option.” I cross my arms across my chest in defiance.

  “Are you going to hold this fucking deal over my head while you throw your little temper tantrums?”

  “Yes.” I don’t lie. “I will use this deal to my advantage in every way possible. I’d like to see my brother.”

  “Obviously, we’ll have to see what happens in surgery, but I’ll do my best to make that happen as soon as possible.”

  “Now let’s talk about Emilia.” My tone is serious, filled with worry.

  His face twists in annoyance. “What about her? She’s really not your problem anymore.”

  “Problem?” Did he really just label Emilia a fucking problem? “She was never a problem. Where is she?”

  “Right now?” Hoffman asks dumbly.

  “Yes. Right now.” For fuck’s sake, what does it take to get an answer from him? “Where is she, and where do you plan to move her now that Sam’s house is a crime scene?”

  Hoffman pulls his leg up and rests his foot on the opposite leg. His lip twists into a smirk, and I want to punch him.

  “We’re relocating her,” he says smugly. “She’ll be under twenty-four-hour protection until she decides to leave.”

  “What do you mean ‘leave’?” I can feel my blood pressure begin to rise.

  He gives me a pointed look. “She’s not required to stay in protective custody, Alex. She’s free to walk away anytime. We can’t use her against your father. She isn’t a witness. She can get an apartment or hop on a plane and leave tomorrow if she wants. However, while we’re investigating Sam’s attempted murder, and she wants protection, we’ll grant it to her. Just not witness security like you.”

  She’s free to leave. “So where are you relocating her to?”

  Hoffman rolls his fingers on the table, then suddenly stops. “We’re offering for her to stay with Jeffrey Martin. He agreed, considering the circumstances. I mean, he is her father, after all.”

  I jump up from my chair. “Like hell she is,” I growl. “That piece of shit doesn’t give two fucks about her!”

  “Sit down Mr. Estrada, and I recommend you lower your voice right now!” he yells back at me, then glances nervously at the door. “Martin has been removed from the case.” He grins at me. “Conflict of interest and all when we brought to light that his daughter was pregnant with Antonio Estrada’s grandchild.” He rolls his fingers animatedly on the wood table. “He wasn’t happy about removing himself, of course, especially for a daughter he doesn’t even know. But as we filled him on the situation and her impeding danger, he agreed to temporarily let her stay with him. It hasn’t been announced that he’s removed himself, and due to the circumstances, he has full protection for the foreseeable future. It just makes sense Emilia stays with him.” He shrugs.

  “She would never agree to that,” I hiss at him as I sit back down.

  He smirks at me. “People do a lot of things we wouldn’t think they would when they’re desperate.”

  “Are we done here?” We’d better be, because once again, I want to punch Hoffman’s fucking face into the ground.

  I TOSS AND turn all night, thinking about Emilia, about Sam, and about what to do. The right thing would be to sit tight and follow the path we were on, but that gnawing feeling inside of me tells me that the right thing will be the wrong thing in the end.

>   The alarm clock flashes three thirty-seven in the morning, and moonlight peeks through the cracks in the wood shutters. I slide out of bed and shuffle across the wood floors and into the attached bathroom. Turning the shower on, I let the hot water fill the bathroom with steam, then pull the sling over my shoulder and carefully let my arm fall. As I pull the bandages and gauze off, I find the wound in my shoulder. Bruising and stitches remain over the spot where my father shot me. In a million years, I never believed my father would shoot me, but then, never did I believe he’d kill my mother, his wife, either.

  Standing in front of the mirror, I look at myself. This is where my world has led me. Drugs, guns, violence—I never really wanted this, yet here I am entrenched in the middle of it.

  With a heavy sigh, I step into the shower carefully and let the hot water soothe my aching muscles, my racing mind. I lift my arm carefully and allow the stream to gently pulse against my shoulder. It’s a combination of relief and pain, much like the life I’m headed toward, a life where I may not have to look over my shoulder at every turn, but a life without Emilia or our baby.

  I finish my shower, manage to brush my teeth, and get dressed again with little discomfort. I decide to not bandage my arm and only use the sling if I notice any pain. In the kitchen, I make a pot of coffee and pour myself a mug. The night looks so inviting, I decide to sit outside. After unlocking the plethora of deadbolts on the front door, I slide into an oversized Adirondack chair on the front porch. It’s still dark, only the streetlights illuminating the quiet street. There are two cars parked in front of the house, my security, and both men nod at me when I take note of them.

  I sip my coffee and listen to the birds chirping as the morning sky begins to lighten. When a car turns the corner, making its way down my street slowly, my heart pumps wildly. As long as I’m here, I’ll probably always feel like I’m being hunted, like someone is constantly after me. Sinking down in my chair, I allow the half wall of the porch to hide me, then I relax when I realize it’s my security detail changing out, and I push myself back up.