I sat in the driver’s seat, and when I glanced to see what belongings he had in the back, I discovered a nylon, string-strap backpack. I threw it to him.
“Put that money in there. Don’t want anyone to take it from you.”
The man nodded.
“Oh, and, if you could—don’t call the cops.”
“Okay,” he said.
With my request, we drove off.
I glanced over at Rachel beside me. Her messy hair was flowing around the cabin from the windows being open.
“Good job, Clyde,” she said with a wink.
“Not too bad yourself, Bonnie.”
She leaned in over the console, and as I turned to look at her she gave me a kiss. It was electrifying.
“Sorry, I’ll let you drive,” she teased playfully.
I shrugged my shoulders with a flirty grin.
“You can kiss me whenever you want.”
“Oh really?”
She kissed me again.
“All right, all right,” I laughed. “Let me drive.”
“You just can’t make up your mind, can you?”
I could see the road for miles. It was flat in all directions. Occasionally, we would pass fields of oranges or a house. When I would see a cop, my whole body would clench up. Every single one just drove past.
“How long to Orlando?” I asked.
“From here, maybe half an hour.”
“Do you know where we are going?”
“Kind of,” she muttered.
“Kind of? You can’t be serious.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get us there. It’s just been a while since I’ve visited.”
“How long?”
“Almost two years.”
“Two years?!” I threw my hands up. “She could have moved for crying out loud!”
“Relax, I remember where she lives. These apartments off of Conway Gardens Road.”
“I hope your memory is as good as your oral.”
She slapped me hard on my bicep.
“Ouch! God, I’m just playing.”
“Men…” She muttered.
We pulled into an apartment complex. The parking lot was half-full, and I saw a dark-skinned guy leaning into the window of someone else’s car. On the drive in it appeared like the rest of Florida—flat, palm trees, and clay-tiled shingles on many of the roofs. I had never been here before, but these were definitely the outskirts. Downtown was farther west.
Rachel turned the car off and just sat there for a moment. She pulled her hair out from the bun and began sliding off the sweatpants I gave her.
“Here are your pants back,” she said.
I handed her business slacks back to her.
The building in front of us was beige-colored and three stories. I counted, there were twenty units, and as I looked to my left and my right, there were at least ten buildings.
“Do you remember her apartment number?” I asked.
She glanced at me with uncertainty in her eyes.
“I remember it was on the bottom, and a corner unit. I sent her a Christmas card last year. I think it’s apartment 1A.”
“I hope you’re right. I wouldn’t want us knocking on the wrong door in this kind of area.”
She gave me a bizarre look as we stepped out of the car and began laughing.
“This kind of area?” she mocked. “Orlando is nothing compared to Miami.”
“I grew up in a small town. D.C. is the biggest city I’ve lived in.”
“Aren’t there bad areas up there?”
“Yeah, I avoid them.”
“Some of us aren’t so lucky,” she pointed out with pursed lips.
I shrugged, and we approached the corner of the building. Once inside the breezeway, I saw these apartments were labeled 1A, 1B, 1C, and 1D.
“This is the one,” Rachel said, pointing to her left.
I grew nervous as we approached the door. Almost two years since she had visited? We could have been knocking on a cop’s door for all we knew.
Rachel rang the doorbell. I waited anxiously.
Nothing.
Rachel glanced over at me, shrugging her shoulders.
She rang it a second time. I counted the seconds. I was beginning to doubt anyone was home to begin with. Rachel’s face revealed a slight frustration.
This time, she knocked on the door. She gave it three solid raps.
“Briana,” Rachel said, her accent switching over to Spanish. “Es Raquel—abre la puerta, por favor.”
She continued to knock persistently.
“It’s probably the wrong person,” I said.
Rachel opened her mouth to respond, and the door swung open. A woman around Rachel’s height with dark, mocha skin stood in the threshold with a stunned expression.
“Raquel, ay Dios mio!” Briana shouted.
They embraced in a long hug and jabbered in Spanish to each other. Their voices fluctuated with momentary laughter. Briana pointed at Rachel’s dirty clothes. Rachel said something, and then Briana’s eyes darted to me. She gave me a look that a foreigner might give a loud, obnoxious tourist who didn’t belong. It wasn’t pleasant. Rachel grabbed her attention and muttered something else. Briana’s face turned worrisome.
“Come in,” she motioned to us.
We walked inside. The dining room was to the left, and the den was of good size. I scanned the walls in awe of all the decorations. There were pictures of what I assumed to be family and friends. I saw Rachel in one of the photos, but she was much younger. There was a small Puerto Rican flag on the wall in the kitchen. The apartment had the faint scent of Hispanic food; it made my stomach growl. We hadn’t eaten in over a day. Rachel sat on one of the barstools that lined the eat-in kitchen counters. I remained standing.
“Rachel. Girl, what’s going on? Be real with me, I’ve seen the news and I almost didn’t believe it was you.”
“Well,” she began. “Owen here was framed. He wasn’t behind the terrorist attack at Georgetown.”
“How do you know for sure?” Briana countered.
“He’s—I mean, it just doesn’t make sense.”
Briana pursed her lips in a duck-face.
“It sure makes a whole lotta’ sense on TV.”
“You can’t believe everything you see on the news—”
“And you can’t believe every pretty boy that has a good story,” she interjected.
Rachel’s mouth was agape. She glanced between Briana and me. I became flustered listening to them go back and forth. Briana acted like I wasn’t even in the room. She had her hair slicked back into a ponytail, and out of it sprung golden-blonde ringlet curls. They bounced around as she talked.
“He doesn’t have a story,” Rachel said. “The media is telling it for him.”
“Then what did he tell you?” she pressed.
“Brianna, I am completely innocent. I devoted the last two years to my party and to this election. They are trying to take that away from me, whoever they are.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Listen to him talk like the gringo he is,” she snorted. “My name is Bri-ana, not Bri-anna.”
“Bri-on-a,” I repeated, enunciating the syllables. “I know to you I’m just a white guy, but I am innocent. I wouldn’t lie to Rachel. Anyway, she approached me.”
“Really?” Briana asked, turning to her.
“Yes,” Rachel answered. “I saw him in a coffee shop where I live.”
Briana seemed hesitant. She studied me up and down and kept glancing between Rachel and me.
“No one followed you guys here, right?”
“Not that we know of,” I answered.
“You better be right. Rachel, you know I love you, amiga, but if the feds come I can’t get caught hiding you. You know my history.”
“That is exactly why we are here.”
Briana’s eyes grew wide. Rachel’s pressed lips and stony glare screamed tension. Something sensitive was just brought up.
“No, no,” Briana nodded her head and walked towards the door. “I need you to leave. I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Are you seriously going to kick us out just like that? So easily?”
“Don’t even fucking go there, Rachel! You spend three years in prison and tell me how easy it is to kick you out. It’s the easiest decision I’ve made in years! Get out!” she repeated, fuming.
“No,” Rachel huffed. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Briana’s face turned red.
“Don’t try me! Every pig in the country wants you two. I could have you out of here in a second.”
“No eres una rata!” Rachel shouted in Spanish, her expression stunned.
“Ay, por favor, Raquel! Don’t call me that!”
“Is that what you’re gonna be? A fucking rat?”
Briana’s eye twitched and her lower lip trembled.
“We have been through thick and thin, hermana. Don’t make me do something I don’t want to do. Get out!”
Rachel crossed her arms and shook her head. She wasn’t budging.
“Please, can you just listen? Just for a few minutes? We are dirty, tired, and hungry. We can’t show our faces anywhere. Just let us be safe for a few hours. Please.”
Rachel’s comment seemed to placate Briana’s temper. I stood, glancing between these two Latina women yelling in Spanish to each other. I wasn’t going to dare butt in.
“Fine, I’m listening,” she conceded.
Rachel exhaled and composed herself before speaking.
“We need your help getting Owen out of the country.”
“What?” I asked, yelling.
“Look, Owen, we need to figure out the truth, I get that…but you can only run for so long. You have to get out of this situation, and I don’t mean in handcuffs.”
“I—I need to help you, though,” I stammered.
“What good does the truth do if you’re behind bars before the world knows? Then you will have to spend years in a jail cell until you go to trial, and God only knows what kind of false evidence the government might have.”
Her plan was well thought out. It was the truth. Frightening, but still the truth.
“But this is my home…”
“I know,” she said sympathetically. “Your freedom is more important than staying here, don’t you agree?”
“Yes…but, where would I go?”
“We can figure that out later. Obviously, it needs to be a country that doesn’t extradite to the United States. China, United Arab Emirates, Russia.”
“What great choices…” I mumbled.
“Owen, you’re like the new Edward Snowden. Except, you didn’t expose anything. Well at least, not yet you haven’t.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your grand plan,” Briana began. “But, I have a feeling I know where Rachel is going with this. I refuse. You can stay here, but I’m not doing it again. It’s not worth the risk.”
“What is she talking about?” I questioned Rachel.
“Briana used to make fakes. Fake IDs, fake documents, whatever you wanted—she could do it. It made her a lot of extra money…but when one of her IDs was connected to the biggest insurance fraud this area has ever seen, she had to do time for it. Three years and probation for no previous record.”
“And that’s exactly why I can’t help you,” Briana added. “I am still on probation. I can’t even leave the state without permission.”
“You don’t have to leave the state,” Rachel pressed.
“Ay Dios mio, Raquel! Te dijé no!”
Rachel was shaking her head. Briana’s resistance to persuasion was making her irritated.
“Do you remember the Confinement?”
Briana’s forehead scrunched up.
“Of course. What kind of question is that?” she retorted.
“Did you like it?”
“Seriously, Rachel? What the fuck.”
“So you didn’t like it, then.”
“Stop playing dumb.”
“I’m not,” Rachel replied firmly. “But you are going to have to take a step back and think about Owen’s situation from a broader perspective.”
“Broader as in…?”
“Who are you going to vote for in November?”
“I—um. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Answer the question,” Rachel said.
“Convergence Party…” She mumbled.
“What about after the bombs?”
Briana blinked and glanced at me sheepishly, then turned her eyes to the carpet. For the first time since we had entered, she seemed nervous to speak because I was in the room.
“It made me question who I was going to vote for…”
“See!” Rachel exclaimed. “That is the first glimpse of the big picture. Why else would these bombs happen less than a month from the election? It just doesn’t make sense. Why would Owen ruin everything he has worked for in his party? Someone with power is trying to slant the election in their favor.”
Briana just stared at Rachel and didn’t respond.
“You know,” I spoke up. “That night, at the debate, the Russian guy who was sitting a row in front of me was wearing my colors. I had never seen him involved with our party before. It wasn’t even that big of an amphitheater. It was strictly invitation only. It was as if Alexei Malchikov appeared out of thin air…like he was placed there.”
“He was wearing your colors.” Briana repeated.
“Yes, purple vest and tie.”
She bit her bottom lip.
“The whole thing seems fishy to me, now that you told me that.”
“So, will you help us?” Rachel asked.
Us. There it was, that word. Rachel thought of me and her as us. Hearing it, though, made my soul swell up in love. After last night’s escapade, just the way she looked at me was different. She was enjoying being my partner in crime, and so was I.
“What’s in it for me?” she retorted.
“Are you serious? After everything we’ve been through…”
“Don’t even go there! Yeah, we are from the same barrio en Miami, but we are different now! Look at you, with your perfect life and your fancy college degree. You weren’t even around to see the shit I went through in the past five years. So fuck you for judging me for not wanting to risk my freedom for a stranger!”
I quite literally watched the blood rush to Rachel’s face.
“Briana, you don’t seem to understand,” she said, rapping the counter with her knuckles. “If the people who framed Owen win, then all of our freedom will be at risk.”
“And if we lose, then not only will you and Owen be in jail, but so will I!”
“Well if you want to live your life afraid of ifs, then let me make something really clear for you. If the people who framed Owen get away with this monstrous lie, then we might all be imprisoned! Who knows? Maybe we were never supposed to be released from the Confinement!”
I glanced at Rachel in shock.
“What if they never let us go?”
The question I had posed to Cole that day during the Confinement reentered my thoughts. He had told me, “You can’t think like that, Owen. You can’t.” The purpose of his statement was to keep me hopeful. So that one day, when we were released, we could create our party. We were released, but Rachel’s statement brought forth a terrifying possibility. What if we were never meant to be released?
“But we were, though,” Briana sneered. “Why would you even think there would be another Confinement? There hasn’t been a riot in almost two years. There’s no reason for that to happen.”
“The reason is standing right beside you!” Rachel shouted and pointed at me. “Just three days ago he was America’s sweetheart and now he is a wanted terrorist. Now, he looks bad. His party looks bad, and the polls will look bad. All in time for the election! Something is going on that is far bigger than what we can see. As a journalist, I am obligated to expose the true story since I h
ave the chance to! And now, I’m standing in front of someone I thought was my best friend and she is asking me what’s in it for her!”
Briana’s jaw dropped, and I saw tears form in the corners of her eyes.
“How dare you, Rachel. How dare you come into my house out of nowhere and just throw all this shit on me, asking me to take a huge risk on the slim chance that we will be able to expose anything! Let alone get Owen out of the country. Fuck you for even asking me to take a risk like that! You wouldn’t want to know what would happen to a Barbie doll like you in a women’s prison. I don’t want to go back! Not a damn thing could make me take that risk again!”
“1.4 million dollars,” I interrupted.
Rachel and Briana whipped around, staring at me.
“What did you just say?” Briana asked, her face streaked with tears.
“1.4 million dollars,” I repeated.
“But Owen,” Rachel gasped, her expression confused. “We’ve been handing out bundles of cash left and right. You can’t possibly have that kind of money.”
“I don’t, but Grey does.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Remember when you asked me if I had help, and I told you he was good at what he did. Grey Maxwell—my best friend from high school. He is an IT genius, and he helped me rob the bank. He also wired and stole one-hundred thousand dollars from fourteen separate squatter accounts. All of which came from the grand larceny committed by the VP of the bank where Grey works. The grand total of the money siphoned from the illegal activity being 1.4 million dollars. Grey is in on this, and perhaps, Briana…if you help us, the compensation might be well worth the risk.”
She stared at me, completely dumbfounded. In the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Rachel begin to smile. Briana bit her lower lip and looked down at the ground. I heard her exhale sharply out of her nose.
“How much?” she asked.
“Twenty-five percent. That would be three-hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Briana stared at me silently. Behind her eyes, the gears were turning. She was considering it.
“What exactly do I have to do?”
“Get Owen out of the country. A fake passport is what he needs from you,” Rachel said.
“And what if I fail?”
“Well, then we are all fucked,” Rachel answered.
The Gambit Page 17
