by Melinda Minx
After a brief wait, I’m brought into his office. I hold up the pregnancy test.
“You’ll want a doctor to confirm,” he says, “It’s a small margin of error, but you don’t want to uproot your life when there’s a slim chance that—”
“I know,” I snap. “I’ve already scheduled an appointment.”
“Good,” he says, nodding.
“So where are we thinking then?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “This organization... it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I didn’t believe you when you first told me—if I’m being honest—but after digging, it seems real. Real and terrifying. I know you speak Spanish, but nowhere in South America is going to have strong enough legal protections to keep you shielded from them.”
“Spain?” I ask.
He shakes his head.” I wouldn’t bet on it. “Denmark or Sweden are your best bets. I think I can get most of your assets transferred safely there—you’ll have to pay hefty taxes, of course—but you and your baby should be safe there.”
I bite my tongue until I taste the iron tang of blood.
“Can I ever come back?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “This organization has seemingly penetrated the U.S. government. It wouldn’t be safe for you or your child to ever return. Honestly, you wouldn’t even want to leave whichever country you end up in. You’d be all but stuck there.”
I take a deep breath. My parents could still visit me, and I could run my business from Denmark or Sweden. Then again, my parents all but hate me. If I fled the country never to return, how would that kill my chances of ever mending things over with them or Destiny? And I’d likely never see Dominick again. My kid would probably have a good life there... but—
“Keep in mind,” he says. “You want to act on this as soon as possible. I recommend you sell you sell your house for whatever you can get. Make sure you get a cash offer, even if it’s only half of the market value, and get out of the country within a week.”
“Any other advice?” I ask.
“Under no circumstances should you talk to anyone within this organization. Especially not…” He starts ruffling through the papers, searching for his name.
“Dominick,” I say. “I shouldn’t talk to Dominick.”
My eyes are sore from crying when I get to the airport. I have one connecting flight in New York, and then I’m out of the United States for what will likely be the rest of my life.
I couldn’t bring myself to see my family one last time. I’m an emotional wreck right now, and I feared I’d only make things worse with them. I’ll have to try to explain to them later, if I ever get the courage.
I didn’t hear a word from Dominick, which was likely for the best. I don’t know how I’d have handled hearing from him again.
My lawyer pleaded with me to put up a wall and not even consider speaking to him. He said it’s critical that I’ve cleared customs in Sweden before the organization has any idea where I’ve gone. Even though it seems unlikely to me, he said they may have a way of stopping me from leaving.
I wait in the security line with my passport in hand. I feel drained of energy and exhausted. I haven’t slept well. I sold my house for a fraction of what it’s worth, and all of my money is in a country I’ve never been to. I’ll have to try to make my business work there, somehow. I’ll have to give my child a life there.
I turn around the winding ropes leading toward the metal detectors and body scanners, and I spot him coming toward me from the escalator.
Dominick.
My first thought is to jump over the ropes and run toward him with my arms outstretched.
My second—more rational—response is to look down and hide my face. I go for the second option, but as my heart pounds and my spirits soar, I keep peeking up to look at him. He’s coming right toward me.
“Madrigal,” he shouts as he reaches the ropes. “I know you’re—”
I look up and see him making eye contact with me. I shake my head at him, but I can tell my eyes are begging him to come to me.
“Madrigal,” he says, taking my hand from across the rope. I let him touch me like that, not willing to fight him. He’s the father of my unborn child.
“Madrigal, I—”
The man behind me coughs and shoots me a dirty look, so I duck under the rope and exit the line. My lawyer would kill me for doing this.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” I say. My voice sounds weak, like I’m not really able to put up any real resistance.
“I know,” he says, and I see genuine anguish across his face. “But I need to tell you something.”
I bite my lip and watch him. I manage a nod, because if I tried to speak, I’m sure I’d break into tears.
“The organization has decided to let you off the hook. You were my first assignment, and after a thorough review, it was decided that allowing you to go on the date with me was an egregious error which led you into breaching contract. I’ve taken responsibility for it, and the organization has decided to let you off the hook for my mistake.”
My eyes widen. It sounds almost too good to be true, which must mean that it is.
“What’s the catch?” I ask.
16
Dominick
The catch? The catch is that I have to lie to your face right now.
Madrigal thought she’d be safe in Sweden? The organization would get our baby one way or another—even if legal routes like adoption were taken entirely off the table. The only way for her to truly be safe is if I protect her. And the only way I can save our child from being raised within the organization is to tell this lie. Right now.
“There’s no catch,” I say. “You were my first assignment, Madrigal, and allowing you to make a request as I did is considered an advanced technique. I shouldn’t have tried to use it, as I let the fantasy go too far.”
“What are you saying?” She asks, scrunching her eyebrows.
“Obviously,” I say, feeling my heart swell and my stomach drop. “I don’t love you. I never have or could. I told you what you wanted to hear for that night. I should have called the fantasy off as soon as I suspected you were foolishly falling for me, but my inexperience showed. I thought I could channel your feelings into—”
“You don’t…” she says, her lip trembling. “You were just—”
“Yes,” I say. “I was doing everything I could to get you pregnant. And now you are, according to our sources, and confirmed by your attempt to run.”
She looks at me with fierce anger and tears in her eyes. “So I was nothing to you? Just a client? Just a way to get paid?”
“I care about my clients. In my own way. But nothing close to what I let you think. I should have realized you were outside of the fantasy, but I misread the situation—”
She slaps me then. She hits me hard, right upside the cheek. It’s loud, but over the droning white noise of the airport, only a few people near us turn and stare. Madrigal pays them no mind, her full anger stays laser-focused on me.
“You piece of shit,” she hisses.
I reach into my bag and pull out a folder. “There is a new contract in here. You’ll have to pay a hefty penalty, but the baby will be yours.”
“Great,” she says, turning over her shoulder and looking toward the line. “Or I could go to Sweden. I can’t think of a reason to trust you or the damn organization. I finally learned how to say ‘Uppsala,’ correctly. They say the schools there are really good.”
“Don’t leave everything behind. You’ll regret it.”
The lie I’ve told her has left a bitter, ashy taste in my mouth. I do love her, and I want her to be able to stay. If I tell her the truth, that she’s not safe anywhere. But I can’t tell her the truth, not now, they’re watching me. They’ll get her in Sweden either way but if she leaves now, it will buy her previous time. She needs to get on that plane.
The contract is a trap, of course. There’s a clause in the first contract that supersedes all
further contracts. The organization wants her to stay in the U.S. so they can put her on the no-fly list. Trapping her and the child.
“I should go,” she says, turning away from me. “My lawyer said they’d try this, sending you after me…”
“If the organization wanted to manipulate you,” I say, grabbing her by the wrist, “They’d have had me continue your fantasy. They’d have instructed me to tell you everything was okay, that we could be together—”
“Shut up!” she hisses.
I shove the folder into her hand until she takes it. “Read it this time. Read it right now. It’s the only way to keep your child safe.”
She finally looks up at me, clutching the folder. “What happens to our—to my kid—if they take him or her?”
I give her a very serious look. “If it’s a girl, she’ll be adopted into another loving family. If it’s a boy... he’ll end up like me. Raised by the organization and drafted into our service. But if you read the contract, you won’t have to worry about that.”
The whole way back to the master’s house, I see Madrigal’s tear-stained face etched into my mind. I’ll never forget that taste in my mouth.
She’ll hate me, of course. At least until she opens that folder.
17
Madrigal
I watch him walk away from me. I never thought I’d see him again, but I almost wish that I’d not seen him again. I wish that he’d stayed away, that I could at least tell my kid that they had a loving father. Not this... this thing. A glorified dick for hire.
I clutch the contract, and my eyes wander to the garbage can. My first instinct is to slam dunk the whole folder into there, get back in line, and go.
But they already know where I’m going, don’t they? The flight is booked, and I at least have time to skim the contract. I might have time to call my lawyer, and ask if it’s something I should consider.
I can still smell Dominick’s cologne on the paper, which makes me tremble with rage, but I grab a seat on a bench, open the folder, and read.
From the first page, it all starts to sound like what Dominick told me. Pay a large fine and keep the baby. I know better than to assume, and I read closely for any type of trap or loophole.
I turn to the second page, and I see scrawled across the margins in ink, the handwriting messy and rushed: Madrigal, keep your face neutral. You’re being watched. Pretend to read the contract fully.
My eyes start to bulge out of their sockets, but I take in a deep breath and force myself to look normal. It helps that I was crying, so my neutral face is a red, bloated mess of anger and sadness.
I pretend to read the contract, and I wipe tears from my eyes as I fake read. I desperately want to turn the page, but if I am being watched…
I wait an appropriate amount of time and turn the page. There’s more inked on the margin.
Go to Sweden. I will find you there. I can protect our baby. I do love you. Pretend to finish reading, then put the whole folder into your bag, then go through security, and get on the plane.
Jesus. I feel new tears swell up within me, and I try desperately to fight them back, but biting my lip just makes it worse, and the tears flow and flow.
I sob, and hope that anyone watching me thinks I’m still upset over Dominick telling me what he did. The fact that I slapped his face probably helps justify how much I’m crying now.
Tears stain the contract, but I keep pretending to read. I go through page by page, but there’s no more messages from Dominick until the very last page.
Go. Now.
That’s all it says. I shut the contract, tuck it into the folder, and go back into the security line.
As I wait in line, I try as hard as possible to not look around. Are they watching me through the security cameras? No, unlikely. They probably have people here watching me. Dominick could likely have risked whispering to me if it were just security cameras. He must have used a brief moment where he knew he wasn’t being watched to quickly pen this message into the contract. He had to make it look like he was really letting me down when he came face-to-face with me.
I make it through security, keeping a close eye on the folder at all times as it passes through the detector on the conveyer belt.
When I reach the spot to put my shoes and belt back on, I open the folder up just to confirm everything is still there. Each page that Dominick wrote on is still there. It confirms to me that no one working security took the contract that could implicate Dominick, and also that he really wrote the message for me. That he really does love me.
For the first time in weeks, a warm feeling of hope bubbles up in my chest, and I get up with a bounce in my step toward my new life.
18
Dominick
“You failed to convince her,” the Master says.
“Was it my job to convince her?” I ask.
“Now we don’t get the money, or the baby,” he says.
I look at him with a neutral expression. I know he’ll go after the baby, so why would he lie to me as if he weren’t going to.
“And yes, Dominick,” he says. “It was your job.”
“I thought being truthful with her would establish a baseline of trust. But maybe after all of this, she just wanted to run?” I speculate a loud, though I know the truth.
He glares at me. I suspect he knows I love her. He still doesn’t trust me. I made a show of convincing him I didn’t really love her, that I was playing too deep into a fantasy. That I lost myself in it, like a method actor who can’t get out of character long after the film stops shooting.
He pretended to buy it, but considering how closely he’s watching me, I doubt he really believes it.
“I’d like to re-assign you immediately,” he says, sliding a folder across his desk toward me. “Sink or swim.”
I take the folder and open it. Some woman. Someone I don’t care about. Madrigal is all I can think about.
“This one needs to be by the book,” he says. “Don’t do anything that wasn’t explicitly a training exercise. No fast and loose playing it by ear, do you understand me, Dominick?”
“Crystal clear. I won’t let you down again.”
I grab the folder and walk back to my room.
When my plane lands in Salt Lake City, I know they’re watching me. I spotted two guys on the plane with me. Losing them won’t be easy, but I have a plan.
I have a plan A and a plan B, but no plan C.
I walk toward the baggage claim, noticing that the two men sent to follow me are keeping about thirty feet behind me. They were sitting in front of me on the plane, and they waited for me to get off and get in front of them in the terminal. Not exactly subtle, but the master probably wants me to know I’m being watched.
I keep my eyes wide open for my contact, praying he’ll actually be there.
I near gate 23C, and I see my contact—recognizing his face from his photo on the website—seated alone on one of the chairs nearest the walkway. I sit down across from him, not facing him, and pretend to tie my shoe.
I watch out of the corner of my eye as the two men following me split up, stop walking, and pretend to be suddenly interested in their phones. One leans against the wall near the bathroom, and the other just stands near Gate 23B.
“You’re Nelson?” I ask, still not looking back. “With the New York Times?”
“Yes, he says. “What do you have for me?”
“There’s two guys following me,” I say. “Both in suits, on their phones.”
“Okay,” he says. “And what do you have?”
“You got my write-up,” I say.
“It’s encrypted,” he says. “So right now we have nothing but your word.”
“I’ll send you the key once I’m safe in Sweden,” I say. “And I’ve got you a folder. It’s on the woman who is supposed to be my new client. You can track her down and interview her. Hell, pretend to be me if you want, see how she reacts…”
“Slide it over,” he says. “The
folder.”
I reach into my bag, and as soon as I do, I notice the two men put their phones into their pockets in unison.
“They use poison,” I hiss with urgency, sliding the folder over. “You heard of that North Korean guy getting killed in an airport? That’s going to be us.”
“Cut the melodrama,” he says.
I get up and sit down next to him, ending any doubt we’re communicating. He’s opened the folder and is slowly looking it over.
“So you were born into some kind of slavery,” he says to me. “You have some magical ability to cure infertility with your dick?”
“It’s not magic,” I say, eyeing the men. They are moving forward, not looking at me, but one stab and I’ll be done for. They might act like they accidentally bump into me, and they’ll prick me with the poison, and I’ll be dead in six hours. Unknown cause.
My only advantage is that I see them coming. They want to be discreet, but it’s too late for that.
“Look,” I say, grabbing Nelson by the arm. “Do you have my fucking tickets or not?”
“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t think I buy this whole thing. It seems—”
“Watch this then,” I say. “Give me your press badge.”
The two men have stopped and are whispering to each other. One of them breaks away and moves toward the other end of the gate. He starts looking around for a seat as he moves toward us. The other man comes around from the other side. They’re flanking us.
“Give me the thing, trust me!” I whisper with increasing urgency.
He pulls the badge out of his coat, and I rip it from his hands. I stand up and hold the badge out toward the man coming in from our right, then I pivot and stick it out at the one from the left. I hold it as if it were a cross warding off vampires. It works, and they freeze, eyeing each other.
