Auctioned to Him 4: His Addiction

by Charlotte Byrd

  It takes me close to half an hour to get myself under control. Eventually, my tears dry up. My breathing becomes more even, and I’m able to think a little more clearly. Cynthia helps me off the floor and makes me a cup of green tea. The steam coming from the cup puts me a little bit more at ease, but decisions still have to be made.

  “Maybe, I should get a gun,” I say looking directly at Cynthia. “No, I will.”

  She nods. Both of us know that getting a gun will be crossing some sort of line. Life is not like the movies where people shoot each other with little consequences. Owning a gun is a responsibility, and one that I should only take on if I’m really ready. I’m not ready, not today, but perhaps I will be in the coming days. The one thing I know for sure is that I can’t just sit around and wait for Cal or Logan to come after me.

  Chapter 26 - Avery

  A couple of days later, I go back to my apartment. At first, I enter cautiously, terrified of my own shadow, but nothing seems amiss. Everything is exactly as I left it before my trip, only a little dustier. That night, sitting with the curtains drawn and the television on low, I realize that I’ve never been more grateful for the fact that I have a small, studio apartment. I can only imagine how I’d feel in a large spacious three-bedroom house all by myself. At least here I can see the whole place from my bed, and I know that no one is secretly climbing in through one of the other bedroom windows.

  After a couple of days of coming home after work, I finally start to relax. Maybe Cal isn’t going to come and surprise me. Maybe Logan will let me just be. Carrying a large bouquet of baby’s breath and my groceries, I struggle to find my keys in my purse.

  I really need a smaller purse, I say to myself. Everything in this one just falls to the bottom and it takes me forever to find it again.

  Finally, I open the door and head straight to the kitchen.

  “Hello Avery,” I hear an unfamiliar voice coming from somewhere behind me. I think I have my purse on the counter, but I drop it to the floor with a large thump sound. All the contents spill out.

  “What the hell do you want?” I ask, grabbing at my purse and pulling out my new gun. I just got it two days ago, and I just learned how to load it. Unfortunately, I hadn’t loaded it yet.

  “Hey, hey, hey, Avery. Please put that away,” the man says. I peer into the darkness. The curtains are closed and I can’t see his face very well.

  I don’t listen to him. Instead, I stand up straight and point the gun right at him, with my arms extended just like I’ve seen Detective Benson do hundreds of times on Law and Order: SVU. I’m bluffing, but he doesn’t have to know that.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” I say. I hold the gun steady. I don’t want him to know how terrified I am of it and of the very act of pointing it at him.

  The man remains seated. He looks calm.

  “Avery, I am Director Franklin Truman. I work for the CIA. I am happy to show you my credentials if you just promise to not shoot me.”

  He motions toward his jacket’s breast pocket and waits for me to respond.

  “Can I get it?” he asks.

  I nod, but keep my arms extended. What the hell is the CIA doing in my apartment? He has to be lying, I decide. But I secretly hope that he isn’t. My gun isn’t loaded, and this is pretty much the extent of what I can do with it.

  Slowly, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a badge.

  I take a few steps forward to get a better view. The picture looks like it was taken years ago, but it’s him. Even if he is fifty pounds heavier now. For a second, I hesitate. Maybe it’s not him after all, but I know that I have to take a chance. I don’t have any bullets, and I’m not going to shoot him anyway.

  I put down my gun. Director Truman lets out a sigh.

  “Nice to meet you, Avery,” he says, standing up and extending his hand. We shake hands.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. “What do you want?”

  “Are you always this rude?”

  “I am to strangers who barge into my place and scare me half to death.”

  “I am sorry about that,” Director Truman says. “You are very good with a gun,” he adds with a coy smile. I stare at him as if he had lost his mind.

  “I hate guns. I have a lunatic after me. My ex-boyfriend and the cops aren’t doing shit.”

  “Still, I’m impressed.” He pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

  I stare at him. He doesn’t seem to notice and pulls out a lighter.

  “You can’t smoke here!” I shake my head. “This is my apartment. And if you hadn’t noticed, it’s not very big.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” Director Truman puts everything away. “You just left me a little unnerved. Do you have a drink or something?”

  I shake my head. “Aren’t you not supposed to drink when you’re working?”

  “Do you know a lot about the CIA?” he asks, with an amused look on his face.

  “I know enough. I watch TV.”

  “Oh yes, television. Television makes every Tom, Dick and Harry think that he knows about the inner workings of government organizations.”

  I shrug. “I still don’t really understand why you have broken into my apartment?” I ask.

  I need to get this guy out of here, one way or another.

  “Okay, then let’s get right to it,” he says. “Where’s Logan?”

  “What?”

  “Logan Davenport? You were with him last week in Tulum. Where is he?”

  My heart drops to my feet. I feel my face lose all color. I feel like I’m going to faint right there and then. You didn’t do anything wrong, I say to myself. Why are you so worried?

  “I don’t know. I left after the wedding, and I haven’t seen him since,” I say in my most confident tone.

  I can’t tell him what happened. He’s the CIA. They arrest and detain people without fair trials! I saw Logan murder people. What does that make me? An accessory to murder? An accomplice. Various legal terms swirl around in my head. Homicide. Accessory. Death penalty. Fifth amendment.

  “You had plans to leave the day after on his private plane. But instead, you took a 6 a.m. flight out of Cancun. Something must’ve happened.”

  He walks up to me. Stands too close. He’s trying to intimidate me. And succeeding perfectly!

  “We had a fight. I didn’t want to stay with him any longer. I could take my own flight,” I say. I meet his eyes, even though I’m terrified. I don’t look away. I don’t mumble, but inside, I’m trembling.

  Director Truman takes a step back. He goes to my refrigerator and pours himself a glass of orange juice. These people don’t really have a lot of respect for private property, do they? I wonder in disgust. I mean, who the hell does he think he is?

  “Come sit here,” he sits down at the dining room table in the kitchen. “I didn’t want to do this, but I guess I have to. There are some things you don’t know about Logan.”

  Reluctantly, I sit down across from him. I hate the way he’s treating my apartment as if it’s his. I wonder if it’s a Truman thing or a CIA thing.

  “This is top secret information. And if you were to ever tell anyone, you could be arrested and sent to jail. And we would deny it, of course.”

  I feel him studying my face. My heart beats so loud it feels like it’s going to pop out of my chest. But I remain stoic, waiting for him to continue.

  “Logan is a CIA agent. He works for a special unit with the CIA. He’s one of our top agents. And we haven’t heard from him since the night of the wedding.”

  “A CIA agent? What does that mean exactly?” I ask. Does that mean he’s allowed to murder people? I want to ask, but I don’t. I’ve seen the movies. I’m afraid that if I tell him too much, he won’t tell me anything at all. We’re locked in a game of who knows what, and neither of us are caving easily.

  “It means that in addition to being in Tulum for his brother’s wedding, he was also there on a mission. The mission was supposed to take place the night after th
e wedding, but we haven’t heard from him since then. And we are worried. Very worried.”

  “Oh, wow,” I mumble. I shake my head. “That’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not,” Director Truman says. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but it took a lot of convincing on my part to get permission to reveal to you these details. What we do is covert, and everything is on a need to know basis.”

  I nod.

  “So, what can you tell me?”

  I take a deep breath. I have to tell him everything.

  “I didn’t know he was there on a mission. He just left. Without an explanation. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “Do what?” Director Truman’s eyes narrow.

  “I followed him. And I saw him in that man’s hotel room. He was trying to suffocate him. And then someone else came in and he shot him. And I screamed and ran away. I thought he was a murderer. I didn’t know he worked for the CIA.”

  “Well, the line is very thin there,” he smiles. “Did you see anything else?”

  “I saw three men enter. But I don’t know what happened. I never heard from Logan again.”

  Director Truman nods and gets up.

  “So, what does this mean?” I ask. “Where’s Logan?”

  “I can’t be sure,” he shrugs. “You have been very helpful. Thank you.”

  Director Truman heads toward the door.

  “Wait, where are you going? What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. But if it happened as you had described, it’s not good.”

  “Are you saying…” I can’t let myself go there. But I need to know the truth. “Are you saying that he’s dead?”

  Director Truman shrugs. “I don’t know anything more than you do. Someone will be in touch with you in the near future. You will need to come into the office and get debriefed.”

  I nod. He waves good-bye and leaves. I close the door behind him and lean back against it. Suddenly, my knees grow weak and I slide down to the floor.

  Logan isn’t a murderer. He’s a good guy. He was just doing his job. And now…he’s dead. Is that what’s really going on? I search my mind for any details from that night – all the details that only a few days ago I tried so hard to forget. Those three men were armed. And they came there for him. He had just killed someone very important to them. Oh no, this isn’t good.

  Chapter 27 - Logan

  I open my eyes slowly. Every part of me aches and throbs. The sun is so bright, it’s blinding me. I can’t keep my eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. Squinting helps a bit. After a few moments, I manage to lift up my head and look around. I’m in the middle of a thick jungle. Mosquitos and other insects are crawling all over my body. I’m experiencing everything in third-person, as if I’m watching myself onscreen and none of this is actually happening in real life.

  I notice that I’m dressed in the same pants and dress shirt that I wore to the wedding.

  Except that the dress shirt is drenched in blood. I reach my hand and place it on my stomach. When I pull my hand away, it’s covered in blood. Suddenly, it’s no longer a third-person experience. My stomach hurts like hell and so does my leg. I was in shock. My training tells me that I was in shock, but now I’m coming out of it, and everything’s going to get a lot worse. Shit.

  I look around again. The jungle is a flurry of activity. Insects and reptiles all around. People. I need people. I try to sit up, but I was shot in the stomach and curling up is pretty much out of the question. I try to check my body for other injuries. Both arms seem to move fine, but the left leg...something’s wrong with my left leg. I reach down as far as I can and feel the wetness of my pant leg. More blood. The calf throbs, sending shooting pains up to my spine. I’ve been shot there too. Perfect.

  And then, somewhere far away I hear voices. Little kids. Laughing and giggling. With great difficulty, I turn my head in the direction from which the sounds are coming.

  “Hey! Hey!” I yell. The first one is barely audible. My voice cracks and I cough. I try again. I don’t know how much time I have, but I’m pretty certain that they’re my only chance.

  I try again in Spanish. “Hola! Hola!”

  Their laughter stops as they walk up to me. The kids are two boys, no older than seven or eight. They are very small for their age – must be Mayan rather than Mexican.

  “Help,” I whisper, first in English, then in Spanish. They stare at me and then talk amongst themselves. I can’t understand them. They must be speaking Mayan, an indigenous language of the region, and I don’t know any Mayan. Suddenly, one takes off. The other one stays with me. He rips some leaves off a nearby bush, cleans my leg wound and presses the leaf to it. He whispers something in Mayan. It has a calming effect on me. I lay my head back down on the ground and close my eyes.

  * * *

  I must’ve passed out, because the next thing I know, I wake up in a small wooden cabin with a beautiful old Mayan woman leaning over me and applying bandages to my body. She sings something quietly as she takes off one bandage and puts on another. When she sees that I’m awake, she smiles at me and continues her work without stopping. I look around the place. I’m lying on the floor in the main room. A few hammocks hang around me, attached to the walls. The cabin itself has a thin metal roof and no glass in the windows. Just shutters to keep the elements out. But most of the time, the windows and the door are wide open to let in the sunshine.

  Somewhere near the front door, two boys sit on the floor, eating something wrapped in large green leaves. The place is filled with the most delicious aroma I’ve ever smelled – fresh tamales and spices. My mouth starts to water. As if she can read my mind, the woman finishes with my bandages and brings me a glass of water and a plate with an unwrapped tamale. My stomach throbs as I sit up a little against the wall, but it’s definitely a lot better. I stuff some rice and beans into my mouth and thank her by nodding my head. She just smiles and walks away as if recuperating recently-shot CIA agents who were left for dead in the jungle is something she deals with every day.

  As I sit there, I see a large cockroach crawling on the ceiling. I have already seen geckos and an assortment of other little creatures, but this is the first cockroach that I’ve seen this close up. This area is filled with them – and they are huge with wings. I move my index finger a little and point out the cockroach, expecting the woman to scream and let her two boys deal with it, but everything about this place is a surprise. Without so much as a change in her expression, she walks over to the front door, grabs a flip-flop, and knocks it down on the ground. The cockroach opens its wings, but she catches it between her palms and hands it to one of the boys. From what I understand, she tells him to go deep into the jungle and let him go. Until this very moment, I still had some doubts. But as soon as I saw her do this, all of my worries vanish and I drift back to sleep certain that I would make a full recovery.

  Over the next few days, I keep getting stronger and stronger. The woman continues to give me doses of her medicine, which she grinds up with a mortar and pestle from dried plant ingredients. After each dose, I always fall asleep and wake up half a day later, but every time I wake up, I feel stronger. I eat more, drink more, and sometime later, I even start to move around on my own. My stomach’s healing, and so is my leg. The woman seems pleased with my progress, nodding and smiling during each pivotal step in my recovery. Eventually, I start to make my way outside and walk more and more around the cabin. As I suspect, the woman lives all alone with the two kids in the middle of a thick jungle, with only a dirt road leading up to their house.

  When it’s finally time for me to go, the goodbye is bittersweet. For more than a few days, I actually debated whether or not I should stay here for good. Everyone thinks I’m dead, so what if I actually stayed dead? I could start a whole new life. I used to think that a simple life is nothing to want, but now I have my doubts. This family seems much more content than many middle class families that I’ve seen in the States. They’re actually
happy. Genuinely happy. Everything is simple here. Life is about all the little pleasures. Growing your own food. Going swimming under the waterfall. Playing with the chickens and the dogs. There are no worries about careers and mortgages. Those aren’t really my concerns, but I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little jealous about their way of existing in the world. And if I stayed here, then I definitely wouldn’t have to fulfill the rest of my contract to Truman and that organization, which I’ve come to despise.

  And I probably would stay here, were it not for one person. The person who I thought about day and night during my recovery.

  Avery.

  I should not have kept this secret from her, but how could I have known what would happen? What the hell was she doing there on the beach? Without context, I must’ve looked like a murderer to her.

  I don’t want to admit it, but I’m a little more than terrified of her not believing me. When I find her again, will she believe me? I mean, isn’t being a CIA agent some perfect lie to cover up being an actual murderer? I think I heard that killers use that lie on more than one occasion in television shows and movies.

  What if she asks for proof? I don’t have any. That’s the point of being covert. I’m not even on CIA’s regular payroll. Only a handful of people within the CIA even know about Daffodil. Besides the extra phone, which is encrypted, I don’t have any other paperwork or physical object proving that I work there and that I was authorized – no, forced – to do what I did. And of course, there’s no way that Truman would ever corroborate anything I’m saying to a civilian. He’s not the sentimental type. So, if she doesn’t believe me…that’s that. She’ll be terrified of me, and I can’t scare her more. She deserves better than that.

  If she doesn’t believe me, then I’ll come back here, I decide. I’ll build myself a little hut a little bit away from this one. I’ll help the woman with her animals and the gardening. I’ll play with the kids. I’ll learn Mayan. I’ll start a new life.