Revenge

by Meredith Wild

  All of a sudden, I hear static from the speakers set into the ceiling.

  “Attention, please. Attention, please. For everyone’s safety, it has become necessary to evacuate the building. Please leave the building immediately at the nearest exit.”

  The announcer repeats the message, and voices outside the bathroom grow louder. I open the door as a mass of people are moving toward the visitor center exit. I join them, hiding myself in the center of the crowd. Security guards and guides are shouting from every location, reminding people to stay calm but to keep moving.

  Panic fills the air as patrons murmur and complain and worry aloud as we shuffle along. I share their panic, just not for the same reasons. I see no sign of Tristan in the mob. He had a longer trek from the underground offices, so I remind myself to be patient. He’ll show up soon.

  A minute later, I’m in the open air just outside the visitor entrance with dozens of others who quickly disperse across the greens away from the supposed threat in the building. I hesitate and look around again, feeling more desperate by the second. Where is he?

  I don’t want to attract attention hanging around, so I walk toward Makanga’s car, which I can spot parked down the street. I’m nearly there when I take out my phone and call Tristan. It rings and rings. I’m feeling sick. I should turn back, but that’s not what we agreed on. I hang up and am about to dial again when two strong arms wrap around me from behind. I scream as I’m lifted off my feet into the air.

  Tristan’s laugh cuts through the instant panic that’s flying through me. He sets me down so I can turn around and face him.

  I slap his chest, angry and relieved and overwhelmed. “Damn you, Tristan. What the hell? Why didn’t you pick up your phone?”

  His smile reaches his eyes, as calm as the cool spring sky behind him. “Because I was running to catch up with you. You couldn’t wait a few seconds?”

  A ragged sigh of relief leaves me. “Not when I’m worried something terrible might have happened to you. Seconds matter. You know that better than anyone.”

  He closes the small space between us, cupping my face in his palms. The tips of our noses meet. His gentle touch and the air we share are alive with a frenetic kind of energy, a hundred lightning strikes of emotion that bond me tighter to him.

  “I love you,” he rasps. “I love you so fucking much.”

  When our mouths collide, I forget the rest. The past. The pain. I let it all go because I feel like under this kiss, Tristan is letting it go too.

  “Lovebirds. Guys. Come on. We gotta hit the road.”

  I break the kiss when Makanga bangs his hand on the roof of the car with a thud.

  I gaze up at Tristan. “Where are we going?”

  “Anywhere you want,” he says, wearing a smile that takes my breath away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tristan

  Six months later

  With a little effort, I tug open the sticky sliding door that Isabel has been on me to fix. A splash of hot coffee slides down my hand and the side of the mug I’m holding.

  “Shit.”

  Isabel tears her attention from the early morning tide rolling in. I take the chair next to her and hand the coffee over carefully.

  “It’s hot. Take my word for it.”

  She grins. “I think I’m going to call someone about the door. It’s driving me nuts.”

  “I can do it. Just give me a few weeks. I’m working my way down the list.”

  And it’s a long list. Of all the places we could go, Isabel’s heart was set on Perdido Key. She said it was the first place where she could imagine us putting down roots. Whatever vision she had for us that circumstances interrupted, she was determined to come back and see it through, so of course I agreed. We drove around town and walked the beach checking out different spots, but in the end, she was determined to overpay the owners of the beach house where we celebrated my birthday months ago and call it home.

  “You don’t have to do everything yourself,” she says. “If you won’t let me help you, we can at least hire someone for a few things.”

  “You insisted on buying this rundown house, and I’m determined to fix the damn thing up myself. So you’re just going to have to be patient,” I say, my tone teasing but resolute.

  “We can afford some help.”

  I shrug. “I don’t care. It keeps me busy.”

  A few months after we moved in, Isabel took a job helping out at a local school. I didn’t love the time away from her, but I needed something to fill up the hours. Being idle wasn’t an option for someone like me. More than anything, I needed an occupation that didn’t involve employing my survival skills.

  I don’t know much about home repair yet, but dedicating myself to the myriad projects that are needed here gives me a chance to do something constructive. In truth, it feels good turning something ugly and neglected into something nice again. Plus, every time I conquer something new, Isabel’s eyes light up in a way that almost knocks the wind out of me. Making her happy is addictive, and selfishly I want all the credit for putting that look on her face. Not some sweaty contractor who will do almost anything on the list for fifty dollars an hour.

  Isabel is entranced by the water again. The sky is a hazy lavender, and the waves are calm. We spend all our mornings this way. I don’t crave routine now that we’re not running for our lives, but I like this one because we share it and an unspoken gratitude seems to exist inside of it. We watch the birds skim above the water and the clouds roll along. Life keeps on moving, and we get to be a part of it.

  I reach over and take Isabel’s hand in mine. She turns her head, and the way her expression softens, she must recognize the reverence in mine.

  “What do you want to do today?” I ask.

  “We don’t have to pick my parents up from the airport until after dinner. I have to run a few errands if you want to come with.”

  I register a little knot of anxiety at the mention of her parents, but I don’t show it. Every day, I feel like I’m retraining my brain to accept normal, uncomfortable things. Isabel’s patient with me about it, especially when it comes to being around other people. She’s starting to make friends. I worry I’m a long way from getting there, but I’m trying. Errands, though, I can do.

  “Count me in.”

  The next morning, I find Morgan in the kitchen screwing new handles onto the cabinetry. We have to talk. I’m tempted to wait until he and Lucia are ready to go back home, but I’m also too anxious to put it off anymore.

  “Morning,” I say. “Do you need some help?”

  He glances up at me briefly before returning to the task. “I’m good. Just saw these on the counter and figured I’d take care of it quick.”

  “Thanks. By the time I get to everything that needs to be done here, I’ll have to start all over again.”

  He chuckles quietly. Morgan isn’t much warmer to me than he was before. We aren’t at odds, but we’re both guarded. I suspect that’s how he’s always been, which is fine by me. It’s a language I can speak, even if it requires very few words.

  “Where’s Isabel?” I ask.

  “She and Lucia went out furniture shopping. We wanted to get you something for the new place. Knowing Lucia, it’ll be an all-day affair.”

  Having the house to ourselves all day might not be ideal after he hears what I have to say, but I’ve already decided it’s going to be now.

  I lean against the counter and brace my hands against it. “I want to marry Isabel.”

  He tightens up his screw and checks out his work as if he didn’t hear me. I know he did. Finally he sets down the screwdriver and looks at me.

  “All right.”

  “I wanted to run that by you before asking her. Out of respect,” I add, trying to ignore the fact that he’d been instrumental in dividing us all those years ago.

  “Have you two talked about marriage at all?”

  “Not a lot. She mentions little things here and there. We’re obvio
usly committed to each other. It’s just a formality, but I think it’s something we both want.”

  He nods but doesn’t seem convinced. The knot in my gut doubles. Not because I need his permission but because I don’t want friction with him over this. I’m asking out of respect, but I’ll marry her no matter what his thoughts are on it.

  “This is nice what you’re building together here, but it’s still new. Things are a lot different when you’re not dealing with life-and-death situations all the time. Once the adrenaline wears off, people change.”

  I frown, my invisible defenses shooting up rapidly. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Did Isabel ever tell you how Lucia and I met?”

  I shake my head.

  “She was still living in Honduras. The CIA had a pretty big presence there at the time, and I was in the field. Suffice to say, it was a mess that we were both eager to get out of. When it was time for me to go, we agreed that I would take her with me. Get married, get her citizenship, the whole bit. But falling in love with someone in that kind of environment is a lot different than figuring out how to play house in the suburbs for the rest of our lives. Things change.” He rubs his forehead. “And some things don’t.”

  “Are you saying you aren’t in love with each other anymore?”

  “I’m saying that you can play handyman here all day long, but you’re never going to be able to walk away from who you were, Tristan. Lucia put on a good show, but I knew she and Gabriel were doing things behind my back that they shouldn’t have been. I just didn’t know why.”

  “You lost a child, and the people behind Chalys were responsible. Do you really think she would have taken up a mission for justice if that hadn’t happened?”

  “Losing Mariana was the worst thing that had ever happened to either of us. It set off a chain of events we could never have predicted. I won’t deny that. But Lucia’s always been restless. Fierce and determined. Loyal too. All those things drew me in, and yes, I am very much in love with her even after all these years. I’m just telling you, it hasn’t been an easy road to walk together.”

  I take a moment to absorb all he’s said. His cautionary tale is unexpected, but the lesson isn’t hard to relate to. The process of trying to jam our new lives into some kind of typical mold these past several months hasn’t always been smooth. We’re figuring it out day by day. I have no idea what challenges the future holds, but I’m determined to face them.

  “I want forever with Isabel enough to walk that road no matter what it’s paved in. If we can survive everything we have, I think we can stomach a little domesticity. I know we’ll never be like other people, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be happy.”

  “And you want my blessing,” he says after a long moment.

  “She’ll marry me no matter what you say. But giving us your blessing is probably the best gift you could give her. All things considered.”

  His eyes darken a little with the challenge, but he’s challenged me too. Neither of us has forgotten his hand in all of this. I’ll love Isabel until the day I die. If he hadn’t tried so hard to turn me away from her, I’m certain I still would have found my way back, more dedicated to being with her than ever.

  Gabriel marries us on a Sunday in November, just as the Southern heat starts to give way to cooler weather. We make the sandy beach our church and the winding path through the dunes our aisle. Her parents are here—a nonnegotiable term of Morgan ultimately giving his blessing. I wasn’t allowed to whisk her away and leave them out of it.

  Skye, Zeda, and Noam, who all have started to become more regular fixtures in our lives, made the drive from New Orleans too. With Karina by his side, Mateus, who’d championed for us harder and longer than anyone, wouldn’t miss it either.

  I may not have been keen on sharing our wedding day with anyone else, but the minute I see Isabel, everyone else ceases to exist in my mind. Even her father, who clutches her arm possessively before relinquishing her, couldn’t distract me from the breathtaking woman who is about to become my wife.

  She looks like an angel in her white dress, an uncomplicated gown that leaves her shoulders bare and ripples in the breeze as our bare feet sink into the powdery sand. With a little laugh, she pushes from her face the tiny wisps of hair that fall free. I help, using it as an excuse to touch her since I can’t kiss her yet.

  Our vows are simple but absolute, a testimony of the unbreakable bond we forged long before this day. She cries, and I brush away her tears with a trembling hand, not caring who sees us so vulnerable. I can only marvel at the enormity of it all, the profound gift I’ve been given after all the wrongs I’ve done.

  Gabriel ends the short ceremony with a prayer in Spanish. Words that are only important to me because they are important to her. Her eyes glitter with emotion as he speaks, and I make another vow in my heart that I’ll worship her the same way some people give themselves over to God. I’ll let her carry my sins away and dedicate myself to the love between us. And if I do all this right, maybe I can walk through this life with her for the rest of my days a better man.

  ISABEL

  Wind whips the ocean against our windows in loud torrents. The waves are angry but barely lick the stilts that hold the house above the shore. The news is going in the background, trying to predict where the hurricane will make landfall. Tristan is at the kitchen table with a fully disassembled ceiling fan that hasn’t worked since we moved in. His features are scrunched in concentration.

  I need a distraction, but once he zeroes in on a project, I’ve learned to just let him be.

  I rub my arms and stare out at the rolling waves, tinted green under the stormy sky. This is our first big storm since we’ve been in Perdido Key, and my nerves are already shot. I have to do something, or I’m going to worry myself into a frenzy.

  I go into the bedroom and start tidying up. I fold a pile of laundry and start putting it away, which leads to a total overhaul of our dressers, including the one that holds Tristan’s endless sea of black T-shirts. I empty them onto the bed, intending to refold them. Once I do, I notice a stack of paperwork in the bottom of the drawer. I pull it out carefully, casting a quick glance out the bedroom door. The weather reporter is broadcasting from a pier about an hour away, repeating the same things they’ve been saying for the past hour. I’m sure Tristan is still in his own little world.

  I set the contents atop the dresser. A ripped yellow package is held to a manila folder by a rubber band. Tristan’s name is written on the package above a DC post office box. I pull off the rubber band and tip the package so its contents fall out. They’re wrapped in several layers of bubble packaging that I quietly unwrap until two vials roll into my palms.

  If I thought I was on edge before, my nerves are rioting now. I swallow over the knot of anxiety in my throat. I read the writing on the masking tape stuck to each one. One is marked “antidote” and the other “sedative.” I place them carefully on top of the plastic wrap for fear I’ll drop them.

  Tristan never heard from Mushenko again. That’s what Tristan’s always told me. But if this is what I think it is—a recipe to reverse the memory loss he sustained—then it could have only come from one person. I’m angry with him for lying to me, but why would he hold on to it? We’ve been here for months. We’re building a life. I don’t want to change anything about it, least of all the man I’m completely dedicated to.

  I push the vials aside, feeling sick at the mere sight of them. They’re an ugly reminder of the life we left behind along with a thousand memories that will haunt me forever. I’m still too curious not to open the folder. Inside it, I recognize the files Tristan stole from Jay’s apartment. His whole history is spelled out, from the enlistment letter my father penned to the brief about the bloody mission that changed Tristan’s life forever. Set atop the papers is his red notebook. The ledger of lives lost at Tristan’s hand.

  I pick it up and thumb through the pages. Seeing the names and the numbers beside them does
n’t help the sickness roiling through me. I get to the last page, where I’d written my own name once upon a time. Tristan since scratched it out so it’s barely legible. The last entry is the one name neither of us will ever forget, though.

  Simon Pelletier.

  He’s the one who’s responsible for all the others. He’ll never be able to mark someone else for death. Those days are done. It’s not justice, but it has to be enough.

  Tristan walks in, startling me so hard I nearly scream.

  He looks between me and everything laid out, then back to me.

  “What are you doing?”

  I clutch my lower lip between my teeth. I learned a long time ago he’s not a fan of me going through his things, but that was before we agreed to share a life together.

  “Sorry. I was reorganizing the drawers, and I found these.”

  He moves between me and the dresser. He replaces the vials in the package and binds it back to the folder the way it was before I started snooping.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he says quietly as he stashes everything back into the empty drawer.

  “I’m your wife. I think if you’ve been holding on to an antidote, it’s my business.”

  “They’re my memories.”

  A spike of fury runs through me. “And what about the ones we’re making now? Isn’t this enough?”

  He turns toward me, his brow angrily furrowed. “Obviously it’s enough. I haven’t taken it, have I?”

  “If you’re keeping it, that means you’re not ruling it out.”

  “That’s a pretty big assumption, Isabel.”

  “Is it?”

  He works his jaw, avoiding my penetrating gaze. “I have no intention of taking it. I’m happy with our life. I’m happy with everything the way it is. It’s just…” He closes his eyes a moment before lifting them to me. “I’m afraid to get rid of it. I’m afraid I’ll change my mind and wish I had it. That’s all.”