"Miguel, let's have this Irish whiskey here instead. I've always wanted to try that with a good Cuban cigar."

The stranger's words provide the respite I need. I release my breath. Another skip of my heart and the door closes again. The key turns in the lock.

"It's really good stuff." Miguel's voice moves away from the door. "Naiara stopped in Dublin on her way from London and picked it up. It's only sold in Ireland."

He's now with the stranger in the living room and glasses clink before the door to the terrace slides open. When it closes again, I sigh with relief. My whole body shakes under a thin layer of cold sweat. After I wiggle free from under the desk, I stuff the laptop back into the bag. This was such a close call. Returning the cable, I ensure that everything is in its original place. One more scan of the area confirms that there's no sign of my intrusion anywhere.

I slowly open the side door and peek outside. The living room is quiet. Without losing another second, I slip out of Miguel's study. As I tiptoe in the direction of the hallway, the cuckoo clock chimes on the wall and I jump. My wobbly knees make me stumble and I crash against the cabinet. The thud is magnified in the silent room.

"Stacy, are you okay?"

I snap my head around at Miguel's question. "Y–Yes." As he studies me with a slight frown, my fingertips turn to ice. "I just got woozy."

"Did you eat and drink enough?" He closes the gap between us, the back of his hand grazing my forehead. "You're all sweaty. Maybe I should call the doctor."

"It's fine." I force a smile on my lips. "I'll have some water and lie down. It was an exhausting day."

"Okay." He finally returns the smile. "But before you go, let me introduce you to a friend of mine. We met at Harvard."

He grabs my hand and pulls me onto the terrace. A guy is seated in the lounge chair by the pool under the umbrella, whiskey glass in hand. As I approach, his dark eyes pierce me. Though his face is friendly, his intense stare gives me the creeps. His skin is unnaturally dark for a white guy, his black hair reminding me of the bristles of a paint brush. I suspect he's about Miguel's age, but with his double chin and the extra weight he packs around his waist, it's hard to tell.

"Veseo, this is my wife, Stacy."

He gives me a thin smile. "Hello, Stacy. I've heard a lot about you."

I can't say the same about him. "Hi."

Awkward silence falls while he studies me. At the end of his inspection, an approving grin spreads on his lips.

Miguel squeezes my hand. "Stacy was just about to lie down. She isn't feeling well."

It's my cue to get out of there.

"Well, I hope you'll feel better soon." Veseo's voice is flat, his face impassive.

"Thanks." I rise on my tiptoes and peck Miguel's cheek. "See you in a little while."

Passing the threshold to the hallway, I exhale and rush up the steps as fast as I can. In my room, I fall onto my bed with a sigh. Thank the Lord for looking out for me.

I stare at the ceiling with wide eyes, plotting my next move. There's no way I want to give this another try. Devon will just have to get over it.

I fish the little device out of my pocket. It's like a two-way radio with one button and a small receiver to talk into. Without hesitation, I activate it. Less than a minute later, the speaker crackles and a voice fills my ear.

"What's the IP address?"

"I don't have it."

"Then why did you activate the device?"

"I have to talk to Devon."

"Copy that. Hold on."

While I wait, I prepare myself on how to break the news to him. Some human decency must be left in him or he wouldn't have allowed me to call my parents. And nothing on Miguel's computer can be so important that he would just blatantly risk my life.

"Hello." The sudden sound of his voice makes me gasp.

"Devon, I'm sorry. I tried to get to the computer, but Miguel almost caught me." My words tremble as I fight the tears. "Please, I can't go down there again. It's too risky."

A crackle breaks in the line and I already fear I've lost him when he speaks again. "Stacy, I don't have time for this. I already told you this afternoon that you don't have a choice in the matter."

"But, Devon—"

"No, you listen. I let you call your parents so that you don't lose sight of the finish line, but I realize now that was a mistake. Truthfully, I don't give a damn what happens to you. You're nothing but an asset to get me what I need. Understood?"

When I swallow hard, the taste of bile is in my mouth. "You better start caring or you won't be getting anything. I'm not risking my life again for this."

He chuckles. "Do you think I'm an amateur? I taped our conversations as an insurance policy." His voice is so cold that it freezes every fiber in my bones. "What do you think Miguel will do if he finds out? Or better yet—I might leak it to Santino. His men take treason very seriously."

The memory of General Varela's threat cuts away at my opposition. "Devon, please. Can't I get you the information some other way?"

"Not a chance. Naiara always goes to the orphanage on Wednesdays to deliver sweets and medicine. Ask her to take you along the next time. Pearson will give you another communicator, which you can activate when you get to the computer." A moment of silence hangs in the line. "Don't pull another stunt like today or I'll use the tape. There won't be any more warnings."

The line goes dead, leaving me in a daze. The device beeps in my hand as it erases all content. I'm left with nothing. Not a soul in this world cares about me other than maybe my family, and they can't help me. I'm thoroughly screwed.

After I hide the little device between my sanitary pads until I can figure out how to dispose of it, exhaustion overwhelms me. I have no clue what to tell Naiara or Miguel about why I want to visit the orphanage, and even if I get a new communicator, what are the chances that I get another opportunity to break into Miguel's study? Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose to fight an oncoming headache. Hot tears trickle down my cheeks as misery overcomes me. In that moment, I'm ready to quit.

~~~~

One dream I really hate is when I have this terrible urge to pee and can't find a toilet. My eyes fly open, my bladder so full that it's about to burst. I barely make it to the bathroom without wetting my pants.

I take my time washing my hands, observing my face in the mirror. It seems I've aged a lot. The childish features that used to dominate my face have disappeared, leaving thin lines in their place. I haven't felt young since Miguel raped me. I doubt they would even ID me for alcohol if I wanted to buy beer in my hometown.

With a sigh, I scuff over to the balcony and step outside. It has cooled off, the distinct smell of moisture in the air. When it rains in Malaguay, it usually pours; like the sky just opens up to dump buckets of water onto the mountains. It's something I like. In Indiana, there were days where a slight dampness just hung in the air all day, crawling through every piece of clothing and freezing me to the bone. I hate that type of weather.

I fill my lungs to the brim with oxygen, soaking in the serenity of the forest and the mountains. How peaceful it is out here. The silence is only interrupted by chirping birds and my growling stomach. I should go downstairs and prepare myself a snack.

The rest of the house is just as quiet. I hop down the stairs, skipping an occasional step. About to turn toward the kitchen, Miguel's laughter drifts from the study. Maybe I should ask him if he wants something to eat as well. My hand is already midair to knock when Veseo's muffled voice works as an invisible barrier.

"I still can't believe the Coyote is going straight for the jugular. Half the world will be weeping."

"Not me. Personally, I think the Americans don't deserve any better." A vicious undertone rolls in Miguel's words. "When this thing goes down, they'll be looking at a six-digit death toll. It'll take decades for those bastards to recover."

I clutch my mouth to stifle a gasp. Transfixed, I stare at the door, unable to move. Are they talking about some type of terrorist attack?

"Well, I hope the plan will work." Veseo slurps his drink. "It's a huge risk and the Americans will call for a massive manhunt. The Coyote might bite off more than he can chew this time."

"True, but as long as he sells me my guns beforehand, I'm happy. Who cares what happens afterward?" Glasses clink together. "Besides, it's beneficial for you if the Coyote is out of the picture. It still baffles me that you guys are so civil what with being competitors and all."

Veseo chuckles. "It's more like a tolerated coexistence. I've never even met the guy. The market is big enough—everyone wants to buy weapons these days, and as you know, we offer totally different merchandise."

"Yeah, it's really a shame. I would've ten times preferred dealing with you, but no, the one thing I need, you don't carry." Miguel's words are interrupted by a few gulps. "Thanks for getting me in touch with the Coyote, though. I wouldn't have had a clue what to do."

"Don't mention it." Veseo's voice is smug. "That's what friends are for."

"Did your girl like the cocaine?"

"Loved it. She threw an epic party. Half of Belgrade was invited, and afterward, business was booming."

Miguel lets out a low curse. "My dad just pulled up. We should call it a day."

"Good idea. I'm not really up to having a long chat with your father."

Just as their footsteps approach, the key in the front door turns. My gaze flicks to the broom closet right across from me; after my snooping attempt the last time, I'm not eager to repeat the experience of being caught red-handed. The vacuum cleaner and a bucket take up most of the space in the small room, but I still manage to squeeze in before the respective doors open.

"Hola, Papá." Miguel greets his father without hiding the venom that drips from his voice. Ever since the day Santino had a go at him, they have avoided each other like the plague.

"I did not realize you were home already." Santino's words are just as strained. "I see you have a visitor. How are you, Veseo? Have not seen you in a while."

"I'm fine, thank you, sir." Awkward silence follows. "I was just about to leave."

"Well, don't let me keep you." Santino sounds as if he's just as eager to get rid of him. "Stop by again if you are in town."

"Will do. Later, Miguel."

The front door closes and the conversation switches to Spanish. I strain to make out a few words, but they speak too fast for me to catch any form of a coherent sentence. The only thing I distinctly detect is anger in both voices.

They move into the kitchen and close the door. Shouting echoes through the house. Preferring to get out of the line of fire, I open the door of the broom closet a crack and make sure the coast is clear. As I scurry along the hallway toward the staircase, I almost stumble over the kitten that has grown into a fat bouncy ball from all the scraps the cook has been feeding him.

With a sudden urge to have some company, I scoop him into my arms. He repays me by spitting at me. His paw hits my nose. My yelp coincides with a brief silence in the kitchen; the result is a very worried Miguel appearing in the doorway.

"Stacy, what's wrong?"

"The darn cat scratched me." I rub my nose. When I pull away, my fingers are coated with a tinge of blood. Those claws are weapons.

"Awe, come here." Miguel's firm embrace is soothing for a change. "I guess you and Whiskey never really hit it off. If you want, I'll get rid of him."

I don't like the way he pronounces the word "rid"—his idea is probably to drown the poor cat in the river. "No, that's fine. Usually, we avoid each other and Naiara loves him."

"Okay." He nuzzles my hair. "How are you feeling?"

"The nap helped and now I'm starving, so I just came downstairs to fix myself a snack."

"Why don't we go out to eat since my father is in there? The town is overcrowded because of Bajada De Los Reyes, but the little restaurant by the orphanage should be fine."

"Sounds great." I grab a cardigan on my way out in case the temperatures drop later. Judging from Miguel's face, he's in an excellent mood despite the fight with his father, and our dinner might go well into the night. He opens the car door for me; when I slide in, an idea forms. "Speaking of the orphanage, Naiara told me that she always brings sweets to the kids. I'd like to go and read to them. In Indiana, I used to volunteer at the children's ward of the hospital and miss it."

"Really?" He frowns and for a second, I fear my lie was too obvious. "Well, as long as you're with Naiara, it's okay." A smile lights up his face; it's similar to the ones that used to dazzle me. "I guess being at the house all day by yourself can be boring. I'll ask Naiara to take you the next time she goes to the orphanage, and maybe you can even go with Tomás on patrol once in a while."

I bite my lip in excitement. "You mean it?"

He runs his thumb along my cheekbone. "I'm sorry I've been so critical lately. General Varela has been warning me not to trust you because you're American, but I shouldn't listen to him. I know you love me."

It's my turn to frown. "Why doesn't he trust me? I've never done anything to deserve that."

"It's how he is, and I promise I won't listen to him anymore. Let's just have a nice night." When he brushes a kiss on my forehead, his lips are soft. "Maybe we can even take this as a new start. I would really like that." His eyes hold this melancholy sadness that manages to tear at my heartstrings.

"Me too," I claim, though deep down, I don't mean it. In the next breath, I feel terrible that I take his moment of weakness to lead him on. Only my fear of Devon keeps me going.

He closes the door of the Hummer and gives the driver instructions before joining me in the back. As the car takes off, he slides his arm around my shoulders. I rest my head against his chest while I stare out the window, stifling a sigh. In a sense, my whole life has become a lie and I don't know how long I'll be able to keep up the act.

As we drive along the narrow path through the forest, another thought slowly comes to the fore.

When this thing goes down, they'll be looking at a six-digit death toll.

This is definitely something Devon should know about, and who knows, maybe the information on the computer won't be as important after that.

~~~~

© Sal Mason 2017

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