The next morning, neither Hector nor Tomás show up at the mansion to collect me and I decide to reclaim some of my liberty. Who needs a constant babysitter just to leave the house? The driveway is filled with cars no one uses, and most of the soldiers hang around all day with nothing to do. They can as well take me wherever I want to go. Tomás will just have to suck it up and accept that he can't control my every move.

Filled to the brim with eggs and toast and plenty of energy, I'm about to bounce down the front steps when I bump into Santino getting out of his Hummer. His beady eyes are even colder than usual and dark rings underline his eyes, suggesting a lack of sleep.

He nevertheless smiles as he gives me a quick once-over. "Stacy, how are things?"

"Fine. How are you?"

He ignores my questions. "Going somewhere?"

"Yeah." My mouth dries up. "I was heading over to the compound to meet with Hector and Tomás."

For a second, his eyes narrow. I twitch under his stare, not sure if an altercation is wise if he objects to me roaming the streets of Malaguay without Tomás. I also know that I should stick to my guns if I don't want to turn into a prisoner again in my own home.

"Well, make sure you always take a soldier escort." He rubs his chin with thought. "Maybe it is best if I assign you a permanent driver. Fabricio used to be Naiara's chauffeur, so he is available."

I remember him. He seems like a nice guy and speaks some English, which will be an advantage. "Sure. That might be the easiest." Without a doubt, Fabricio will report back to his boss every place he takes me, but he'll still be easier to fool than Tomás when it comes to my meetings with Devon. At least he will follow instructions to stay in the Jeep and not be on my heels like a bloodhound.

After a rapid conversation in Spanish, it is settled. Fabricio opens the door of a Jeep for me with a slight bow.

"El presidente said you need to go to the compound, Señora Rizo?" he mutters with a thick accent.

I nod. "Please call me Stacy."

His smile is thin, and I'm not sure he understood. Maybe his English isn't so good after all.

The Jeep sways through the forest in agonizing slowness and I can't suppress a yawn. Tomás usually speeds along, the swooshing wind and the loud humming of the engine making it a fun ride. Fabricio might look young, but his driving attitude is that of an old man.

After an eternity, we arrive at the compound. I instruct Fabricio to stay close to the Jeep and comb the training center for Tomás and Hector. Most soldiers shrug or stare at me blankly when I ask if they've seen them. I finally track Hector down in Miguel's old office.

The room hasn't changed much, even Miguel's Harvard diploma still hangs on the wall behind the desk. I lower my gaze as the memories flood back. Hope and happiness, but also absolute despair and desperation, are connected with this room. I see Miguel's comforting smile after he saved me from the staged rape. The sweet memory is replaced by pain when my gaze falls on the couch. That's where I rested when I had my miscarriage before turning over my husband's business secrets to the CIA. Even the last day of Miguel's life was spent together in this room.

"Are you okay?" Hector asks, squinting at me. He must've been talking to me during my trip down memory lane. His words went totally over my head.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You were saying?"

"I asked if you've seen Tomás? We have a call with my dad at two to discuss new distribution channels. It's really important he attends."

I shrug. "I have no clue where he is."

"Hmm." He obviously expected a different response. "Isn't he your chaperone or something?"

My laugh is a little shrill. "What do I need a chaperone for? I'm a grown woman."

"Well, it's just . . ." He swallows down the rest of the sentence.

"What?" I raise my brows. "Don't tell me you're a sexist pig, too, who thinks that women's sole purpose is to serve men."

He chuckles. "No, it's not that. Tomás just said . . ." Again, the sentence is left unfinished.

"Said what?" I sigh and fall into the chair across from him. Seems as if I will have to tear almost every word out of his mouth.

"It's nothing." His fingers play with the cord of the telephone. "Really." He grimaces with a shrug, clearly not inclined to go behind his friend's back.

"You shouldn't listen to Tomás. He can be a real backstabber, even to his friends."

"I suppose." He twists the telephone cord around his index finger, his smile crooked. "You know, he doesn't trust you."

"Well, he doesn't trust anybody." The bitter snicker is out before I can help it. Will that ever change? This mission has been an uphill battle from the start and I'll probably never get to the top if I can't find a way for Tomás to respect me.

"But after what his brother did, I guess I can't blame him." Hector's focus is fixed on a pecking bird on the windowsill and I'm not sure the comment was intended for me.

"What did Mateo do?"

He snaps out of his trance. "Like I said, I only heard the rumors. It's best to stay out of it."

I want to strangle him, or better yet, take him by the ankles and shake the truth out of his brain. Rumors my ass. He knows exactly what's going on with Tomás, and his unwillingness to share just makes things more difficult for me.

"Maybe we should check his house," Hector suggests. "His wife might know where he is."

"Great idea." I wanted to check on Shauna anyways. All of a sudden, a heavy lump settles in the pit of my stomach. What if Tomás beat her to death and can't leave the house? I don't believe he'd ever endanger the baby—I've seen the way he is with the youngest soldiers—so he'd have to stick around until he could make alternative arrangements. That is one explanation for his absence.

In a hurry, I rush Hector along. After he promises Fabricio he'll drop me off back at the mansion later this afternoon, we are on our way. He takes his sweet time, driving not much faster than Fabricio. When we get to town, he slows down more. I avoid the stares of the people loitering in the streets, my gaze fixed on the buttons of the radio. It's busy today, but I can't shake the feelings that people are only strolling around because they have nothing better to do.

Shauna is outside. When we arrive, she doesn't lift her head. Kneeling next to a small vegetable patch, she digs up the ground around the stems of small green plants. A bowl next to her holds little yellow-reddish tubers with a wax-like skin.

A redheaded baby, suckling on her fingers, is on a blanket beside her. When I slide out of the Jeep, she coos and stretches out her arms. Shauna still hasn't noticed me, which is kind of odd. A prickling sensation runs along my scalp and down my neck. What if Tomás hit her so hard that she lost her hearing? I could never forgive myself.

When I step behind her, she yelps. I realize that headphones are stuck in her ears. She stares at me with an open mouth. Tearing the earplugs out, she squeals before shooting up like a rocket and throwing her arm around my neck.

"Oh my god, Stacy. You're back."

I frown. "Didn't Tomás tell you?"

She shakes her head, still clutching my neck. "He hasn't mentioned anything." After another squeeze, she finally loosens her embrace. Her smile is so wide that it lights up her entire face. "What happened? Where have you been this entire time?"

"I was captured by the rebels." I squat down next to the baby. "Is this your daughter?"

"Yes, her name is Aoife Maria. Isn't she adorable?"

Aoife Maria grabs my index finger with a drooly fist. I flinch—the sticky feeling is kind of disgusting. My chest constricts. If I hadn't miscarried, my little girl or boy would be just like her. No way I would shy away from some spit.

I can't stand looking at her any longer, the intensity of her blue eyes jarring. They are an exact replica of her father's. I give Shauna a good once-over in an attempt to assess the damage. As far as I can tell, there's not a scratch on her. Her skin is lightly tanned, her gaze lively. She looks happier and healthier than I have ever seen her.

"What happened last night with Tomás?" I ask.

"Nothing." It's her turn to frown. "Why are you asking?"

I rub my temples, trying to block the sudden headache. "He knows about the embassy."

"Oh." She is a little pale around her nose, but otherwise, she takes the news well. "He didn't say anything. When he came home, he was in one of his moods, giving me a murderous look, but then he just disappeared into his study. I haven't seen him since."

I glance at Hector still sitting inside the Jeep with his phone clutched to his ear. Judging from the audacious smile on his lips, he must be talking to his girlfriend, probably making plans for the weekend.

Not wanting to interrupt him, I turn back to Shauna. "Did you check on him?"

"Hell no." She snorts. "I couldn't be bothered. The less I have to do with him, the better."

Probably a wise decision. When Miguel had been in one of his broody moods, it was best not to mess with him. "Do you mind if I check? We have a business meeting soon that he can't miss."

"Not at all." She picks up the bowl off the ground. "I was just about to cook lunch. Oca is Aoife Maria's favorite."

I follow her into the house. A few soft toys that look homemade are scattered on the floor, but otherwise, the inside is like I remember, just much cleaner. Tomás either hired help or the constant nagging of his sister finally turned Shauna into a decent housewife.

"Would you like some tea?" she asks when we halt in front of a door, which I assume is the study.

"Sure." I turn the doorknob for good measure, fully expecting the door to be locked, but it silently swings back. As I venture into the dim room, my nose wrinkles in disgust at the horrendous stench of cold cigarette smoke and alcohol poisoning the air. Only the snoring figure behind the desk forces me to take a few more steps inside.

Tomás's body is slumped forward, his cheek resting on the polished tabletop. He's out cold. With every breath, a cloud of alcohol emits from his slightly parted lips. The fingertips of his left hand still graze the empty bottle of tequila next to him, and the ashtray is overflowing. Under his chair, two empty cigarette packs are crumpled on the floor. No doubt he had a rough night; the excessive alcohol consumption and chain-smoking probably shortened his life by a couple of months.

"Tomás." I squeeze his shoulder.

Nothing.

"Tomás, wake up."

I gently shake him and he groans.

When I apply more force, the muscles in his neck tighten. The warmth of his skin tingles under my fingertips. "Tomás, we need to go. Hector says there's an important meeting this afternoon."

Another groan. "Fuck. Don't yell. My head is about to split open." His eyes open lazily. "You look funny." He squints. "Did you grow two heads overnight?"

His gaze is unfocused, the broken vessels in his eyes taking up almost the entire white. It gives him a creepy look. He is still drunk. "Get up. You need a cold shower." I pull on his arm. "Come on, Tomás. Don't be difficult."

"I'm being difficult?" He snorts. "That's funny because I was under the impress"—he stumbles over the word, opening and closing his mouth a few times—"I was under the impression that you are being difficult." He drops his head back down on the desk. "You scare me, Stacy. I never know what you think."

I guess that's a good thing. "Come on, Tomás. You have to get up."

"No, I don't. Go away." His nose twitches like he's about to sneeze. "No one misses me. They all hate me."

I roll my eyes. He's being dramatic. I pull his arm in an attempt to yank him to his feet. His muscles flex, and for a moment, my fingertips trace the rippled lines on his upper arm. God, it would definitely help if he weren't so hot.

"Do you hate me, Stacy?"

"No, Tomás." I pull his arm again. "I don't hate you. I don't hate anybody."

"But you should. I'm a bad person." His voice is thick. "Pearson was right. Rosanna would hate me. She would never marry me again."

I freeze. So Rosanna had been his wife. I wonder what happened to her. Since he married Shauna, she must have either died or divorced him.

"Shauna hates me, too," he babbles on. "I'm mean to her. I don't want to be, but she makes me angry all the time."

"That's not an excuse for mistreating her." I finally give up on trying to get him to his feet. He is way too heavy, and the alcohol and smoke on his breath are making me sick. Let Hector deal with him. "Look, I'm gonna get Hector."

"Don't bother." He heaves himself up. With stumbling feet, he makes his way to the door. Once, he almost knocks a photograph off the wall. It shows a much younger Felipe with his arm around Tomás's shoulders. I lean forward and take a closer look. The soccer pitch of the orphanage is in the background and they couldn't have been older than twelve. Tomás's face is relaxed, almost happy.

Tomás grumbles something in the hallway before a door closes with a bang. Shauna appears in the doorframe, her nose crinkling.

"It smells disgusting in here. Let's get the window open."

I step out of her way and she slides the heavy curtains back. The bright light and strong scent of alcohol make me dizzy. Heading to the kitchen, I pass the bathroom door. The rushing of the running water is overpowered by the gurgling sounds of someone barfing. If Tomás wasn't such an ass, I might feel sorry for him.

Shauna joins me moments later, fiddling with a teacup. "Do you want sugar?"

I've never liked the bitter taste of Malaguian tea. "Two spoons, please."

Shauna adds the sugar and stirs, handing me the cup without making eye contact. Her attention is fixed on the bathroom door. She walks over, straining to hear what's going on inside. The water is still running though the barf sounds have stopped. With a sigh, she closes the door to the kitchen.

When she turns around, her gaze is that of a hunted animal. "Stacy, you have to get me out of here. I can't handle this anymore." Tears are in her eyes. "Tomás is a time bomb. I'm so scared."

"Has he been beating you?"

"Not since I got pregnant." She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. "He yelled a few times when I made him angry and even raised his hand once. I'm sure it's just a matter of time before he hits me again." She clutches my wrists. "I'm scared, Stacy. Please, you have to help me."

I nibble on my lip. "I'm not sure if I can. They revoked my citizenship and I don't have anywhere else to go."

Her shoulders slump as if someone sucked the air out of her lungs. "So it's all lost. I'm stuck here." A few tears roll down her cheeks, which she quickly wipes away with the back of her hand.

The desperation in her voice makes me cringe. I give her arm an encouraging squeeze. "We'll figure something out. I promise."

She nods, more tears rolling down her cheeks. "I really miss my family." The desperation has been replaced by pain.

I can't hold her gaze. Devon will need to fix this—he owes me. If I carry on with this crazy mission, he can at least get Shauna and Aoife Maria out.

Tomás tears the kitchen door open. "Ready to go?" His voice is hoarse, but otherwise, he has gotten control of his hangover. Glaring at me, he totally ignores his wife and daughter.

"Yep." I gulp down the tea, handing the cup back to Shauna. "Thanks."

Tomás's gaze scans over his wife, but he still doesn't acknowledge her. It's as if he's looking right through her. Shauna's face, on the other hand, is flushed crimson red. I'm sure he can figure out that we were talking about him. Without another word, he storms out.

Offering Shauna one more reassuring smile, I follow him. In the front doorway, loud words from the Jeep cause me to halt in my tracks. Hector and Tomás are arguing and a huge frown wrinkles Hector's forehead. He hisses something to his friend in Spanish.

"Callate," Tomás snaps back. "No tienes idea de lo que estás hablando."

It's actually something I understand for a change. Tomás told Hector to shut up since he has no idea what he's talking about. Maybe my Spanish is getting better.

"Déjalo estar, parce."

Then again, maybe not.

"Como puedo dejarlo?" Tomás's voice is laced with fury, his gaze spitting with rage as if he's ready to engulf Hector in a fireball. "La mataron."

Ehen the meaning of the last sentence filters through my brain, the breath is caught in my throat. In English, those are three simple words: "They killed her."

~~~~

© Sal Mason 2016

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