Sam looks up into my eyes and presses her lips together. I know she’s weighing the pros and cons of delaying the trip down to Ecuador or leaving Cooper behind. She glances at her watch and finally nods. “Okay. Brian will be here in less than two hours. Grab some guns and get into the panic room.”
I walk over to the first cabinet door and pull a loaded Glock 22 pistol and M4 carbine off the shelf. Sam hands me a bottle of water and wraps her arm around my shoulder as we walk in silence toward the open panic room door.
I step inside the seven foot by seven foot steel-and-concrete box and turn to face Sam, her eyes suddenly glassy. She takes my hands into her own, opens her mouth to speak, but words don’t come out. I don’t know what’s making her so emotional. Visions of me as a little girl. The thought of my parents gagged and beaten. The mission to rescue them resting heavy on her shoulders. Probably a combination of all three.
“Bring them back to me,” I whisper and she nods, kissing me on my cheek.
“I will,” she whispers back, running the back of her fingers against the apple of my cheek. She lowers her eyes, unhinges the panic room door from the wall, and pushes it with a noisy creak until the door is closed. I punch in the six-digit code and my body suppresses a shiver as the weighty bolts shift into place and lock me inside.
TWENTY-THREE
Just leave. Just leave. I watch the built-in monitors from inside the panic room as Sam and Cooper throw the last of the aluminum weapons cases inside the black SUV. Sam slams the trunk, grabs the keys out of Cooper’s hands, and makes her way to the front seat. I hold my breath as she turns on the car, pulls out of the driveway, and disappears from the camera’s view.
My body stands motionless, staring up at the camera for sixty long seconds, waiting for their headlights to return. They don’t. I punch in the six-digit code. The metal bolts clank out of place and the door hisses back into its unlocked state. With guns still in my hands, my shoulder pushes open the heavy door and I run back into the situation room.
I place my weapons on the desk, pull out my phone, and immediately begin capturing photos of everything and anything related to the mission. Routes, flight schedules, code names, coordinates, a map of Torres’s ranch near Tumaco.
On a slip of paper, the word Brian and a phone number is scrawled out in Sam’s messy handwriting. I need more time. I pick up the satellite phone and dial Brian’s number.
“This is Brian,” a deep voice says on the other end of the phone.
“Brian, hey, it’s Sam,” I reply, lowering my voice two octaves to try to match Sam’s natural vocal range. “We are on our way out the door but stand down on coming to the safe house. We’re actually going to move Reagan to another safe house on our way.”
“You sure?” Brian asks.
“Yeah, this area is compromised,” I answer, pinpricks of sweat threatening as the lies roll off my tongue. “We need to get Reagan out of New Albany. So we’ll take care of it.”
“But the direct orders to move her came straight from CORE,” Brian says, his voice questioning.
“Look, what do you want from me, my codes?” I reply, trying to pull off my best annoyed and in charge Sam. “BA 178229, code name Beacon, mission code 220394. Seriously, Brian, I don’t have time for your questions. Just stand down and I’ll talk to you after I’m back stateside.”
“Okay. My apologies,” Brian answers, finally satisfied. “Be careful out there.”
“We will,” I answer and hang up without saying good-bye.
I stare down at the guns on the desk. I can’t take any of these with me on the plane but I grab the small pistol and tuck it into the back of my jeans. I look around the situation room one more time for any detail of the mission I may have missed. The walls of the basement are starting to inch their way closer with every shallow breath and despite the cool temperature, my body is burning. I need to get out of here. I run into the weapons room, grab my go-bag, sprint up the stairs, and head out the door.
The freezing night air encases my scorching body and burns the delicate membranes inside my nose. An old-model Jeep is still in the driveway. I try the door. It’s unlocked but no keys. I flip down both sun visors and pull open the glove compartment. Nothing. I do a mental scan of the situation room. There were no keys down there. Cooper must still have them in his pocket.
I sprint back inside the house and tear open the cabinets under the kitchen sink. Yes. Toolbox. I grab a flathead screwdriver and hammer and run back outside. This better work. I know how to hot-wire a car the hard way but that takes too much time. I jam the screwdriver into the ignition and pound it with the hammer.
Please work. Please work. After one more tap, I turn the screwdriver and the car comes to life.
“Yes,” I whisper to no one. I back out of the driveway, pull out my phone, and call Luke.
“Hey, you okay?” he answers after a half ring.
“Yes, I’m fine. Look, I need you to book me a flight to Quito right now,” I reply and wind down the two-lane country road on the outskirts of the country club neighborhood.