“International camps? Where have you trained?” Luke asks, his voice soft even though there’s no one else seated within ten rows of us. Late-night flights to Quito in the middle of the week aren’t exactly an in-demand ticket.
“All over,” I say and do a mental scan. “Israel one summer to learn from the best Krav Maga experts in the entire world. Russia another summer for weaponry training. China for hacking and digital training. I’ve trained in Mexico and the Middle East. I did some training one summer with MI-6 in England. They have a group there that’s connected to the Black Angels. Very secret, very underground. Children of agents are born into that life and are trained their entire lives to become the next generation of agents. Just like me.”
“That’s amazing,” Luke says, shifting in his seat, his leg brushing against mine. “You’ve gotten to do so much.”
I nod in quiet, conflicted agreement and stare blankly at the tablet, my eyes pausing on different Colombian towns. Florencia. Mocoa. Montería. Cali. Bogotá. Such beautiful names for a country filled with so much violence. They sound more like the names of resorts or spas, not cities where shootings are an everyday, every-hour occurrence and the streets run red with blood.
My ears pop. I didn’t realize how muffled everything had sounded since takeoff. The noises around me amplify. The roar of the plane’s engine fills my head and pulls me away from the map, hushing my racing mind.
I press my forehead against the plastic window and feel it give under the weight of my skull. I stare past the wing and wispy clouds. The lights of small towns twinkle back at me. We pass over fields and two-lane country roads, pockets of subdivisions. I stare down at the strip malls and the grocery stores, dark office buildings and lit empty parking lots, warm homes with smoke rising from their chimneys and cars parked in the driveway. I count the houses on the streets and wonder what their lives are like.
I imagine women washing dishes in the kitchen, scraping food off white plates and staring out their windows at dark backyards, still swing sets, or their own distorted reflections. Their children sit at the kitchen table doing homework while their husbands read newspapers or fiddle on laptops in the family room. They all wait for dishes to be put away, for sink tops to be dried, and showers to be had so they can spend time together. Watch TV, read a book, get ready for bed. Go to sleep and start the routine all over again. That may sound like a boring existence to some. But right now it sounds perfect.
The cabin lights above us dim. I stare up as the bright white darkens to a warm orange. Luke pulls out his phone and glances at the time.
“I think you better try to get some sleep,” Luke says, tucking his phone back into his pocket.
“What about all the tactics and strategy?” I ask, my voice catching in my throat, giving away my emotional and physical drain.
“We’ve been going over it for hours. We know it,” Luke says, looking up at me for a moment. “And besides, we’re only going to be there as backup, right?”
“Right,” I answer even though the thought of sitting in the truck sounds just as awful as sitting at Langley.
“Come on. It’s been a long day,” Luke replies and touches my hand. His fingers are warm on my cold skin.
“I’m almost too tired to sleep,” I say, tucking my leg beneath me.
“How about I tell you a story?” Luke asks. No one’s told me a story since I was little. I nod and Luke pulls a blanket off the empty row across from us.
“Come here,” he says, patting his lap. “Lie down.”
“What about you?” I ask. “You need to sleep.”
“I’ll be fine.” I curl up my legs and lie down, my head resting in his lap. Luke drapes the blanket over my body, pulling it up around my shoulders. “What kind of story do you want to hear?”
“Tell me about your favorite vacation.” I snuggle up to him.
“Okay. When I was a little boy, we’d take a trip to North Carolina every summer,” Luke begins. “We’d stay at a condo on the beach and every morning Claire and I would eat mini chocolate Entenmann’s donuts on our balcony and count the number of waves that crashed on the sand. Claire hated getting all sandy and spent half of the trip running her little legs under the faucet on the boardwalk. Every day we’d get our little buckets and collect seashells. Starfish, sand dollars, and clamshells and…”
The sound of Luke’s voice lulls me to sleep. My breathing slows. And just before I drift into darkness, I feel his hand sweep a piece of hair off my face and gently tuck it behind my ear. My body, my mind let go and I fade into black.
TWENTY-FIVE
“There it is. El Jefe Café,” I say, pulling at Luke’s arm. “Follow my lead. We have no Black Angel ID. Just the codes. We need to look like we’ve been here before and know what we’re doing. Got it?”