“Got it,” Luke replies with a confident nod.
I scan the café and spot Eduardo. His dark hair is longer than his picture, the ends brushing against his shoulders every time he moves. Dressed in dirty jeans and a plaid shirt, Eduardo is pretending to read a newspaper but his eyes search every passenger. He needs more training. A real Black Angel would never look so obvious.
“Eduardo,” I say as I reach his table. His brown eyes look up at me, his thick eyebrows arching with surprise. The code, my mind screams before he could question me. “392043.”
“You’re both younger than I thought you’d be,” Eduardo says, putting his coffee-stained newspaper down on the cheap ceramic table.
“?El Martillo sabe que estamos veniendo?” I ask. Does the Hammer know we’re coming? I stare down at the cracked linoleum floor as we make our way out of the airport and to a waiting black Jeep.
“No tiene ninguna idea. Están seguro. Por ahora,” Eduardo says, pausing and dropping his voice on the last two words. You’re safe. For now. The way he says it with that heavy pause in between sentences means we won’t be safe for long.
The Jeep bumps down a two-lane dirt road, the sound of the tires hitting the uneven mounds of dirt and rocks filling the silent car. As my shoulder slams into the side of the door, I long for the smoother, paved roads of Quito, four hours behind us. Eduardo is doing his best to keep the Jeep steady while Luke and I study the layout of Torres’s house and grounds on our tablet.
I catch the transparent ghost of my reflection in the glass. My eyes look bloodshot and my skin is an oily gray. I only slept two hours on the plane. But I’m thankful for even just a couple hours of rest. At least then I was able to push away the panic and bury the image of my parents bound and gagged somewhere. But I woke up sweating, terror inflaming every muscle. They’re gone. They’re gone, I remembered, my heart straining under the shifting weight of so many unknowns. Where are they? What has Torres done to them? Are they even still alive?
Luke tried to calm me down and lull me back to sleep. I closed my eyes and lay back down on his lap. I pretended to be asleep. But really, I just spent those hours trying to swallow the screams creeping up my throat.
My training kicked in the moment we touched down in Quito. I’m quiet again, focused. My muscles are tight and my jaw is clenched. I try to relax, but I can’t. It’s physically impossible. I just want the moment to come. The moment where I see Mom’s face and hear Dad’s voice. When we’re all on a plane back to the United States and this nightmare is over.
“Hey,” Luke says, careful not to use my name in front of Eduardo. We don’t know if he knows the names of the DC agents he was supposed to pick up, but we’re not interested in tipping him off this far into the journey. I turn to see him rummaging through his backpack on the ground. He pulls out a packet of cheese and crackers. “How about some food?”
“I’m not really hungry,” I say and turn away, looking back out the window.
“You need energy,” Luke replies, pushing the package toward me. I reluctantly take it and rip open the cellophane. I bite down on the crackers. Luke’s still looking at me. “You doing okay?”
“I’m fine,” I answer without looking at him. I brush a crumb off my sweatshirt and shove another cracker in my mouth. I’m not lying. I am fine. If you consider numb fine. All those years of psychological training that my parents drilled into my head are working. If I actually let myself feel anything, I’d be having a daymare or panic attack right about now. I don’t have that luxury. For once, I welcome the feeling of being half dead.
As we bounce over a big bump, my muscles tense and I grab the bottom of my seat with both hands. The mountains of Quito are long gone and the huts are getting closer together, so we must be getting closer to San Lorenzo. A group of seagulls stands in the middle of the road and scatters as the Jeep passes. The ocean is near.
These lightly traveled two-lane roads we’ve been using to stay under the radar are known for robberies. I drag my fingers along the leather seat and feel the pistol resting between us. An Ecuadorian robber would be dead before he could even comprehend just who he was dealing with.
“Do you feel like you have the floor plan down?” I ask quietly. “Because once you get inside the beds of those trucks, you’ll be lying down in total darkness.”
“I’ve got it,” Luke says, looking back at the tablet. He taps the screen, zooming in on the exterior grounds.