12. Calista
Chapter 12
Calista
B elize in Central America is hardly even a country. It sits in a coastal region that hits a mountain and some dry desert along with jungle. The stretch is long, the regime unstable, and it’s one of those places that’s always overlooked.
So why the hell we’re here, in the jungle, at an abandoned mission is a mystery known to Smith only. I’m actually shocked he finally told me where we landed.
There’s a small city closer to the coast, but he chose the freaking abandoned area. The abandoned area being patrolled by men with machine guns.
It’s more well-known as a farming region, but really it reeks of illegal trade and militia. Or at least that’s what I think.
Smith is hardly forthcoming with any bit of detail.
He changed into cargo pants and an olive-green shirt on the plane and gave me an outfit to change into that’s more breathable than denim. It’s daytime and we had to drive along the coast and into a jungle made up of vines and trees and strange sounds to get to our destination .
“Walk.” That was his command a few hours ago, and as the heat and humidity slowly began to choke me, I just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Thank God I changed my clothes on the plane because this air is oppressively hot.
My lungs and legs burned until we finally came into a clearing with cooler air. In the middle of it stands a mission, complete with its tiny chapel.
A beautiful woman takes my hand and shows me to the shower that’s operated by a pump system. I also hear a groaning generator nearby. The woman, Sofia, talks in fast Spanish that I can understand, telling me about how many businesses have chosen to base themselves in other countries that are more politically stable than here.
“Instability hurts business,” I say as she shows me where things are for a shower, including a change of clothes. I narrow my eyes at the skirt. We’re in the jungle, so it’s an odd choice, but it’s clean so I don’t protest.
“The city has fallen into shambles. And many girls disappear. Some say for a better life, but I don’t know.” And the dark expression that crosses her face hurts my heart. “Things… they happen.”
She doesn’t need to elaborate by saying they happen to women. Her look grows darker, and it’s understood.
It’s the look I’ve seen on people close to trafficking, when I was helping to uncover cells in the early days of my CIA career, to read through chatter and track down a man who turned out to be a low-level Collector, someone who sold women no one wanted—no one among the superrich, that is.
Sofia’s expression is now full of rage and anger and pain, and that tells me it happened to someone she knew.
Henry and I might have been the illegitimate children of someone who was trafficked, left behind when our mom was taken, but we still didn’t experience what she did while she was in captivity. We just dealt with the upheaval growing up, handling life with a mother who was damaged beyond repair.
“Might have been.” Because we don’t know for sure if we were the indirect victims of trafficking. Our grandmother’s story kept changing. To protect herself or us, or our mother, I don’t know. And in a way, I’m not sure I want to know.
All we know is she got out. Physically, anyway.
And we made do when our grandmother died, and Mom was… Mom.
But her fate is one I want to avenge.
Her fate is one I don’t want others to go through, either directly or as a loved one left behind like Sofia likely is.
I thank her, shower, and pull on the top, flowy skirt, and boots I’ve been given. I leave the laundered cotton panties and wash mine. At first, I thought the skirt was a strange pick, but it actually lets my skin breathe so I’m grateful for it.
Then I go and search for Smith, scouting the area as I walk.
If it’s a base for illegal operations, it’s small. Three off-road vehicles and, as far as I can tell, just three men with guns and their rifles swung casually on their backs. They’re clearly not planning to use them.
Or maybe this area’s known for bandits. Maybe they’re just protecting livestock at night. There’s plenty of it, from what I can see.
The place doesn’t seem lived in as a dedicated home, but it’s used, so it brings me back to the fact that there might be something here to be guarded. Although, these guards don’t look like the lethal type. I could steal a truck and—then what? I know I’m in Belize. But beyond that? I know nothing.
And even if I got away, where the fuck would I go?
Smith has the fake passport, and I’m assuming mine got blown up in France .
Dammit, I miss being able to slide into news and the intel behind it all.
He’s also got a heavy-looking canvas pack that he pulled from the plane.
I’ll need to get into it before I can go anywhere.
The little building reminds me of what I’d expect a convent to look like. Scouring the area, I look for Smith. He’s nowhere to be seen, and as I step backward to take another glance around, I almost fall over a chicken and the chubby child who’s chasing it.
Sofia mutters something, sweeps up the child, and hands me an empty bowl. “Please help?”
With a sigh, I follow her in to begin my foray into kitchen prep.
Not my strong suit, by the way.
Sofia is in and out of the small kitchen while I chop and prep vegetables for a stew that looks like it’s going to be spicy.
“I’m sorry, Juniper,” she says, chasing off after her child again. When she returns with the little boy tucked under an arm, she tries to drag the big pot onto the woodfire stove.
“Unless we’re having boiled toddler,” I say in Spanish as I take the pot and fill it with water, “I’ll get everything going.”
Because clearly this is women’s work . But I don’t allow myself to utter those words. Instead, I look at the vegetables and grains as Sofia insists on putting the order of things in a line for me, so I can chop and put it into the stew. I smile and nod and wait for her to finish.
She’s older than me by a handful of years, and the child’s clearly hers, but if she’d just leave me alone, I can think. If I’m alone, maybe I can smuggle a knife as a weapon.
When she’s gone, I fall into a routine of thinking, chopping, and planning revenge against Smith. That and trying to untangle what I know .
“Nothing, that’s what,” I grumble.
But I must have stumbled onto something. And the CIA obviously thinks I’m behind the stolen weapon. The Bolivia connection bugs me, too.
Dammit, I haven’t done anything wrong. If I can just make sense of some things, like where the hell my field agent is, like who and where are the Collectors, like what’s become of the founder, Trenton, who might have raped and abused my mother… then I’ll happily walk in to talk to the CIA.
With a deep, resigned breath, I concentrate on chopping.
It’s not until the peacefulness is disturbed by a shift in the air that I know I’m not alone.
Smith.
“Go away.”
“Is that any way to talk to your savior?”
I snort out a laugh. “More like kidnapper with a part-time hustle in side thorns.”
“Pretty, and yet I can’t fucking wait to hand you over. Maybe if I ask nicely, they’ll let me torture you, just a little.” He steals a carrot moments before I bring the knife down on the wooden chopping block. “You do know that kind of violent action gets me hot, right?”
“Well, considering you’re a kidnapping son of a bitch… I’m not surprised.”
I don’t know why, but the needling banter lifts me, makes me want to smile.
It also turns this dangerous man into a pussycat over the feral panther I think he just might be.
Based on everything I know about him, I believe he’s a man who’s smart and very comfortable in his skin. But his talk of violent action, chasing me down, all that hunter and prey crap getting him hot
I don’t think it’s talk .
And I don’t think I’ve seen the real Smith.
Well, actually…
I think I’ve seen a facet of him, a glimpse of what he wants me to see with hints of what he actually is and what he’ll do. I don’t mean his job, I mean him. Who he is down in the marrow of his bones, down in his soul.
This man… He’s like a panther playing before his meal because, though he might want to eat, he’s not hungry. The desire to kill hasn’t been stroked into life.
When I say dangerous, what I’ve seen is a dangerous man, and that… that’s the tip of the iceberg.
I take in a shaking breath.
“Why the CIA?” he asks, leaning against the chipped white sink next to me.
With a shrug, I finish the carrots and tip the board into the pot. There’s a knife at the back of the workbench. It looks sharp. Maybe it’s a paring knife. Hell, maybe it’s for stabbing sexy, hot, dangerous men and making a run for it. I don’t know, but I do know I’m going to steal it.
His gaze travels to where I just looked but he doesn’t do anything about it.
“To rid the world of men like you.”
“Or make money by selling secrets. It’s been done.”
“I’m not doing that,” I snap.
“I really don’t give a fuck if you are.”
“Then why ask?”
He leans in. “To get a handle on who you are and what you’ll do. Maybe because I never expected you to enjoy this.” Smith spreads a hand.
“Cooking?”
“Line work.” And the slightest smirk lifts his mouth.
“This isn’t that different than writing code. The repetition, the getting it right, the looking for—” I stop. He’s not interested in code or hacking. He’s… poking in my brain. “I find it soothing.”
“And what else do you find soothing?”
I start chopping the potato. “Kintsugi.”
“What the hell is that?”
This time my cheeks burn. It’s my little hobby and I never share it. Not because it’s anything to be embarrassed about but because… I don’t know, because it doesn’t fit.
“The Japanese art of fixing broken ceramics with gold.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm what?”
Now he shrugs. “Just hmmm.”
“Just how ancient are you?”
This time his gaze catches on my mouth and I press my thighs together as slow heat builds there, because that look is like fucking. “Thirty-nine. Me and my old dick are too old for your little fantasies.”
“And your daughter is twenty-three.”
“Yes.” He moves away and finds a bottle of what looks like golden rum and he pours two glasses. Smith puts one next to me and downs his and refills it. “I was sixteen when she was born.”
“Oh.”
“We don’t have much of a relationship.”
“Shocking. You’re such a charmer. I can’t imagine how you wouldn’t be a doting dad, too.”
He puts the bottle down with a soft click on the windowsill.
Somehow the gentleness is worse than if he slammed it down.
“You know nothing about me or my fucking life, Juniper.”
I normally like my middle name, but not when he says it with that scathing touch. “You’re not the only one who was recruited young. Dakota was… let’s just say she was something of a very delayed surprise.”
I try and think of something to say. But nothing comes.
There are questions that crowd my mind. Did her mother keep her from him? Was his kid adopted? Relationships can be repaired.
“M-my brother didn’t want anything to do with Mom for a long time. I guess you’ve read all about us, but our grandmother raised us, and then our mom came back. She was never the same. Damaged, scarred. She was so self-destructive. And she was in and out of institutions. But they made up, created a bond before… before she died.”
Death by suicide. That was the thing, but I’d had suspicions.
It doesn’t matter.
I tracked down the man who led her to this horrible outcome. Maybe he’s our father. Maybe not. I don’t know or care.
I uncovered it two years ago in an old file. An investigation into Jon Trenton and his business dealings. The Collectors. His twisted, depraved preference for young girls.
My eyes burn hot.
“Sylvie’s long dead and there’s no fixing my shit. Dakota’s better off without me in her life.”
“Smith?”
“What?”
He softens, trails fingers down over my cheek, rubbing light on my lower lip. It’s like a balm, like something I never knew I needed. The touch isn’t sexual. No, this touch is… it isn’t sweet, but it’s tender and comforting and it makes my eyes burn hotter and my vision blur.
“Will you let me go? If I promise to turn myself in. I-I have something I need to do. ”
He leans in and kisses me soft and long. Then he raises his head, takes the knife from my nerveless fingers, and hurls it across the room where it embeds into the wall, the handle vibrating.
“Fuck no,” he growls. “You run, you even try to run, and I’ll fucking kill you.”