Chapter 6
Marta didn’t know if the man they were following was one of the good guys or another one of Vasquez’s henchmen.
Was he bent on recapturing her to haul her back to the compound to complete the job Vasquez had forced her into?
And why was Crusher following him blindly?
Didn’t he know people weren’t always what they seemed?
Crusher planted his body between the droopy-drawered young man and her as they blindly followed the stranger to another dilapidated house further down the street.
When he turned into the yard, he didn’t march up the steps of the home with faded paint and a listing awning over the porch.
Instead, he led them around the side of the house to a set of stairs leading down into a basement.
Marta tugged Crusher to a stop. “You trust him?” she asked.
“He asked about Royce. This has to be another one of his contacts,” Crusher said. “But maybe you should remain above ground while I check him out.”
Marta shook her head. “No way. You might need backup.”
He didn’t remind her that he was the one trained in combat but took her hand and held it all the way down the narrow stairs to a black door at the bottom with a skeleton skull staring up at them.
The young man fiddled with a key, inserted it into a lock and pushed the door open.
Crusher’s hand tightened briefly around hers, then he tensed and released her hand altogether, presumably gearing up for a fight if needed.
A shiver of apprehension slithered down Marta’s spine.
The young man hurried into the dark room lit by black-light bulbs. Posters of Dia de los Muertos figures papered the wall, reflecting the light in a glow-in-the-dark design that was a disturbing cross between cheerful and morbid.
“Close and lock the door,” their host commanded without looking their way. “You can have a seat while I get things ready.”
“Ready for what?” Marta asked.
He flipped a switch on the wall that ignited an overhead light, overpowering the black-light poster of skeletal figures beating on other figures, a cartoonish drawing that wouldn’t scare a child. A normal, maybe sixty-watt bulb dangled from a cord stapled to the ceiling.
The young man touched a mouse next to a keyboard, clicked several keys and hit the enter button. “Lady, take a seat in the chair across from me and look at the camera on my computer monitor.” He tapped the camera hooked over the top of the screen.
Marta shook her head in confusion. “Excuse me? Who are you, and why did you bring us here?”
“I’m Stewart. You are the people Royce sent, aren’t you?”
Crusher nodded, though Stewart’s back was to them. “We are.”
The young man turned, his brow wrinkling. “Royce said you needed new identities. Now, do you want them or not? I don’t have all day.”
Marta met Crusher’s gaze.
He gave a brief nod and addressed the young man. “Sorry, Royce didn’t give us all the details, just a set of coordinates.”
Stewart shook his head. “The man is a great leader, but not always a good communicator.” He sighed and refocused his attention on the keyboard and monitor.
“He said you needed new forms of identification. He was specific that they should not reflect your true identity. Something about a cartel out for blood…?” The young man waved a hand over his shoulder.
“Whatever the reason, I can give you a new identity if you want it. Otherwise, you know the way out.”
He worked the keyboard silently for a moment before saying, “I assume, since you’re still here, you want the IDs. In that case, miss, please sit in the chair behind me. Is there a name you’d like to associate with your new identity?” he asked without turning.
Marta’s gaze met Crusher’s completely at a loss.
She’d never had to consider being called something other than the name her parents had entered on her birth certificate.
Though she had once thought about a name she would have called her daughter, had she been fortunate enough to have a girl child someday.
She’d always admired one of the most overlooked female scientists in history, Rosalind Franklin, the woman who’d discovered the double helix in DNA.
Marta had always loved the name Rosalind, especially when it was shortened to her favorite flower...the rose. She faced Stewart’s back and said, “Rose.”
“I need a surname as well. You want Smith or Jones?”
“No,” Marta said. “Let me think.” She turned away and paced.
Choosing a name wasn’t rocket science or epidemiology.
Then why was it so hard? Then she thought of the person who’d sparked her interest in science in the first place.
Her father. He’d always been curious about how things worked.
His focus had been on the mechanics of machines.
Marta’s focus had gone deeper into the mechanics of cells.
“Seriously,” the young man muttered. “We don’t have all day. And if you have a cartel after you, I sure as hell don’t want you to be here long enough for them to find you. I have a business to run, and I don’t need a cartel burning it to the ground.”
“Richard,” Marta blurted. “Rose Richards.”
Stewart keyed the name into his computer. “Now, look at the camera while I capture your image.”
Marta stared at the little camera perched atop the computer monitor and wondered if she should smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the corners of Crusher’s lips twitching.
“How do you and Royce know each other?” Crusher asked the younger man.
Stewart shrugged. “He may or may not have gotten me out of a tight spot with the mafia in Chicago. Apparently, I stepped on their tech guy’s toes and territory. When they threatened to hurt my mother, he called in the big guns from his time in the Army.”
Crusher frowned. “Royce?”
Stewart nodded. “He arranged for us to move from Chicago to Panama on the condition I didn’t tread in illegal activities that benefited criminals.
” He snorted. “Now, I generate online content that’s monetized and help Royce out whenever he needs my former skills.
” A machine hummed, and moments later, a passport appeared in a tray below it, the same blue color associated with the US.
He handed it to Marta. “Check it for any inconsistencies.” Without hesitating, he turned to Crusher. “You’re next. Sit.”
Marta rose from her seat and moved to the other side of the small room, studying the passport with her photograph laminated inside.
Rose Richards.
“Oh, and you’ll need this.” Stewart smashed a stamp on an ink pad and held out his hand. “Open the passport to the first page.”
She did and held it out.
Stewart pressed the stamp to the page. “It’s an exact copy of the stamps they use at the airport customs when people enter the country. I dated it a couple of days ago.”
Marta shook her head. “You think of everything.”
“The devil is in the details,” he murmured. “Name,” he demanded, directing his attention to the keyboard and screen.
“Truman Getty,” Crusher answered without hesitation.
A minute later, Stewart handed him a passport, stamped the first page and crossed his arms over his chest. “Royce also asked that I secure a safe place for you two to hole up in for the night while I arrange for your transportation out of Panama.”
Marta stared down at the passport in her hands. “It’s all well and good to have a physical passport, but they run these through automated systems. There’s also the matter of facial recognition software.”
Stewart held up a hand. “That’s part of the service of securing your transport out of here. I’ll need a few more minutes to work magic and make sure the passport numbers appear in the passport database. Meanwhile, you can stay in my mother’s bed and breakfast.”
“She’s okay with it,” Crusher asked, “considering we’re being targeted by a cartel?”
Stewart’s lips pressed together. “She knows, and she’s okay with it.
We owe Royce big time for getting us out of Chicago alive and for our new lives here in Panama.
Mom’s never been happier.” He motioned toward a corner of the room.
“Before I take you to my mother’s place, you’ll want to get out of those clothes and into something less conspicuous.
I brought a few things from the house. We can arrange for alternate clothing once we get there. ”
Marta crossed to the gym bag. If the bag contained some of Stewart’s own clothing, there wouldn’t be anything inside that could fit either one of them based on Stewart’s lean build.
She opened the bag, pulled out the first item on top and smiled at the colorful, tiered skirt with a matching blouse.
“Mom’s idea,” Stewart said. “The men’s outfit was left by one of Mom’s guests. Royce said you were built like him, so we figured it would do for now.”
Marta dug out a white guayabera shirt and a pair of Bermuda shorts with an elastic band and a drawstring. They were big, but that would work in Crusher’s favor. She handed him the items and looked around.
“Bathroom’s in there.” Stewart pointed toward a door on the other side of the small room. “It’s functional. I made sure everything was working in this part of the building. I didn’t see any need to renovate the exterior. I like that it looks abandoned. It serves the purpose of keeping people out.”
“Smart,” Crusher said.