27. Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Remington
Five days later and I’m still reeling from my FBI debrief.
My instincts were accurate, something about those agents wasn’t right. Maybe I’m paranoid, but when they started asking about Colton, every instinct I had started screaming, red flag.
Why is how I spent my last night in Coronado important? How is Colton relevant? They didn’t ask how Danny and I spent our last night. Instead, they concentrated on Colton. I hadn’t expected it, and it rubbed me wrong. So, I made the split-second decision to lie to them.
I still can’t believe they tried to slut shame me.
What I didn’t tell the agents is, while I’ve only known Colton, or Bob, for a hot minute, I’ve already fallen hard for him. I don’t understand how it happened so fast, but it has.
That’s the real reason I held out. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if anything happened to Colton because of something I told them. Especially if those two agents are Consortium, fishing for the information I refused to give to my captors.
Unfortunately, tumbling head over heels for Colton didn’t work out so well. I’ve fallen for a man who doesn’t return my feelings and is involved with someone else. Ain’t that a kick in the head?
I don’t feel bad about telling the FBI everything was left behind when I was kidnapped.
It isn’t a lie. It’s more misdirection than dishonesty.
Technically, everything was left behind in the apartment.
I just didn’t clarify there were no memory cards because I’m old school and always shoot on film.
That’s not a secret. If they’d gone to my website or done a basic internet search, they would’ve learned that detail.
If the FBI gets their hands on my pictures, I’ll never see them again. And knowing what I photographed—what I endured to keep the film safe—I’m not about to give them away. The question is, did those two FBI agents want my pictures to take down the Consortium…or to protect it?
Danny died for this story. I was tortured for it. Someone has to be held responsible. I’ll be damned if I hand over the evidence. Not after everything and especially not to a couple of men who might be on the Consortium’s payroll.
This whole debacle has me thinking about Will Crawford. At least that’s the name he gave me.
Twelve years ago, I met a CIA operative during an intense three months in the Middle East. I was young and na?ve, on my first big assignment in a war zone. He was older. A man of the world, and I found him fascinating.
I was full of questions and soaked up Will’s clandestine lifestyle like a sponge. He even tried to recruit me, telling me I was a natural. But I was going to be a photographer, I had no desire to be a spy for the CIA.
I was in the Middle East chasing my dream. I wanted to make a name for myself as a serious photographer.
And I did. I did make a name for myself. I’ve flown all over the world. My pictures have been in every major news media on the planet. People may not know my name, but they’ve probably seen my work.
Will took me on a couple of excursions. Sometimes it helped with his cover if he wasn’t alone. And of course, I always had my camera to take pictures, which was less obvious than if he was alone snapping pictures.
At the time, I thought he was always so paranoid because he was CIA. He lied for a living, so it made sense he thought everyone else was a liar too.
He was constantly telling me things like:
“Remember, RJ, it’s the paranoid that survive.”
“It’s only paranoia if no one’s after you.”
“Sometimes being paranoid pays off.”
Maybe my time with him made me a little more paranoid too.
After the events in Venezuela, everything I learned from him keeps forcing its way back into my consciousness. The interview with the FBI only reinforced my belief that he may have been right…it is the paranoid who survive.
Will taught me a lot. I learned about situational awareness. He schooled me on how to move unseen. How to spot and shake a tail and the art of secrets. How to hide sensitive information or transfer information covertly.
He even made me a fake ID, giving me a cover identity to use when I was with him.
It was fun and exciting. An adventure. At the time, I didn’t realize his job was often life or death. I was only twenty, I hadn’t yet realized I was surrounded by people whose jobs were life or death.
Seeing the effects of war up close and personal, I grew up fast during that first time in the Middle East. By the time I got home, I was no longer the na?ve fresh-faced girl I’d once been. I’d learned the depth of evil the world was capable of.
After I returned to the States, I implemented some of Will’s tactics. I made my own fake identity the way he taught me. I chose a name not connected to me and told no one. I only used it once, much later…to rent a P.O. box ten miles away.
When the agent confirmed Danny and I were followed before we left the States, my paranoia spiked. Which is why, since I got home, whenever I drive, I use evasive measures. Watching my rearview mirrors, I twist, turn, and backtrack.
There are so many—the man in the suit, the Consortium, the FBI—intent on getting their hands on my pictures and Danny’s notes.
For now, it’s a waiting game. It could take three weeks or more for the film to travel from Venezuela to my P.O.
box. But once it arrives, all I have to do is retrieve and develop it.
Maybe then I can identify the man in the suit and the men responsible for killing Danny and taking me hostage.
Danny was only a reporter. It wouldn’t be hard to discredit him and his story.
And because he’s dead, he can no longer write it or defend himself.
They may have stolen his computer and notes, but they don’t know Danny was paranoid as well.
He had me mail that flash drive with my last envelope of film.
And what I caught on film won’t be as easy to deny, disregard, and ignore.
I don’t know what I’ll do with the pictures or with Danny’s story. I just know I need to finish what Danny started.
For both of us.