Chapter 16
Christina
Rivera parks the SUV a block away from the Hydro Relief building, and we sit there together planning our strategy.
While he reads through my notebook, I look up Hydro Relief Inc.
on my cell phone. It’s definitely a subsidiary of REACH.
It says so on their corporate website. Something catches my interest. “It says they give tours between four and five.”
“Are you planning to wait around for that?”
“Yeah, why would I fabricate a pretense for being there when they’ll welcome me with both arms and happily show me around at the end of their workday?”
“Being assigned to protect you is starting to feel like the kind of hurry up and wait assignments I got in the fuckin’ military.”
I glance up at Slate’s best friend and ask, “So, you’re clearly an early bird gets the worm kind of person, right?”
“Yeah, I like to get up early and get shit done in the morning.”
We look at the sleek, modern building. The building sits at the far end of the block, its polished windows catching the sunlight. It looks totally harmless from here. Like a place that wants you to believe it has nothing to hide. And maybe it doesn’t. I won’t know until I snoop around.
The company’s logo is emblazoned across the front door. Everything seems like it’s on the up and up. This kind of perfection always puts me on edge because companies that provide humanitarian aid never look this pristine.
A fake press pass falls out of my notebook when Rivera turns another page. It’s not fake necessarily. It just doesn’t belong to me. I picked it up at an event once and forgot to turn it in at lost and found. It might be just what I need today to keep from giving my real name.
Rivera watches me from the driver’s side, brow furrowed. He’s been uneasy since the moment I suggested this trip.
“You should call Slate and tell him what you’re up to.”
“You must be joking. Why would I ever do such a thing?”
“Look, I’ve seen what can happen when civilians get in over their heads. They get mangled, like meat. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.” I tell him with barely an ounce of hesitation. “We need to run down all the leads. This might be our only chance. Slate’s out there handling his lead. I can handle mine.”
His jaw tightens. “When the time comes, be quick about your business. Get in, gather what you can and get out.”
“Asking probing questions is part of being an investigative journalist.”
“Fine. Ask your questions and then you walk back out that door and we leave. Understand?”
I nod. “Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing. If you remember, I used to be very good at my job. I could be again.”
He gives me a shaky nod. “I’ll go in with you but hang back. Maybe I can hang out in the lobby while you do the tour. If anything feels off, you walk straight back to me. Slate will kill me if anything happens to you.”
Personally, I don’t think Slate is my biggest fan right now, but I don’t get into all that with Rivera.
We talk for a bit, get food, and time drags on.
I spend most of it working on my book, adding things I just remembered.
I even catch a quick nap while Rivera does his protector thing.
Finally, it approaches four in the afternoon.
When I reach for the door handle, he quickly tells me, “If anything feels off, we abort the mission.”
“Agreed. Let’s get moving.”
He doesn’t look satisfied, but he unlocks the doors with his key fob.
I step out of the car, a strange mixture of excitement and anxiety twisting in my gut.
I’d be stupid to feel no fear. There is a tiny chance this could be dangerous after all.
But I also feel like I’m getting my mojo back.
I’m feeling a drive to get to the bottom of this.
I want Slate to see that I can pull my own weight, that I can be part of the solution and not just a problem. I want him to look at me as an asset, not a liability.
I want to be the strong, confident woman he fell for, not the scared person I became.
When we enter, the lobby is bright white from the ceiling to the floor to the walls. Soft instrumental music drifts from hidden speakers. A reception desk sits in front of a frosted glass partition etched with delicate waves. It’s clearly a nod to the company’s water purification mission.
When Rivera wanders off to look at the art hanging on the wall, I tuck my hair behind my ears and approach the desk.
The young woman behind the reception desk has neat nails and a sweet demeanor. She doesn’t smile, but I can tell she really wants to.
“Welcome to Hydro Relief. How can I help you?”
I force myself to relax, smile and step into the role.
“Good morning. I’m Lena Morris.” My voice sounds confident, even to my own ears.
“I’m with a local mutual aid group. We’re considering partnering with Hydro Relief for next year’s outreach program.
I saw on your website that you give facility tours and was hoping to take one if anyone is available. ”
The receptionist hesitates. Her fingers hover above her keyboard. “We offer tours for walk-ins every weekday Monday through Friday at four PM sharp.”
“I am really excited to see what your company has to offer,” I say brightly.
Her face finally lights up with that smile she’s been suppressing. “I’ll call and let our HR department know you’re here.”
It makes sense that HR would conduct the tour. Their job is to cultivate a good public image after all.
“Do you have identification?”
I hand her the alias ID with a steady hand. She scans it and enters the name into the system. The digital log asks for a reason for the visit. She types in ‘potential customer’.
A printer hums under the desk. A paper badge slides out with my alias printed across it in neat black letters. The clearance strip is red, limited access only. Perfect.
She offers it to me with a polite nod. “Please wear this on you at all times while inside the facility. Someone will be with you shortly.”
I pin it to my shirt and take a deep breath. So far, so good. Rivera stands near the entrance, hands in his jacket pockets, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. He gives me a slight nod. It’s a silent reminder. He’s here and looking out for me.
He doesn’t move from his spot, and I don’t blame him.
The man is doing what Slate asked him to do.
Guard me and protect me, to the best of his abilities.
Unfortunately, I need more than protection.
I need answers and to be the kind of person who helps solve problems instead of the kind of person who hides from them.
A door on the left opens and a man in a navy suit wearing a Hydro Relief badge steps out. Everything about this man screams middle management. Neat shirt, tired eyes. He introduces himself as Mr. Hanley and reaches for my hand with a firm grip.
“Ms. Morris? I can spare fifteen minutes if that works for you.”
“That’s perfect,” I say.
I see in my peripheral vision that Rivera’s gaze follows me as I walk with Hanley down the bright white corridor. I keep my chin up, my breath steady, and my mind sharp. I’m here for a reason. And I intend to find it.
Hanley leads me down a polished hallway lined with framed photos of disaster relief efforts. There are smiling volunteers, clean water stations and tents with Hydro Relief banners in front of devastated landscapes. The images are curated for comfort, meant to paint the company as heroic.
I keep my steps even with Hanley and pay attention as he runs through the basics of what his company does. He talks about natural springs, shipping volume, and regional partners. He speaks with a practiced tone and seems to know what he’s talking about.
We reach a viewing window overlooking what looks like a clean room.
It’s set up on a wide warehouse floor. Rows of metal shelves hold boxes stacked in neat rows.
Workers in reflective vests scan barcodes and seal crates.
Everything looks efficient and the floors are clean enough to eat off.
I watch a conveyor belt carrying small water filtration kits, the same brand I saw in Kabul years ago.
The sight gives me a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach.
It seems almost like a reminder of something buried in the dark recesses of my memory.
“We handle most of our regional distribution here,” Hanley explains, pivoting easily from one point to the next. “Emergency supplies, sanitation units, and filtration systems can be packed together or individually. When disaster strikes, we can mobilize within hours.”
I nod, trying to look impressed instead of suspicious. “That’s an impressive response time. Do you coordinate with overseas teams too?”
He hesitates half a beat before answering. “Only on the logistics side. Field operations are handled through contracts we don’t manage out of this site. This facility focuses on domestic distribution only.”
His tone stays pleasant but guarded. I recognize the tone. It’s the one people use when they’re not telling the whole story.
We move towards a small operations room where desks line the walls.
A young woman stands near a whiteboard with a bunch of acronyms and numbers scribbled across it.
One column catches my eye. There is a repeated phrase—central dispatch.
The words pull up a memory, something from Kabul I wondered about before everything went dark.
I step closer as though I am just curious. “Is that shipping coordination?”
Hanley shifts subtly to block my view. “It’s internal coding, nothing relevant to the tour.”