Chapter 46
Forty-Six
HARPER ENTERED THE GALA with Deckard, who was in a tux, her arm through his. FBI was in place, ready for her signal.
Her heart thwacked in her chest so fast and hard that she feared the hostess taking her invitation would hear it, but she simply greeted them, and they moved through the line easily.
Classical music surrounded them as a large screen over the stage played a slideshow of photojournalists’ pictures of the region they worked in. They. Humph. Andres wasn’t part of they. He was part of the them.
He was a big part of the reason for all those mass graves filled with villagers whose voices ached to be heard. The faceless looking to be remembered.
He was the face of evil as he took the stage.
“Everyone . . .” He clinked his glass. “If you could find your tables, we’re about to begin dinner.”
An hour and a half of inane conversation praising Andres as a visionary and basically a saint made it beyond difficult to keep what little she ate of her meal down.
Finally, Andres moved back to the podium and the room applauded.
Had it been weeks earlier, she would have been among them, but she understood too much now, and there was no going back.
“Thank you, all,” Andres said with his usual level of modesty, though she wagered that was an act as well. “Tonight, we are gathering to remember and truly honor a passionate truth-seeker.” At least he got that part right. “Someone who . . .” He looked down and pinched the bridge of his nose.
She squeezed Deck’s hand. Was he seriously feigning tears? It took all the restraint in her not to go up and strangle the man, but his time was coming.
“I’ll let her stories speak for themselves.
. . .” He continued to feign sorrow, and she wondered if he even knew what that was.
But soon, from a locked cell far away, he’d truly know sorrow.
Perhaps the CIA would manage to get their hands on him and put him somewhere he’d never see the sun again.
It didn’t really work like that, or wasn’t supposed to for US citizens arrested on domestic soil, but she could dream.
The montage of Tracey’s stories played across the screen, her voice tugging Harper back to that rusted shipping container, but Deck’s hold on her hand kept her half in the present, and she was thankful.
Andres stood off to the side of the stage, gazing up at Tracey’s videos. And then it happened, and Harper couldn’t keep a smile from her face.
Tracey’s last video, filmed on-site in Syria. The one exposing Andres for the warmonger he was.
Confusion, then panic filled his face. “No, um. Stop. This isn’t the right video. Gabriel.” He scanned the room, likely for one of his men, but his gaze landed on her instead.
She smiled and held up the necklace.
He rushed forward, only to be restrained by the FBI as they raced from their positions, subduing Andres and his men who were loyal enough to remain. But in the end, they appeared to be very few.