Paul’s phone rings, taking some of the tension from the room. “We have a hit. We should get moving.”
***
Savannah
I shake the entire drive to the Washington base. Agent Hahn is friendly, but I just want to stay in my zone, turned off, not answering questions about the weather. We really have nothing in common. I think of Sue, wondering if I should call her just to hear her voice…but that’s not the voice I really want to hear.
“Hello again, Savannah.” Frank smiles as he greets me at the car. “Please come inside.” He hands me a visitor badge and leads me into a large gray building where everything is muted, from the color of the walls to the people’s clothing and even their voices. “This is my office. Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee would be great, thanks,” I say in a quiet voice to fit the surroundings, then take a seat across from his dull metal desk littered with papers. On the wall are a few pictures of a younger version of Frank starting out in the Army, and two others with President Obama and former President Bush. Medals hang in wooden boxes, and an old-fashioned rifle sits in the corner as though waiting to be mounted. He probably never got around to doing it. He hands me a coffee before he takes a seat. “Thank you.”
Flipping open a file, he gets right to it. “So you were first taken from your condo in New York by a Raul Paru.”
“Please jump right in,” I mutter, taken aback. “I don’t know who Raul Paru even is.” Frank hands me a picture, and it takes me a minute, but then I see it, and the memory comes flooding back. My cut leg, the cold, thick substance which later I found out was blood, and the smell in the van. “The painters? These guys were painting my condo the week I was taken. I remember his belt buckle,” I say as I press my finger against the buckle in the photo. I'll never forget that longhorn Texas belt buckle.
“Yes, they were scoping out the place, watching you, learning your habits.”
I hand the picture back and remember Lynn making a comment about how you can buy those belt buckles on any street corner. I feel the wind being sucked out of me. That bitch! I can’t believe she knew what they were doing because she fucking hired them! I wonder how many other times I ran into people she had hired to help take me out.
Frank and I go over all the details of my file, and I am pretty much fried by the time I am taken back to my hotel by Agent Hahn, who is staying with me. I am thankful for the two bedroom suite. He offers to order dinner for both of us, but I decline, just wanting to get some sleep. Tomorrow Frank has me meeting some lawyers, and I want to be able to stay awake for all the legal talk that’s to come.
***
The day is a blur much like the first. I am taken into a conference room and questioned for about four hours on practically the same things, only worded differently. They give me so much advice I almost forget my own name. I'm not sure if I am coming or going. Finally, after I am about to throw in the towel, they inform me that I am to wear a simple black dress with heels, and wear my hair down with no jewelry. I reach for my chain and hold it tightly, and one of the women agrees it is fine, but nothing more. They don’t want me looking too flashy. I don’t understand why, but I'm beyond caring. I just need to get through tomorrow, and then I can get back to my mountain.
“You want something to eat?” Agent Hahn asks as we walk back to the hotel. I shake my head. “How about a drink?” I look up to see him smiling. “I could really use a drink after that.”
“That sounds really good, actually.” I smile back and follow him to a small Mexican restaurant.
“Umm,” I point to the sign, “not to be a pain, but can we get anything else but Mexican food?”
Agent Hahn chuckles a little, then points across the street to an Italian joint. “Is that better?”
“Much, thanks.” I follow him to the crosswalk. We take a seat in the corner of the restaurant and are soon sipping a glass of merlot.
“How are you holding up?” he asks, picking up a piece of bread, dipping it in some oil and vinegar, and popping in it his mouth.
I shrug because I really don’t know. “Ask me tomorrow.”
He chuckles but grows quiet, thinking. “Do you know who I am?”
My fingers twist the stem of the glass, making the wine run up the sides then bleed back down, leaving heavy lines. “No, but if you’re about to tell me you work for The American or the Cartels at least give me a five minute head start.”
“Ha!” He tosses his head back. “No, hell no. I was the one who found Logan the day he escaped.”