Reckless
Authors: Samantha Love
Copyright © 2015 Samantha Love
All Rights Reserved
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Prologue
Drum . . .
Drum . . .
Drum . . .
Studying me with the intensity of all bosses who regard themselves as corner-office deities, Henry Bailey’s fingers tap across the oak table. Beyond him, past a thick pane of glass, pinewood trees trace the periphery of Langley.
“If it was up to me, I wouldn’t give you this assignment,” he says. “Others have recommended you, and it is their judgment to which I am deferring.”
His voice is stern and cold and prickish. His Yale diplomas flank both walls, and a distinguished alumnus clock with two golden pens rests on the center of his desk. Straightening his Windsor-knotted tie, he waits for my reaction.
“Others? Who?”
I can’t imagine who would recommend me for such an assignment. Five years of domestic undercover work with the DEA followed by a couple of years in the CIA hardly qualifies me for an assignment of this magnitude.
“I don’t know how long you’ll be gone,” he says, ignoring my question. “Nor can I ensure your safety.”
“I understand.”
A drawer opens. A manila folder is placed on the table; the front cover flips open.
“Very well, Ms. Hill. The target is Diego Martinez, international drug producer and distributer of cocaine. While we don’t know the exact numbers, our sources indicate he runs no less than the second or third largest operation in the world.”
A picture of the target slides in front of me.
My eyes go wide.
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Bailey groans. “I hear he’s very easy on the eyes.”
Mr. Bailey turns the picture face down. “But he’s also a ruthless psychopath. Last April he murdered his then six-month pregnant girlfriend.”
“How?”
“Car bombing. Real nice, eh?”
Additional pictures are presented: cocaine fields, various mansions, mistresses, associates. Names and locations are rattled off. I repeat them in my mind, memorizing the words and the pictures they go with.
“And my role?”
He closes the folder and clasps his hands together. “You’re to date him.”
I stifle a laugh. “Date him?”
“You’re to gain his trust, get inside his compound, gather evidence against him. You’ll wear a wire, get him talking . . .” Mr. Bailey makes circular motions with his hand. “You’ll use your imagination to get the job done. Same as with all undercover work. We have a recon team already in place. Tomorrow, Diego will be in Cusco, Peru, for a gala put on to raise money for needy Peruvians in the rural Andes. It’s a PR stunt typical of drug lords. Pablo mastered it. Now everyone else follows along.”
I now understand Mr. Bailey’s reluctance. This isn’t a typical sting operation or a low-level drug bust. I’ve spent my career nabbing idiots with muscles and attitudes. Diego may be many things, but idiot is not one of them. No one gets to his level in the drug trade without being shrewd and cunning.
“How do you know he’ll date me?”
Gesturing at me, he says, “He likes American blondes. Natural blondes. Don’t ask me how, but supposedly he can tell the difference, and he has quite the pet peeve for dyed hair. Our plan is to have you act as a cocktail waitress. You’ll serve Diego, flirt with him, and see where it goes. We have someone on the team who will give you a makeover, as well.” He quickly adds, “Not that I’m insinuating you need a makeover, Ms. Hill.”
Me? No, of course not. Let’s see. For the last two years, I’ve been freezing my ass off in Western Canada posing as a wholesale cannabis distributor. During my time with the DEA, I worked in Miami pretending to be a speed-addicted dealer making contacts with alligator-wrestling meth manufacturers. Before that, I was a backwoods hillbilly locating Kentucky’s largest cannabis growers. Oh, and I can’t forget my humble beginnings with the NYPD as a street prostitute. The only time I’ve worn a dress in the field was that time I bumbled my way through pretending to be a socialite taking up the heroin trade. A couple of bullets were fired at me and I almost died, but otherwise things went just peachy.
My childhood was no better. Sure, I was a Georgia girl growing up in Athens, but there was no debutantes or junior cotillions for me. I shot grouses and snipes, skinned deer and turkey. When I was fourteen, I bagged Clarke County’s third largest bass of the summer. In high school, I wore muck boots and camo jackets the way prepsters in LA flaunt Gucci and Louis Vuitton.
Reel in Diego Martinez?
I have my doubts.
“And if he doesn’t respond?”
“With that confidence, how could he not?” Mr. Bailey chuckles. “Actually, he likes the meek and mild. Pretend you’re a lady in distress and he’ll bite. If not, we have other plans in place.”
“If you know where he’s going to be, why don’t you just send a drone strike to take him out? Wouldn’t that be a better use of the American tax dollar? Why all this complicated courting?”
Mr. Bailey lets out a sigh so deep it’s more of a groan. “Oh, wouldn’t I like to. Those were the days. All you needed before was a target and a location. And BAM! No more target.” His palm slams against the desk, rattling the pens. “But not anymore. I’ve got Congress up my ass, Amnesty International and a dozen other watch groups documenting our every move. Edward Snowden is yapping from Russia as if he’s Internet’s Gandhi, lawyers are filing suits on behalf of Gitmo detainees. The cowboy days are over. We need a suspect in court with hard evidence.”
I know I’m supposed to keep my back straight, my eyes on Mr. Bailey, and all that other jazz exhuming confidence, but I find myself slouching in the chair as I try to imagine myself winning the affection of a guy like Diego. I can barely get a second date from your average guy on OkCupid, let alone woo a man handsome enough to grace the cover of GQ.
“It’s a lot to ask,” Mr. Bailey says as if sensing my doubt. “If you don’t want to go, I perfectly understand. I won’t think any less of you. There’s plenty of other international work to be done, and I have an alternate agent who’s willing to go.”
“I was just worried about the language barrier. I haven’t spoken a lick of Spanish since high school.”
Mr. Bailey nods. “Fluency in Spanish was a requirement I had listed for the assignment. That’s one of the main reasons I was so surprised when your name came up. But I wouldn’t worry too much. The recon team is fluent in Spanish and Diego speaks English very well. Who knows? Maybe your lack of Spanish will help make you seem more authentic.”
Perhaps. I hear myself agreeing to the assignment, nevertheless. I need this one. I have to get away. When you’re running, locations don’t matter, and in this game, hazard is a given.
Another folder is presented.
“Inside there’s a passport, an airline ticket, and cash. You’ll be going by the alias Caroline Davis. Any other questions?”
“When do I leave?”
“Right now, Ms. Hill. Your luggage has already been packed.”
1
I stare out of the window.
There’s nothing to see. Cloud, cloud, cloud, speck of blue, cloud, cloud, cloud. They’re so thick I pretend the plane is soaring through cotton candy.
I can’t understand the fear of flying. To me, there’s something inexplicably freeing about the act, however unnatural it may be. It’s the same as escaping deep into the woods where there’s nothing around you except the crackle of falling branches and the call of some hidden Aves chirping from afar.
I want to lose myself in the book resting on my lap, but every time I open the page, the words blur and my mind drifts elsewhere.
Meditating on the gentle hum of the jet engines and the rushing
swoosh
of the AC, I struggle to keep my eyes on the wisps of cotton balls sweeping past the window. I blink several times, and after each successive blink my eyes stay shut a little longer.
I remind myself to stay alert.
This isn’t an assignment to be careless with. SWAT isn’t going to show up if I foil a line. The cavalry will be far away and this Diego guy hasn’t gotten to where he is by being careless, either. Bailey failed to mention how many policía Diego’s killed.
I imagine it’s a lot.
My morbid thoughts have my mind wandering. I can’t think of death without reflecting on dad. “Prostate Cancer with bone metastasis and skeletal involvement,” the doctor said gravely. One-year survival rate: forty percent. Five-year survival rate: don’t ask. Where were the walks and wristbands for his disease? Where were the federal funds or the President and celebrities taking to the cameras with their grandstanding vows to end prostate cancer? Where were my dad’s unified-colored ribbons and balloons blanketing the country with vociferous awareness when he shrunk to bones and limbs and clumps of malignant cells?
Was his fight a second-class death?
Spite has me alert. My hands clench onto the ends of the armrest, blanching my knuckles. My eyes widen and fill with mist. I envision the nurses, the first to greet me at the ward like an officer halting parents from witnessing the gory scene of their child’s flipped-over vehicle, pandering their nonsense about new treatments and maintaining a “positive attitude”.
“We’re very hopeful,” they’d lie as if I didn’t have access to the Web’s brutal candor. “We still have time on our side.”
Time
.
In the wonderful world of tumors, time moves in another dimension. It isn’t charted by days or months or years. Cancer stages, biopsy results, prostate-specific antigen levels, digital rectal exams, cystoscopy, CAT scans, and MRIs all coalesce to give you the only time that matters—life expectancy. Stage V? Better call the kids and tell them you love them. Those bad-boy cells are dividing faster than a red-eye out of LAX.
And when it’s all over, when those amorphous giants have spread through bone and blood and brain, and there’s nothing left but the steady dial tone of death’s carol singing on the heart monitor and the solemn we-did-everything-we-could expressions from the doctors—then the surviving family enters a new time zone, one filled with second guesses and what ifs and if onlys and should haves and should ofs and why didn’t I do or say this or say that, but alas, there’s no more time, only the crisp white sheet drawn over the deceased like the pancake clouds before me.
“Are you okay, miss?”
I turn toward the voice beside me. The man’s tawny skin suggests he’s heading home and from his ragged plaid shirt, I wouldn’t be surprised if this is his first trip on an airplane. His eyes are soft with concern.
