Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(17)

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded.

“I was just thinking…wondering…um…”

Mal put his hand up. “Give her a break, man. She’s probably exhausted from driving all night and it’s legit to wonder how and why we can get in and get around Cuba so easily.”


She resisted the urge to smile at him, though she was begrudgingly grateful for the backup. And she seized on the excuse.

“Of course I am,” she said. “I know relations are normalizing and we’ve reopened an embassy and Americans can essentially travel there with ease, but of all countries to slip into undercover, it seems like a challenging one.”

“It’s really not,” Mal assured her. “Even before all this happened, Americans could get in for the right reasons. It’s Cubans they don’t want to let out.”

“And certain Americans they really don’t want to let in,” Chessie added, eyeing her brother.

“Obviously, I’d go if I could,” Gabe said. “But I trust Mal.” At her look, he added, “And you.”

Chessie could feel the blood drain from her head and pool in her stomach, the image of that flashing black listening device she’d found in the hotel room burned in her memory. Could he trust either of them?

“Clearances,” Mal repeated, bringing the subject back on topic. “Do you have them all lined up?”

Gabe tapped his sizable chest and puffed a breath. “I arranged this. Of course I have clearances. I have everything you need, but it is Cuba, so you will step into shit now and again. You’ll have to be nimble and ready to rock some new plans if things get dicey.”

Dicey. New plans. Nimble.

Not a single thing that felt comfortable to Chessie. She didn’t like dicey. New plans meant something had gone wrong with the old ones. And the only place she was nimble was on a keyboard.

“So, let me get this straight, Gabe,” she said, gathering her wits, because it appeared she needed every single one. “We’re going to a Communist country under false pretenses with fake names and a plan that’s written on toilet paper blowing in the wind.”

Gabe grinned. “Pretty much how I roll.”

She stared at her brother. “You know I don’t work like that. I need steps, dates, times, maps, codes, and detailed information. Preferably on a screen in front of me. In an office. In a country I’m welcome to visit. That’s pretty much how I roll.”

She could feel Mal’s ebony eyes again. “You’ve never done anything spontaneous, Chessie?” he asked.

She might kill him. Was that an option in this plan?

Was he trying to make her writhe in misery? The flashing-neon hickey on her neck wasn’t agonizing enough? “Spontaneity rarely works out well for me. Especially recently.”

They stared at each other for a second, just long enough for Chessie’s mouth to go bone dry and her heart rate to kick back up again. Did he have to be so freaking gorgeous? Did he have to undress her with his eyes and give just enough of a smile that she could remember everything that mouth did to her?

“Chessie, I know,” Gabe asked, making them both whip around to give him their attention. Here it comes, Chessie thought. Here it comes. We are so busted.

“What?” she asked, mustering innocence.

“I know you don’t want to do this. I know it’s not in your wheelhouse, Chess.” Gabe put his hand over hers. “But I need blood on the ground.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“You won’t shed any,” he assured her. “But you’re family. And this boy could be, too. I need to find out.”

She felt her eyes shutter in disgust at his use of the ultimate F-word, and the fact that he was essentially misreading her hesitation as fear. She wasn’t afraid of the field. She was just afraid of complications in the field.

On a sigh, she reached into her bag for the laptop sleeve like a baby grabbing a blankie.

“Family,” she muttered, thinking back to a few weeks ago when she’d last been here, helping Gabe hack a jump drive he’d stolen from the TV and radio station that broadcasted news from the States to Cuba.

The moment was still crystal clear in her memory: She’d located in the encrypted database a woman Gabe had been asking her to find, only to discover the word “deceased” next to her name.

Overcome by his emotions and unwilling to explain anything to Chessie, Gabe had left her the room, and Chessie had done what she always did in a crisis—look for more information to make sense of it. What she’d found didn’t make sense at all, except that it did. A boy named Gabriel left behind by a dead woman.

“So, we’re in Cuba,” she said, opening the computer. “We have our cover. We get past customs, security, and clearances. Then what?”

“You’ll start in a town about a three-and-a-half-hour drive from Havana. My best contact in Cuba told me to look for a Ramos family on a farm in Caibarién.”


While she typed the name into Google Earth, Mal snorted. “Caibarién? The town that time forgot.”

“You’ve been there?” Chessie asked.

“I’ve been all over Cuba,” he said.

“Which is why he’s the perfect person to be your partner for this job,” Gabe reminded her. “But he’s right. It might be waterfront, but Caibarién is a pretty sad place. Don’t expect palm trees, sunshine, or umbrella drinks. Just go to this farm and find out what you can. Get in and get out.”