Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(53)
She inched closer. “I do.”
“They get overlooked, ignored, wasted, lost, and, ultimately, indoctrinated into a system that shows no mercy and gives no hope.” He threw her a look. “Take it from me, that’s no way to live.”
His voice was low and dark and honest. “And you know that because of those forty-two addresses in thirty-eight years?”
“What happened to me was different, but yeah,” he said. “These kids who have a whole political system to fight.”
“But the result is the same, a life of constant upheaval and uncertainty.”
He nodded. “Makes for a good spy.”
“But you’re not a spy anymore.”
He tossed her a quick look, a warning in his dark eyes. “Don’t we have a rule against intimate revelations about our past?”
She sighed. “I can’t help wanting to know about you,” she admitted. “I mean, that’s how people get to be good partners in the field, right?” And in life, she added silently.
“You’re good,” he said. “Very good.” The compliment warmed her, but then he nodded and pointed ahead. “There’s a huge Poinciana and a dirt road. I think we’ve found the farm.”
The tree, true to its nickname, flamed bright orange with blooms twenty feet in the air.
“Wow, that’s a pretty tree. Like a great big explosion of hope.” She put her hand on her chest, feeling it. “And I hope my nephew is at the end of this road.”
“Yeah,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he turned onto the road. “But let’s lose the documentary cover on this call.”
“What?” She whipped around to face him. “How can we do that? We don’t have another cover. Who do we say we are or why we’re here?”
He put a hand on her arm. “Contingency, Francesca. They’ll never let us bring cameras in here if this place is what I think it is. We’re…teachers. Just like the little girl said. American teachers doing research or looking for a chance to help them. They should respond to that. We’ll offer cash. And gifts. And…”
“Hope,” she supplied.
“That’s your department.”
The Prefect sputtered over the rocky path—there was no way it could be technically called a road—taking them through more lush foliage. Luscious, sweet scents of pineapple and mango floated through the open window, hanging on still, tropical air.
They followed the dirt road until it turned and ended at a cluster of four or five structures, a mix of wood and stucco, surrounded by a few goats, at least ten chickens, and one mangy-looking dog.
As Mal drove closer to the buildings, Chessie checked her bag again. She’d brought money, of course, and candy. Some children’s books in Spanish, pens and pencils, a few bars of soap and shampoo, and hair brushes. All gifts that she hoped would gain her access and the trust of the whole Ramos family.
“Whoa.”
Chessie looked up at the note in Mal’s voice, following his gaze to see four men—well, three teenagers and a grown man—emerge from what looked like a barn, standing side by side like a human wall. The man held a rifle pointed directly at the car.
“Whoa is right,” Chessie murmured, shifting in her seat. “Quite the welcoming committee.”
The older man made no effort to lower his rifle when Mal brought the car to a stop about forty feet away. “Stay here until I call to you,” he said, opening the door. “Keys are in the ignition if you have to take off.”
If she had to take off? She felt her eyes pop, but he reached over and touched her cheek in a lightning-flash move of reassurance. “If I point my finger straight in the air, that’s your signal. Don’t question it, just leave.”
“O-okay.” Although, deep inside, she doubted she’d have the nerve to just leave him here. So she watched him get out of the car and prayed she wouldn’t have to make that choice.
Her throat went dry and her fingers curled around the cracked leather edge of the front seat, her heart beating fast. The windows were open, but the only sounds she heard were the distant cry of a child and the bleat of a goat.
Mal held his hands up, moved slowly, and spoke in Spanish.
She didn’t understand the words, but she understood body language. Mal’s open and friendly. The men? Not so much.
The fight-or-flight flutters collided in her, leaving chills in their wake and a sudden itching to grab her computer and find a solution.
But there was no database that could get them out of this. Just words, gifts, actions, and hope. No wonder Gabe hadn’t wanted her to come here and do this alone.
The man with the rifle spoke the most, unintelligible Spanish. Mal replied, his voice low and steady. She picked up very few words, but did hear maestra. Teacher. And he pointed to Chessie, making all eyes zero in on her.
Rifle Man came closer to Mal and said something under his breath. Mal replied. And Rifle Man’s entire body language changed as he put a hand on Mal’s back and both of them started walking toward her.
“You can get out now, Elizabeth,” Mal said, reminding her that they should use their fake names. “And bring your computer. And the bag of gifts.”
Chessie gathered what she needed, and suddenly the passenger door was opened for her by one of the boys, who grabbed everything she had in her hands and started running.