Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(74)

“Her name is Alana Cevallos.”

Alana Cevallos? Chessie dropped right back again, shocked. She closed her eyes to take it in and opened them to see Mal looking just as shocked. No, worried.

“Se?or Ramos,” he said, getting closer to the man. “This visitor you had. CIA. Thinning hair. Blue eyes? Marks on his face?” He touched his cheeks. “’Bout this tall?”

Ramos nodded. “And he knew Alana’s name. Asked if she was with you.”

Mal muttered a soft curse and turned to Chessie. “It’s Roger Drummand, the guy who’s after me. We have to go to her tonight. Now. Before he does.”

“Okay.” Chessie lifted the little sleeping girl back onto her makeshift bed.

Gabrielita moaned, and her eyes fluttered open. “Mamá,” she whispered, holding her arms out. “Mamá.”

“Shhh,” Chessie patted her back.

“Her mama is gone,” Ramos said. “And her father, too.”

“Your daughter told me,” Chessie said.

“If the government finds her here, they will take her. This is why…” He held out his hands. “I do this.”

“God bless you for it,” Chessie murmured.

“We have to leave now,” Mal said. “We have very little time to drive to the town where she lives. It will take hours, maybe all night on back roads.”

“Your vehicle is…” Ramos shook his head. “No bueno.”

“No kidding,” Chessie said. “Do you have a better one we can borrow?”

“Something that can get us there fast,” Mal added.

Ramos considered that for a moment, then gestured for them to follow him.

He rushed them back to their car, where they got their bags, then hustled them through the darkness, walking a good seven or eight minutes without saying a word.

Finally, they came to a large stand-alone garage, and as Ramos worked the lock on the oversize pull-up door, Chessie stepped closer to him.

“Se?or Ramos,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Can we offer you some money for this?”

He shook his head, his eyes flashing negative. “No, no. This is for Rafael.” He smiled at Chessie and touched her cheek. “He is your blood.”

Impulsively, she hugged him. “Kiss Gabrielita for me. Tell her I will be back.”

He gave a sad smile, probably because she might not be able to keep that promise, and yanked open the garage door. Inside, he flipped a switch that cast a harsh yellow light over the whole area. “Can you fly, se?or?” Ramos asked Mal.

Chessie stared at the propeller biplane crop duster not a whole lot bigger than the Prefect.

“Well enough,” Mal replied.

Chessie let the words echo in her head as she walked into the homemade hangar without hesitation. When she reached the plane, she realized it was even older than she’d thought, and her seat would be tiny, in front of the controls, which consisted of a joystick that looked older than Nino. No roof, no windows, no helmet, just frayed seat belts and some ancient dials behind filthy, cracked glass.

When she looked over her shoulder at Mal, she caught Ramos handing him a pistol and waited for an expected wave of worry or even fear over this latest turn of events on her rookie mission. This was not in the plan.

But no worry or fear came. Screw plans. She was nothing but ready now.





Chapter Twenty-four





Alana Cevallos locked the last file drawer, put her computer to sleep, and turned off the lights of the tiny office in Guantanamo Bay, as she had every weeknight for almost ten years.

She went through her checklist once again, forcing herself to think only in English, no matter how exhausted the long day had left her. After a decade of working in high-level administration at the American owned and operated prison that had, over its lifetime, gone from a tent shelter for Haitians to the home for the most dangerous prisoners, she spoke perfect English, but often slipped into her native Spanish when she was tired.

And after an eleven-hour day, much of it spent staring at spreadsheets, she was bone tired. At least there hadn’t been any crises on the home front.

She checked her phone again to see if there were any new messages from her mother, but things had been quiet for the last few hours. Mamá, who’d finally mastered the art of texting and used the phone that the US government provided all of the local Gitmo employees, would have texted if anything were happening with her children.

But, at twelve, Maria was as much in charge as her abuela when it came to watching out for the littler ones. Alana had weathered the worst storms in their younger years and kept this position as a secretary to the director, one of the best jobs in the entire country. For the first time in many years, Alana felt something very few Cubans ever experienced: security.


Of course, the prison would close eventually. At least, that’s what the rumors were. There were only about a hundred detainees left, and most guests were attorneys trying to work out the details of their release.

The president of the United States had sworn that Guantanamo Bay had outlived its usefulness, but now with everything changing in Cuba, who knew?

What she did know was that she had a little bit of money, healthy children, a helpful mother, and a home that had been in her family for several generations. She was a widow now and had accepted that.