Forty-Three

Cofre del Tesoro, Colombia
April 2010

Michael drew heavy velvet drapes the color of Pepto-Bismol across windows, careful to sidestep the Victorian dollhouse that hugged the wall. Looking down, he had to laugh at the ridiculous picture his black lace-ups made next to the delicate structure. Like a giant, ready to conquer and destroy.

“Michael.”

He turned to see Christina in a nest of pink satin and lace. “No talking. It’s late.” He resettled the drapes and stepped away from the window, heading for the door.

As usual, the little girl ignored his brusque tone and curt words. “Can I see her?”

He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. Way past her bedtime. He shook his head, started to deny her, even though he knew he’d give in in the end.

“Please.” She looked at him, her dark hair plaited into a braid, the thick rope of it hung over her shoulder, her eyes too desperate to belong to a child. She was her father’s princess, locked away in a tower. In the two years he’d been her guard, Christina had never so much as spoken to another child. Her best friend lived on a scrap of paper he carried around in his pocket.

Caving, he pulled the picture out of his pocket and handed it to her. She took it, held it with both hands, smoothing her small fingers over the wrinkled paper. She smiled and looked up at him, expectantly. He sank into the pink brocade chair next to the bed and returned her smile. “Which one?”

She wanted him to tell her a story about Frankie when she was a little girl. Her smile deepened, her eyes drifting down to the picture in her hands. “The one about the bicycle.”

He should’ve known—it was her favorite. Settling in to the chair, he told the story about how when Frankie was eight, she’d ridden her bike off the roof of their house on a dare. He could still see her, black hair a wild tangle around her tanned face, sailing through the air. She’d landed horribly, banged up beneath her BMX racer, the neighbor boy who’d done the daring left standing on the porch, mouth hanging wide open.

“She was brave,” Christina said, her eyes eating up the sight of his baby sister trapped on paper.

“She was hard-headed. Never could walk away from a dare.” He felt the familiar tightening in his chest whenever he talked about his sister. He hadn’t seen her face to face in five years. Not since she was twelve. She was about to graduate high school, would be starting college in the fall. Starting a life he would never be a part of.

“Do you think she would’ve liked me?” Christina said, reluctantly handing the picture over.

He took it and stood, slipping it into his pocket. “I think the two of you would’ve been inseparable.”

She looked away from him, down at the hands resting quietly in her lap, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment before she spoke. “I wish—”

“Good night, Christina.” He wouldn’t let her finish the sentence. Never did. He knew what she wished; he wished the same thing.

Christina snuggled down into her nest of satin and smiled again but despite the lift of her mouth, she looked sad. “Good night, Michael.”

“Night,” he said, clicking off her lamp and closing the door.

He retrieved his satellite phone from his room and slipped outside, carrying it across the courtyard to an open field of grass surrounded by high walls. He dialed the number and listened to it ring, praying she had it set to vibrate like he’d instructed. There was only an hour difference between Colombia and Texas so it wasn’t so late that he’d wake her, but that meant that his aunt and uncle could still be awake. The official story—that he was presumed dead, rotting away in the Colombian jungle after his entire team, along with a small cadre of local police, had been ambushed by the Moreno cartel—was what they’d told what little family he had left. Frankie, grief stricken and unwilling to believe that he was dead, called the emergency number he’d given her before being deployed. Unable to let her go, he’d answered.

“Hold on,” she said by way of greeting. He heard her doing as he’d told her. Going into the bathroom, turning on the shower as cover noise to muffle their conversation. A few moments later, the soft hiss of running water droned out of the earpiece, then she was back. “Hi.”

She knew it was him. The number he’d called belonged to a prepaid cell only he had the number to. As soon as they finished talking, Frankie would destroy the phone and he’d use an anonymous courier to send her another via a PO box. She thought he was still in the military. That his death was faked for the sake of national security and these cloak-and-dagger maneuvers were to keep his location a secret from insurgents. She had no idea what he really was. That he killed people for money. That his likeness was splashed across wanted posters hung in countless agencies in over a half a dozen countries, or that there were entire task forces dedicated to hunting him down. She’d never even heard the words El Cartero. To her he was just Michael, her big brother.

“Hey, how’s my baby sister?” he said, hearing the smile in his voice as they settled into a familiar rhythm.

“Good. I got a job,” she said.

“A job?” For some reason the idea bothered him.

“I’ve been waitressing at the Wander Inn after school and on weekends. If I’m lucky, Mr. Onewolf will hire me full-time for the summer and keep me on for weekend shifts once I start MU in the fall.”

She was moving on. Growing up. He couldn’t help but feel like he was being left behind.

Michael frowned. “You don’t need a job.”

“Yes, I do. College isn’t cheap.”

“I told you I wanted to pay—”

“I’m not taking your money, Mikey,” she said, that hardheaded streak of hers coming out in full force. “No way is my brother risking life and limb to keep me in nail polish and fashion magazines.”

Michael thought of the thick bricks of cash he’d traded for bullets over the years. Millions. He had millions tucked away in off-shore accounts, and the only person he had to spend it on refused to take it. “You don’t read fashion magazines.”

She laughed; the sound of it so much like their mother’s that it cut him to the bone. “Maybe I do. I’m all grown up now—last time you saw me, I had scabby knees and braces.”

“You were beautiful.”

“And you were so obviously blind,” she said, the laughter dying in her voice. “You’re not coming to my graduation, are you? I’d really hoped you’d be there.”

“I can’t … ” It was an old conversation, one that never changed.

“I know, but I thought maybe … Stupid, huh?” She sounded hurt.

“Frankie—”

“I love them, you know? Aunt Gina and Uncle Tony. I’ll always be grateful for the way they took me in and raised me after mom and dad … ” She let her words trail off, unable to say it, like saying the word died was the same as killing them all over again. “But they aren’t my family—not the way you are. I miss my brother.”

He closed his eyes, picturing his petrified fourteen-year-old self holding baby Frankie when Sophia and Sean, his adoptive parents, first brought her home from the hospital so many years ago. He’d been so angry, so scared. But she just looked at him with complete trust in her dark-blue eyes. And now she was going to college. Jesus.

“I miss you too.”

“So come home.”

He wished things were that simple. Instead of saying what he always said—I can’t—he looked up. “Go to your window,” he said and listened to her comply.

“Okay,” she said.

“Do you see the moon?”

“Yes,” she said.

“So do I,” he said. “I see the same moon. We aren’t so far apart. I’m always with you.”

Her voice was wistful and sad. “I wish that were true.”

So did he. “Good night, Frankie. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said, and then she was gone.