Fifty-One
The room is tiny—barely twenty square feet—with the walls bare and fluorescent lights buzzing in the ceiling. No windows. No two-way mirror. Not even a camera in the corner to monitor what’s going on. Just a chair and me sitting on it, my hands behind my back, wrists bound by zip-ties.
When the door opens, an older man with gray hair looks in at me. He doesn’t enter. He glances at somebody standing off to the side, nods once, and that’s when she steps into view.
Imna Rodriguez.
She stares in at me for several seconds before stepping forward. The door closes behind her, and then it’s only the two of us.
The woman scans the room, searching for a camera or wire or something that might record our conversation, and when she’s satisfied there’s nothing, she takes two more steps and leans forward so she’s only a couple inches away.
She whispers, “Your family is dead.”
I say nothing. She frowns.
“Do you think I am lying? Your entire family has been murdered.”
Still I say nothing. Her eyes harden.
“The cartels sent a sicario to kill them. For what you did to Fernando Sanchez Morales. They demanded revenge.”
I keep staring back at her. Silent.
Imna Rodriguez leans away, shakes her head.
“You created quite a mess. What happened to the men you were with?”
I ignore the question and ask one of my own.
“How much is the cartel paying you?”
Her eyes harden again.
“You do not know what you are talking about.”
“The cartel has wanted Cortez eliminated for quite some time. That’s why they went after his son and his family. Did you know I was the one who killed Alejandro?”
“Of course. That was why you were chosen.”
I echo it: “Chosen.”
“That is correct. It made the most sense for you to be the one who pulled the trigger.”
“I was supposed to die back at the hotel, wasn’t I?”
The woman nods.
“That is correct. You were not supposed to live so you could tell your story.”
“But I am still alive.”
She nods again, and her face darkens.
“That is why I am here.”
She holds up her wrist, and the glass face of her watch glints in the fluorescents. She takes off the watch and opens the back, and she uses her fingernail to dig out a tiny white pill.
I say, “That’s not aspirin, is it? Because I have the mother of all headaches right now.”
She holds the pill up for me to see.
“It is not an aspirin, but it will take your headache away.”
I look past the pill, stare into her face.
“What is that supposed to do—kill me?”
She nods.
I say, “Now why the fuck would I want to kill myself?”
“Again, you were not supposed to live so you could tell your story. That is why I am here now. To ensure your story ends.”
I frown, tilt my head at her.
“No thanks, I’m good.”
She says, “Your family is dead. You have no one to protect anymore.”
I grin back at her.
“How does it taste, all the bullshit coming out of your mouth?”
She doesn’t look amused.
“Take the pill.”
I shake my head.
“Yeah, no thanks.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I will not ask you again.”
I close my eyes, issue a heavy breath.
“How about we work out a deal?”
“What deal?”
“You answer a question, and I’ll take your stupid pill.”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at me, so I take her silence as consent.
“Who is the cartel’s choice for president?”
The question catches her off guard.
“It does not matter. You do not know the man.”
I nod, like, Duh, of course.
“Yeah, you’re right. But maybe he does.”
That’s when the door opens again, and President Cortez steps into the room. His dark eyes burn into Imna. He doesn’t speak.
Imna moves at once—she is about the swallow the tiny white pill, but I spring up from the chair before the pill gets close to her mouth, the loose zip-ties around my wrists falling away, and I pluck the pill from her fingers and toss it in the corner of the room as I grab her arm with my other hand and shove her down into the chair.
Two FBI agents enter, and they quickly secure Imna Rodriguez. Not just her wrists, but her ankles as well, before they step back out into the hallway.
She glares up at President Cortez.
“You are a disgrace to our country.”
I step between the two of them.
“Well, ain’t you a peach?”
She doesn’t acknowledge me, staring through me.
I smile down at her.
“Did you really think the FBI was going to let you see the person who just supposedly assassinated your president, let alone talk to her privately?”
She says nothing.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I didn’t kill President Cortez. And my family? I know they’re alive because people I trust helped to keep them alive. The sicario you mentioned? He’s dead. And you, well, I imagine you’ll be returning to your country to spend the rest of your life in prison.”
I glance back at President Cortez.
“Is that a safe assumption?”
He doesn’t answer, staring through me at his aide.
I turn back to Imna.
“Now, I do have one more question for you, and I’d very much appreciate if you answered it. Where is Oliver Hayward’s operation located?”
Her gaze refocuses back on me.
“I will tell you nothing.”
I nod, slowly, holding her gaze.
“I’ll be honest with you, Imna. I’ve had a rough couple of days, and I’m exhausted. This is the last place I want to be right now. So we can either do this the easy way or the hard way. My choice? We do it the easy way. Much less stressful, and nobody gets hurt.”
She keeps glaring back at me, so I continue.
“President Cortez is certainly disappointed in you, but he knows you’ve had a hard life. I asked him about it while we were sitting out on the airfield. He told me about how your husband has cancer, and about your two children. About how the medical bills have been piling up. If the cartel is pressuring you in any way—such as threatening your kids—we can fix that. You’re still going to have
