The Gambit (47 page)

I put on my pea coat and gathered my belongings. The writing staff would be here late tonight. After the pandemonium in Miami, it had to be the cover story. The footage of the Hummer slamming into the Tahoe replayed in my mind over and over. Owen got away by the skin of his teeth. If those bikes wouldn’t have weaved around each other, he would have been caught again. Even those watching like myself lost track of which bike he was on.

It was a relief, because I knew when I saw Owen being transported from the airport that they would go after Rachel next. When he was still at large, he was the first target. Not her. I doubted I would be able to get any real sleep tonight worrying about them. I promised Emilio when Rachel was born that if anything were ever to happen to him, I would take care of her like she was my own child. I couldn’t fall back on my promise. A glare caught my eye.

I turned back around to see the sun dipping below the horizon, obscured by the towering buildings of Manhattan. The rays of light were fragmented and illuminated the office in spots.

“Everyone,” I began in an assertive tone. “I told you once, but I’ll tell you again.
Any
calls, faxes, emails—anything regarding Owen—gets directed to my office. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I headed towards the elevator and pressed the button to go down. My stomach fluttered as it sped thirty-eight stories down to the P1 parking level.

My phone vibrated. It was ringing.

Home

I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, Son. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, are you on your way home?”

“About to be,” I answered and unlocked my car.

“I can’t believe he got away…”

“Shit, you’re telling me.”

There was a pause.

“Has you-know-who called?”

“No, she hasn’t. I just hope she’s safe…”

Grey stretched his arms out, emitting a drawn-out yawn. We cruised slowly down the coastal highway, and I gazed out at the ocean on my right. I wished I could have held on to that feeling of peace it gave me. Worry always crept back into my mind.

We had been driving for a little over three hours, and so far we hadn’t run into any problems. Briana was smart for renting the Charger, it looked like an undercover cop car. I wasn’t sure if that was the motive, because none of us had talked the entire time besides Rachel. She spoke up to direct us from time to time. My body ached all over. While she was cleaning me, Rachel had expressed concern that I might have a concussion, but my head felt fine. Most of my pain was elsewhere. I didn’t know which hurt worse, my physical pain, or the pain I felt inside. In times like these I wished I could have just talked to my mother again. Her advice was always golden. Although, in a situation like this, it might not have helped—but it still would have comforted me.

Twenty minutes ago, Rachel made us stop in Melbourne Beach. She intended on staying the night at her moms, but as we neared the street she lived on, we saw a suspicious looking SUV outside of her house. It looked like a cop. We drove past at a steady speed, acting nonchalant. Luckily, whoever it was, didn’t follow.

Rachel’s aunt, or
tía,
as she called her, lived in an oceanfront house in Cocoa Beach. She was certain that the FBI would not be able to trace her mother to her aunt because she wasn’t related by blood. Her aunt married into the family, and she had divorced Rachel’s blood-uncle years ago.

“Right here,” Rachel said, pointing to a coral-colored house on the ocean. It had the same, clay-tiled roof I had seen all over Florida. We pulled into the driveway and Briana shut off the car. No one opened the doors. Rachel glanced around at everyone.

“What are you waiting for?”

“You,” Grey answered dryly.

“Come on, my
tía
is cool.”

We stepped out, and everybody began the awkward stretching. We didn’t take any pit-stops along the way, and my muscles were cramped. The night was cool and temperate. The breeze tickled the cuts along my hairline, soothing the heat of the healing wounds. Grey and Briana were still wearing the garb of
Rose
and
Gregory
, and Rachel and I were wearing our disguises. Sadly, I had begun to get used to the bleach-blond. I was tired of trying to be someone other than myself. I spotted an aloe plant growing beside the path of large stone tiles that led to the front door. Palm trees dotted the yard. Rachel rang the doorbell. We hung around behind her. I heard some movement from inside, and the door swung opened. A pudgy woman with shoulder-length black hair answered. Her eyes bulged as she stared at Rachel. Then, she glanced at me.

“Rachel,
ay Dios mio
, come in!” she waved her hands and ushered us in, mumbling things in Spanish. “
Marta, vengase!”
the moment Rachel heard the name
Marta, her eyes began to water.

“
Ma!”
she shouted. Her voice echoed. I tilted my head back to take in the vaulted ceilings. Rachel’s family was well-off. Maybe Emilio wasn’t the only successful one in the family. A woman came barreling around the corner, skidding on the tile in a pair of fuzzy slippers. She ran into Rachel with open arms. They both began to bawl.

“
Ay, mi hija, mi amor, gracias á Dios!”
She smoothed the back of Rachel’s hair with her hand, holding her daughter tight. “I was so worried about you,
mija
!
Te amo, te amo para siempre
.” Her hiccupping cries almost made
me
tear up. I wished I could have held my mother again. If only…

“I love you too, Mom. I love you so much.” Rachel pulled her mother tighter. From my angle, Rachel’s mom was facing me. Her hair was long and the same, walnut-brown color as Rachel’s, except hers was partially gray. She was attractive, too. She let go of Rachel but still held her hands. She rubbed them lovingly with her thumbs and looked her up and down. There were subtle wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but regardless, I now knew where Rachel got her looks. Her eyes darted and met mine. Her nostrils flared, and she scowled.

“Is
he
the reason you’re in so much trouble? Why would you go along with him,
mija?
What in the hell got into you?”

I felt my face turn red. Even though I was a few years older than Rachel, I was still just as embarrassed to meet her mom, especially under these circumstances. It was not every day a girl brought home the most wanted criminal in the United States. What a great impression.

“Mom, I can explain everything. Just sit down somewhere. We will explain everything.”

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to look somewhat groomed. It wasn’t like I’d have any luck after the kind of day I had. I stretched my hand out in an effort to introduce myself.

“Owen Marina,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Flores.”

She hesitantly held out her hand, but drew it back at the last second. She grimaced from my presence. “Mom, Owen is innocent. I will explain everything, I promise.” Her mom cocked her head to the side, staring at Rachel as if she was insane. She then turned back to me and revealed a forced smile. She gently placed her hand in mine, and I shook it.

“I’m not Mrs. Flores anymore, but you can still call me that. I will always be a Flores because of my daughter.”

“She’s the only reason I made it this far. I owe your daughter my life.”

She nodded, not knowing how to respond. She hadn’t the slightest clue of our struggle.

She looked me up and down, turned to Rachel, and held a cupped hand beside her mouth. “
Que guapo, no?”
Rachel giggled and nodded.

Guapo
—wasn’t that handsome? Did Mrs. Flores just call me handsome?

Marta turned back to face the group. “
Hola, Briana. Cômo estás
?” She embraced Briana in a hug. “I’ve been better…” She answered. The reserved reply from Briana seemed to alarm her mom. Her facial expression changed.

“So, who is this well-dressed
hombre
in the back?” she asked. Grey stepped forward.

“Grey Maxwell, pleasure to meet you.”

Her mother nodded. “Nice to meet you too. All right, come to the kitchen. I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine because I have a feeling I will need it. Rachel has some explaining to do.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, and we followed her into the kitchen.

Rachel told her everything—all the way from the beginning. She left out some extraneous information, like the night on the train. Mrs. Flores was right, she did need a glass of wine…or three. The media had scared her all on their own, but hearing it from her daughter’s mouth,
that
was different. Once she heard the whole story, her demeanor had changed. It was visible. The reality of the situation burdened her, just as it did us. Rachel was curious as to why she wasn’t at her house when her car was still there. Her mom explained that she knew she was being watched, and she waited until the sun set one night to leave. She left the TV on and slipped out the back door. She walked the fifteen miles up the coast to Cocoa Beach. She knew it would be safer there because her sister-in-law had divorced her brother years ago.

Briana was in the shower, and Rachel and her mom went to the bedroom to talk. I saw the look in Mrs. Flores’ eyes before she asked her to talk in private. It was the look of pure fear. She was afraid for her daughter, and with good reason. Rachel’s aunt sat in the living room watching TV. I sat in a bar chair with my arms propped up on the eat-in kitchen. I repeatedly rubbed the smooth granite countertop out of boredom. Grey was in the dining room just through the arched opening. The tile floor in the kitchen was a beige-coral. I glanced around, taking in the design. The cabinets were wooden, stained with a deep cherry-wood finish. Grey’s plate sat across the table. He finished his meal over an hour ago. Rachel’s aunt had ordered two pizzas, and we were all but stuffed. On the wall, there was the same Puerto Rican flag that was in Briana’s kitchen back in Orlando, except this one was painted and framed. I could tell the air conditioning was on because the coolness was dry, not like the moist air outside. It was refreshing. There was a soft yellow glow from the living room. Rachel’s aunt had the lights dimmed. There were so many decorations; the burgundy curtains that draped the windows, the granite marbled counters, and the tiled floors made me feel like I was in a mansion. I imagined the typical Florida home a beach theme, with ocean blues and teals, but none of that was here. This was what I pictured an Italian home that overlooked the Mediterranean would look like. It felt cozy. It made me feel
safe
.