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To Amos’s frustration, Jake closed his eyes, signaling that he didn’t want to talk about it. Amos glared at the younger man’s unperturbed expression. Was he seriously going to ignore his suggestion?
The lieutenant slit his eyes as if to check whether Amos was still next to him. “This is a covert operation, Mako, not a humanitarian evacuation. The child could make a noise that jeopardizes everyone.”
Amos’s thoughts flashed to the night he’d pulled Grace and Mateo out of the wine cellar. He had thought the same thing, ordering Grace to make Mateo shut up.
“Chocolate,” he retorted, as angry with himself for being so heavy-handed then as he was with Jake now. “All it takes is chocolate to make him quiet.”
“And where would we get chocolate?” Jake was obviously humoring him.
Amos pointed to Ben Harmony. The bald SEAL was sleeping as soundly as a baby in a particularly bouncy stroller. “He eats chocolate when he can’t get coffee.”
“Next question. How would you get a message to your…friend, telling her to go to Caracas and to call a certain number?”
Amos unzipped the jacket of his night ops jumper and showed Jake his personal cell phone, which he took from an inner pocket. The younger man frowned disapprovingly.
“All personal comms should be left in our lockers, Mako.”
At least the lieutenant had lowered his voice before reprimanding him.
“I’ll leave it on the aircraft carrier.” He hadn’t wanted to let go of his only possible link to Grace. “Come on, Jake. Just give me Zorra’s number.” Calling the officer by his first name was meant to remind the younger man of his many more years of experience.
The two of them locked eyes in a showdown of wills. Then, with a scoffing sound and a shrug, the CIA-SEAL pulled out his own phone—military issue—and looked up Zorra’s number. As Amos inputted the number into his own phone, he guessed that Jake probably didn’t believe Amos could arrange for Grace to travel to Caracas, let alone reach out to Zorra before that woman dropped off the grid.
Amos had to acknowledge his idea was a longshot. But with God all things were possible, and God was the only One with any real say in what might happen anyway. As soon as they landed on the aircraft carrier, Amos would send Grace another message via WhatsApp. God willing, she would see it in time for his desperate plan to work out.
* * *
Eight hours into their bus ride, Grace heaved a sigh of relief as Mateo finally nodded off, his head heavy on her chest, his bony joints bruising her thighs and ribs. She had been stuck in this seat near the back of the bus, next to a window, for what seemed like the longest day of her life.
At least, keeping Mateo entertained hadn’t proven as stressful as she’d thought it would be. Between the open window offering clear views of the villages through which they passed and the stunning landscape, Mateo, who had never been outside of Ayacucho, had much to look at. A few hours into their ride, a woman cradling a miniature pig had boarded the bus and sat right next to them. Mateo had been ecstatic.
It was Grace who was suffering from the long bus ride. Her stiff body demanded that she stand and stretch! For the last hour, at least, she’d had to relieve her bladder, but there was no facility on the bus for that. She thought of Simon, who had to go every hour on the hour. Luckily Mateo, who hardly ate or drank anything, wasn’t the same way.
Apart from the deep, grooved tracks left by tanks on the muddy shoulders of the road, she could scarcely tell the country was at war—that was, until they rolled into a town that overflowed with soldiers. Her eyes widened as she counted the number of tanks parked alongside the road. Soldiers milled in and around the local market, many of them smiling and in good spirits as they chatted with local vendors. She noted the blue patches on their shoulders.These must be the rebel forces.
The woman with the pig confirmed it, talking so swiftly in a thick Venezuelan dialect that Grace understood only half of what she said as she regaled Grace with her life story. All the while, Mateo had stroked the pig’s head, lulling it to sleep.
Finally, the old woman had run out of things to say. Mateo had nodded off, and Grace was left with anxious thoughts as she noted the setting sun. They had left the jungle far behind and were now passing through rolling grasslands calledllanos, while a mountain chain rose before them, into the blue sky to the north. Here and there, an abandoned factory testified to the total economic collapse under the current dictator. As they drew closer to the mountains, the sun hunkered down behind them, turning the sky a peachy hue that darkened to salmon before fading into cobalt blue.
All at once, Grace could make out lights twinkling on the foothills ahead. Relief rolled through her. This had to be the outskirts of Caracas. She eased Mateo’s limp body to one side so she could raise her arm enough to press the light on her watch. They were supposed to arrive in half an hour. She would close her eyes and rest. That way, she would be refreshed when they arrived.
The realization that the bus had stopped awakened her abruptly. She must have nodded off, for the sky was now black. A glance around affirmed they were, indeed, in Caracas, on a narrow highway surrounded by hills jam-packed with neighborhoods of every kind—from high-rise apartments to shanties built out of corrugated metal and discarded lumber. But the bus was no longer moving.
“Why have we stopped?” she asked in Spanish.
The woman with the pig cast her a distinctly worried look and said something Grace couldn’t translate. She craned her neck to see over the passengers in front of her. In the glow of a blue strobe light, Grace made out a line of official-looking SUVs and at least a dozen men in uniform. As one of them leaned toward the vehicle at the head of the line, Grace noted the distinct outline of an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. Dread pulled her scalp taut. They’d run smack into the National Army, or at least the National Police, which was just as bad.
A tense silence now filled the bus. She was sharply aware of several sets of eyes swinging in her direction. A rash of goosebumps spread across her skin. Clutching Mateo more tightly, it came to her that this roadblock had been set up by Maduro’s supporters, the same people who’d hunted her earlier that summer, forcing her into hiding. Surely they had better things to do now than go after U.S. citizens.
She whispered to the woman next to her, “Why are they stopping cars?”
The woman leaned close and whispered, “They’re searching for rebel sympathizers. And foreigners,” she added. “Anyone who supports Guaidó.”
Adrenaline leeched into Grace’s bloodstream. “I just want to bring my son home. I’m trying to get to the airport.”
Without offering any encouragement, the old woman faced front again. Grace waited, every muscle in her body tense as the line of cars inched forward. Soon the bus was right behind the car being searched. Between the heads of the passengers in front of her, Grace glimpsed the driver of the car being pulled forcibly from his vehicle. Others on the bus gasped in unison as they strained to see what would happen to him.
As a gunshot cracked through the silence, passengers voiced their disbelief.
