Page 69 of Hearts Of Darkness

I pause for a moment. “What other transport does Dante keep here?”

“There’s a boathouse to the north. The Mozambique coastline lies thirty miles east of us.”

Mozambique?

I scour my mind for where in the world we might be.Mozambique lies next to Zimbabwe and South Africa. Somehow, I need to get to a US embassy or consul and raise the alarm.

“We have to get to that boathouse,” I say, rising to my feet. “It’s our best chance of survival.”

It’s the best chance of my escape.

Manuel shakes his head. “My orders are to keep you here until help arrives.”

“But that could be days! We have no food, no water…”

“I believe we have a small amount of provision next door,” says Sofía, rising to her feet as well. “Let me go and check.”

“No, let me,” I say firmly, placing a restraining hand on her arm. If there’s another way out of this place, I’m determined to find it myself.

The first roomI check is the one adjacent to his office. It’s a windowless bedroom with two doors leading off to the side. I try the nearest, and it swings open to reveal a functional en suite. The other is a walk-in closet.

I gaze in shock at the rows of designer suits and shirts. After tonight, Dante ‘The Enigma’ will cease to exist, but I know that Dante ‘The Liar and Murderer’ will haunt me for the rest of my days.

Before I can stop myself, I’m stepping inside the closet and inhaling deeply. This will forever be the scent of betrayal, but I’m devising a strength and a comfort from it too.

None of it makes sense.How can a man who murders my brother make me feel safe?

I run my hand along the different fabrics and toy with the drawer handle nearest to me. Why would he hide himself away like this?In his own compound.

I can’t help thinking that his last remaining truths are concealed down here. Perhaps in this closet? Or in the cabinets in his office? The reporter in me wants to tear this place apart until I find the answers to all my questions. What turns a man into one of the deadliest drug dealers in the world? What buttons were pressed? What hardships has he suffered? Can he ever redeem himself? There’s still light in him. I’ve sensed it. I can’t save him, but perhaps, in time, I could learn to understand him.

What the hell am I thinking?Never in a million years will I ever surrender to his touch again. I’ll never comprehend his motives, nor will I ever forgive them.

I slide the drawer toward me and then freeze. There are photographs in here. Hundreds—black and white, color… The top one catches my eye, and I hold it up for a closer inspection. It’s a picture of a little girl with black hair, no older than three or four. She’s holding out a half-eaten ice cream for the lens and smiling at whoever is holding the camera. Her eyes are reeling me in and holding me captive. Two tiny pools of emotion with pupils so brown they’re almost black. A coloration so achingly familiar to me.

Dante.

I let out a cry and drop the photo.He has a daughter!At the same time another shockwave ripples through the bunker. We need to hold fast and pray that this bunker remains hidden, at least until Manuel can work his computer magic. When we’re back online, I’m going to demand he contact the police. I’m a kidnapped American. Surely someone,somewhere,has to care about that. My parents will be tearing the world apart looking for me.

All the photos are of this same girl, but none portray her any older than this. There are no surprise tenth birthday party shots, no gawky teenager with her girlfriends, no graduation portraits… Did something happen to her? Is she still alive? What about her mother? Was she Dante’s first love?

I’m devastated by how much her existence hurts. Is this jealously? How is this deceiver, thiskiller, managing to twist my affections when he’s not even in the same country as me?

Incensed, I rip open the next drawer down and take a step back in shock.

Military Medals.

A Purple Heart, a Silver Star…Holy shitis that a Congressional Medal of Honor?

Who is this man?

I back away from the closet, unable to equate the cold-hearted criminal with this…this…hero. Did he steal the medals from his victims? Is this some sort of sick trophy stash?

God, I’m so tired of the deception. The half-truths. Thedisguises…

The clock on the nightstand is flashing nine a.m. at me. I’ve been awake since Sofía flung herself onto my chest and informed me of this new nightmare, yanking me onto this battlefield between two warring master criminals.

I use the bathroom and splash cold water onto my face, but the weariness I’m feeling is bone deep. It’s entrenched in every fissure of my fractured heart. The bed is calling to me—so tempting and seductive. I won’t have to feel a thing when I’m unconscious. No conflict or bitterness, just peace and oblivion.

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