Page 1 of Green Flag
Prologue
Everly
Spain,four years ago
Pedro didn’t run.
The police in their navy uniforms, with their grave faces, looked at him and it was like he knew. His smile froze on his face before melting away.
Mine was still there, mouth open as I looked between my boyfriend and the four police officers.
The fourarmedpolice officers.
We’d only just landed in Barcelona. While the others rushed off the Ciclati plane to their trailers or the hotel, Pedro and I stayed in our little bubble—just for a moment—before the chaos of race weekend hit.
Our relationship was no longer secret. I was twenty, a woman, and there was nothing left for people to judge.
We always took a moment to hold each other—before we had to pretend we weren’t desperate to touch.
Before this, I was just the groupie trailing behind my father’s racing team while my boyfriend stayed focused on his job.
But police appeared at both exits, and when they said his name, I frowned.
They told us to raise our hands.
Like we’d committed a crime.
The only crime I’d committed was pairing socks with sandals for the plane ride.
And Pedro was simply incapable of telling lies.
But he did as they asked and jerked his elbow into my ribs for me to do the same.
So I did.
“Pedro Valzco, you are under arrest for the possession and trafficking of controlled substances,” the woman said in Spanish, before lowering his arms and cuffing his wrists. The clink as they locked into place was deafening.
“What?” I cried. I kicked back as one of the men patted me down. “He hasn’t—he wouldn’t—what?”
But Pedro shook his head at me, silently begging me to stop.
“You need to calm down, Miss Bacque,” the male officer said before raising his own cuffs. “Or we will arrest you, too.”
Absolutely not. I straightened, keeping my legs to myself.
“He is innocent,” I argued.
“You can vouch for that when you come in for questioning,” the man said. This time, when he patted me down, I cringed—but let him.
I was going to be sick.
Controlled substances. Drugs.
They’d said that like it was routine. Like it made sense. Like the thirty-three-year-old man I’d loved since I was sixteen had casually stuffed kilos of powder into a Ciclati-chartered plane and thought no one would notice.
Escorted by the police down the steps, I saw all the cargo from the hold out in a chaotic mess of opened crates, with gloved police looking through them.
This wasn’t happening.
