Page 13 of Bastard
He kicks at a stone. “I really had no idea things could turn to shit that quickly.”
“Why would you?” I murmur, patting him on the arm.
“You understood, though.”
I shrug, not denying, not explaining what it feels like to grow up the way I did. I adjust my daypack across my shoulders and resume walking. “I’ll show you a place to hide everything. Because if that had been the militants, we’d be in serious trouble right now.”
“So, do we report them to the Malawian government?”
I shake my head. “I know someone who can run their plate numbers. When we go to Lilongwe for our monthly FaceTime chat with UWC administration, I’ll contact him and pass on the information.”
Donovan stares at me, his expression incredulous. “You have a contact that can run foreign plates?”
I don’t answer, struggling to find the best way to explain.
“Who? How?”
I don’t immediately respond. Sharing my brother’s secrets isn’t something I do. Not a word. Never. Besides, what would I tell him? That Diego works for TORC, a clandestine agency that handles nongovernment-affiliated assignments unofficially sponsored by those very same governments? A secret group, only a few people know exists.
And that I’m one of the trusted few.
I married into the organization way before it was even formed. I’m part of it by affiliation, on the periphery yet still connected to it through my brother, its best employee.
A victim of it, and the ruthless reality of what it does, as well.
“It’s not important who. What matters is what’s done with this information.”
I have one month to work out exactly what I’ll say to my hot-tempered brother. Diego will know what to do next.
Donovan throws up his hands. “Just when I believe I’m getting to know you ...”
“A round of GTKY questions on the way home?” I offer, trying to placate him as I begin walking. “Or I have a better idea.”
“Which is?” he replies, falling into step beside me.
“I shower you with more Mexican proverbs.”
“Please don’t.” He chuckles.
I laugh.
And we leave the stress from this morning behind us in the dust.
3
Tonight, I’ve got Tight-Lipped were I want him—two moves away from losing his pebbles. I didn’t expect him to win but am surprised at how good he plays, along with the fact that he is actually participating in our weekly poker night.
However, the mysterious man is living up to his nickname.
“Does your family live near Nmimpi?” I casually ask. We’ve set up a square folding table outside the community center, in the same place we built our temporary stage a few nights ago. The hour’s late and only Tight-Lipped and I remain playing. It’s the perfect time to get answers from him, though my questions have been ignored.
He offers me the slightest shake of his head and a frown, then focuses his full attention on his next move. Has he caught on to what I’ve done? Determined it’s no coincidence that everyone else has folded?
What can I say? Beginners luck?
Except winning isn’t what I’m after.
“A handsome man like you doesn’t have a special someone? A wife? A girlfriend?”Friends?
