Page 77 of Covert Mission
“Hey, are you okay?”
Frowning at the onion, she gets busy chopping it into strips. “I was just thinking about my dad. He did all he could. It was just so hard after he emigrated from Portugal.”
“Where is he now?”
“He got injured on the job and lives with a friend of the family. I hope I can get him out of there sometime. I’d like to get him into an assisted living community, but it’s expensive. I don’t see him all that often because I’m on the road too much right now.”
“Don’t you want to take a job that doesn’t require travel?”
“I do, but I needed to get out of there for a while. This is constructive. I make great money, and Dad’s in a good safe place. We have our differences. This gives us space to work through them.”
Belle’s Portuguese American and her mom left her dad with an infant. I know her story, even though she hasn’t told me herself.
We fall into a funk. Both of us chop, loudly whacking when we start a new onion.
Belle was right. Our baggage is affecting us both.
I glance up when Edgar, the guy who recruited us, appears at the table where we’re working. I wonder if he came to inspect our output, but he asks, “Does your organization have snacks that kids would like?”
I push the chopped onion pieces aside and blink at him. Water is shooting out of my tear ducts like a firehose. “We do. I can get some if you like.”
He makes a face and takes a gigantic step backward. The kitchen boss isn’t much of a conversationalist. Or maybe he’s trying to avoid the toxic cloud of onion vapor air.
“Yes. The onions can wait.”
Belle puts her knife down and wipes her hands on a paper towel. “I’ll come with you.”
“Why don’t you stay? I’ll find Pembrook or Brian and make them go.”
“Smart thinking, although I might need an eyeball transplant when we are done.”
The man is still standing there. Now he’s scowling at us. “Why don’t you have on safety glasses?”
“We didn’t bring any,” I say.
He grumbles and walks off.
I shrug, and Belle lets out a wry chuckle. Her face is covered in watery streaks. She looks like a hot mess just like I feel.
She picks up her knife and takes aim on another onion. “I have a feeling we’re going to have some glasses when you get back.”
“Good, because if I keep going like this, I’m not sure I’ll ever see right again. I’ll hurry. I won’t leave you to die on this hill alone.”
“I know where to find you if you don’t come back,” she mutters as she rubs her forearm across her nose, making mud out of the dust and tears.
I dash out of the tent and around a cluster of rescue trucks. The colorful logos on the side of the vehicles say they belong to a rescue team from Colombia. From there, I trot through the tents, random vehicles, and cracks in the ground, trying to stay in the lighted area.
I pass a tent where workers are napping on cots.
Mercy. They look completely wiped. There’s an IV bag running to one of the men’s arms. I hurry past as I continue my search.
Where did Brian and Pembrook go?
I jog to a cluster of blue tents. Everyone inside has on matching yellow and white vests.
No sign of our guys.
I walk a little farther. As I go, I scan for any signs of rebels, but I think we’re safe in the operations area. All the people seem to be part of the rescue teams.