I walk over to the window and pull back the curtains.

Eduardo stands outside my second-floor window. He’s removed the bow tie and jacket from the tuxedo he wore earlier tonight at the Heart Ball, has rolled the sleeves of his snowy white dress shirt, baring his forearms. He raises his arm to throw another rock— I open the window.

“What’s wrong?” I hiss.

My room is toward the front of the house, my parents’ to the back, but I am surrounded by Isabel and Maria, and the last thing I need is for them to say something about Eduardo’s nocturnal visit.

“Were you sleeping?” he whispers back, stepping closer to the window, his gaze raking over me, no doubt taking in the nightgown and robe, my disheveled hair, the vestiges of makeup I missed removing earlier this evening.

“It’s almost two A.M.”

“Is it that late?” He grins. “You’re getting old. Once upon a time, you would have been out dancing somewhere at two A.M.”

“You didn’t come here to go dancing.”

“No, I didn’t. I need to pick up a shipment. Care to join me?”

“A shipment? At two A.M.?”

“It’s a very discreet shipment. Germane to our interests—the Cuban ones.”

The prudent thing would be to say “no” and go back to bed. But I’ve already done the prudent thing tonight by putting distance between myself and Nick Preston, and I’m still feeling the sting of that decision.

Small rebellions are the hardest ones to resist.

“Give me a minute.”

* * *

? ? ?

Fifteen minutes later, we’re barreling down the highway, headed farther south.

“What’s in the shipment?” I ask Eduardo.

“I don’t know. They don’t tell me that part beforehand. It’s brought in by boat and picked up by some guys—different ones each time. I meet them by the docks, and we confirm we are who we say we are. Then they move the shipment from their trunk to my car and we all go on our way.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Once or twice.”

“Have you ever checked the shipment?”

“Of course.”

“What was in the shipment those other times?”

Silence is his only answer.

“What do you do with it?” I ask, trying a different tack.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“What is it used for?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“What can you tell me then?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure? You said you wanted to be involved in my other activities. This is one of the other things we’re working on.”

“With the CIA?”

“Not exactly.”

“Is it smart to make enemies of them?”

“I’m not doing anything to jeopardize our plans with the CIA. But what’s in our interest is not always in theirs, and vice versa. You should always have a contingency plan, Beatriz. And be careful of who you trust.”

“Are you warning me off you?”

Eduardo smiles. “Never.”

“So what am I doing here? You didn’t just drag me out in the middle of the night for fun.”

“No, I didn’t. Last time I did one of these runs, I got pulled over by a local cop. Nothing happened, but they asked more questions than I cared for. Now, if it happens again, I have the perfect excuse: they’ll see us together and think I snuck out to be with a woman. No one would look at you and think anything nefarious.”

I look down at my outfit: a simple pair of trousers, the pale sweater I threw on over my top, the serviceable pair of flats.

I see his point.

“We’ll meet, pick up the package, drop it off where we’re supposed to go, and I’ll have you home and in bed by dawn. You can plead the aftereffects of this evening’s festivities and too much champagne when your parents ask why you slept in so late.”

“I doubt they’ll notice.”

“So what are you worried about then?”

“Everything.”

Eduardo reaches between us and takes my hand.

“Trust me.”

* * *

? ? ?

Our surroundings turn seedier, the impact heightened by the quiet streets, the dark night. We drive for nearly an hour before Eduardo makes a series of turns, until we’re parked in front of what looks to be an abandoned marina.

“Wait here,” he whispers. “And keep the doors locked.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t dangerous.”

“It isn’t. I can’t say the same for the neighborhood.”

He reaches across me, pulling something out of the glove box and thrusting it in my hand.

My fingers curl around cold metal.

“A gun?”

“Like I said, you can’t be too careful with the neighborhood. If you see anything suspicious—anything not related to me,” he amends with a grin, “shoot.”

I’m beginning to wonder if he didn’t just bring me here for cover, but also for backup, which is a worrying thought indeed.

As soon as he gets out of the car, I lock the doors, my gaze searching the darkness for Eduardo’s form. I find him for a moment, visible in the soft glow of a light down by the docks, and then he is gone, and I am alone.

The distant sound of a car fills the night, somewhere far off on the highway, the sound of the water hitting the docks little more than a hum in the background.

It’s too quiet. Too dark. There’s too much potential for something to go wrong.

What has Eduardo gotten himself involved in? And if he’s not working with the CIA, then who is he working with? Is he alone in this or is there a broader network of exiles on his side?

Time creeps on, the weight of the gun in my hand making my palm damp. The notion of me using it is preposterous, although clearly, Eduardo thought it necessary.

I straighten in my seat at the sound of tires on gravel, my palm gripping the gun more tightly. I look out the car window, trying to spot the new arrivals.

The light near the docks is too far away to be much help, and I sense more than see a vehicle pulling up beside Eduardo’s little convertible.

I duck, gripping the gun more tightly, cursing Eduardo for dragging me into whatever this is. It is one thing to risk your life for something as important as Fidel, but I don’t even know what tonight is about. Is it related to Cuba? Or is this little meeting a by-product of Eduardo’s lifestyle: A gambling debt that must be paid? An enraged husband? He said it was about Cuba, but Eduardo isn’t above bending the truth to get his way, either.

I should have asked more questions.

The sound of two car doors opening followed by the crunch of footsteps against the gravel fills the night.

Are they friend or foe?

My heart pounds, the gun growing slippery in my palm as I wait for the new arrivals to investigate Eduardo’s car, to see me. But the sounds of their footsteps diminish until there is silence, the forms of two men visible as they cross in front of the light near the docks.

Heading toward Eduardo.

I reach into the glove box where Eduardo stored the gun, my fingers wrapping around a flashlight.

My hand is on the door handle before I can think through my actions, the gun clutched in my other hand.

I step out into the night.

* * *

? ? ?

The car door shuts gently behind me, and I crouch between the two cars, straining to hear any sounds.

The gun is surprisingly heavy in my hand for such a small thing, and my hand shakes as my finger grazes the trigger.

What if I accidentally shoot someone? Or myself?

The car parked beside Eduardo’s is a four-door sedan—an American model by the look of it. I move closer to the car, crouching near the trunk.

I turn on the flashlight, shining it toward the car.

Florida license plates.

The night is silent.

How can I not look?

I walk to the driver’s side of the car.

“What did you get me into?” I murmur under my breath.

The window is down, and I reach my hand into the car and pop the lock, opening the door.

Despite the lowered window, the car smells of cigarettes and sweat, the faint hint of cheap perfume on the air.

My heart pounds. Am I really doing this?

Using the flashlight to guide my path, I engage the trunk release inside the car.

Flashlight in hand, I get out of the car, shutting the door behind me gently, and walk around the car to the trunk, lifting the lid over my head.

Crates stare back at me.

I pause for a moment, listening for the sound of footsteps, voices.

Silence greets me. Curiosity gets the best of me.

I lift the lid of one of the crates. Shine the flashlight down.

It takes me a moment to reconcile the sight of the red sticks piled together, for my brain to put a name to them. When I do, a part of me wishes I hadn’t.

The crate is filled with sticks of dynamite.

* * *

? ? ?

I’m halfway to the dock, gun and flashlight in hand, when I hear Eduardo’s voice in the distance.

Followed by his laughter.

I do a one-eighty, killing the flashlight and using the moonlight to guide me back.

He didn’t tell me to stay in the car, but now that I know explosives are involved, I’m not eager to be any more embroiled in his scheme than I already am.

I shouldn’t have come.