89
Henderson
I’m going over the logistics for our operation on Saturday when a notification pops up on my screen. It’s an email from my CIA contact.
Sorry, the subject line reads.
Everything inside me turns to ice as I see the text and the video attachment it’s forwarding.
Feeling like I’m about to vomit, I press “play.”
My daughter’s dirty, tear-streaked face fills the screen. “Daddy,” she sobs as the camera zooms out, showing her tied to a chair in a nondescript room with white walls. “Daddy, please help me. They said they’ll kill us. Please, Daddy, help!”
The video cuts out, leaving me wheezing for air.
Sokolov has her. He has all of them.
It’s now a fact.
Shaking, I read the forwarded text.
You know what I want, it says. Plaza de Bolivar, Bogotá, 3pm Thursday. Be there or wa
