9. Roni

"You want me to call your friend, why?" Diego's phone rested in my hand as he stared out the windshield and guided the rental car onto the highway.

"I've got medical training, but he's got way more. In our hurry to make it out unseen, we never stopped by the doc on the way out, and I need to make sure you are cleared to fly. A flight would be a really bad place to have a brain aneurysm," Diego answered.

It bothered me to admit he was right, so I remained silent for a moment. There would be no hope for me to survive something like that thousands of feet in the air. Diego was surprisingly quiet—I'd expected him to gloat by now about how he saved my life—or at least a lecture of some sort. This was the longest he and I had been alone together. There was no audience to charm—his true colors could come out now without consequence. If Diego saved my life in high school, the whole school would have known about it, and women would have fawned over him even more than they already did. He was the perfect popular athlete with perfect grades, and he could do no wrong. If that ego survived all this time, he and I were in trouble, because my patience for it was even smaller now. Now there was no teacher or principle to break up a fight if we got into one.

I hit the green call button on the contact for Mendez.

"You aren't Garcia," he said as his face came up on the screen.

"No, I'm Roni. Garcia is right here. He's driving. He wanted me to call you. I hit my head pretty hard, and he wants you to medically clear me," I said, trying not to be as awkward as this felt. I was talking to a complete stranger.

"Am I on speaker?" Mendez asked.

I nodded.

"What kind of trouble are you in, Garcia?" Mendez asked, his tone changing to one of concern.

"None," Diego lied.

Mendez scoffed. "I call bullshit. You would have taken the girl to the hospital if you could—and she's the president's daughter. Don't give me some quip about health insurance," Mendez pushed.

"Can you focus on the woman, please?" Diego asked.

"Fine," Mendez grunted. He didn't look happy about being shut out, but he relented. I had a feeling the conversation would have gone differently if I weren't listening.

"How'd you hit your head?" he asked.

I looked over to Diego, and he shook his head. I looked back at the phone. "I rolled out of bed and hit the ground." I almost felt bad lying to someone who was trying to help me. Almost.

"Tell me about any symptoms you might be experiencing. Do you have a headache, any dizziness?"

"A small headache. A few minutes right after the fall it was hard to concentrate, but that's minimal now." I touched the back of my head. "I've got a knot on the back of my head, and my neck is a little sore."

Diego's eyes left the road to shoot me a worried glance.

"Sounds like you have a concussion. Normally I'd recommend taking it easy for a day or two, but my gut is telling me that's not an option."

"Pushy bastard," Diego mumbled under his breath.

"As of now, you are okay to travel. It sounds like the concussion is minor. Take some over-the-counter pain meds, drink some water, and take a nap in a little while, assuming Garcia is staying with you."

"He is." There was no way he was going to leave me for a second. I had a feeling I'd have to do a lot negotiating to go into the women's bathroom by myself.

"Good. I would recommend going to a doctor when you can. You can never be too careful with a head injury."

"And that's why we called you, medic." Diego paused for a moment. "I'm about to be off-grid for a while. Don't worry about me. I'm fine. We're just going to take a trip to escape the media, okay?" Diego told his friend.

"Got it, I'll let the others know. Take your sim card out of your phone if you think you are being tracked. Only put it back in for emergencies," Mendez warned. Diego mentioned nothing about us being in danger, only that we didn't want the media's prying eyes, yet he seemed to know there was more to this. Diego was in the Army Special Forces, but I never knew what exactly he did. The way they seemed to communicate without any words had me highly suspicious that Diego did some movie-worthy shit for Uncle Sam. My dad would have had access to Diego's full military record. He wouldn't pick just anyone for this job. Diego wasn't a normal Special Forces soldier; I was sure of it.

"I know, buddy," Diego said.

Mendez cleared his throat. "Do me a favor, Veronica. Take care of my friend, okay?"

"Why would I need to do that? He seems very capable," I said as I hid the blush that threatened to creep up my neck to my cheeks.

Why was I blushing?

"Because even the most capable people need someone to watch their backs," Mendez said simply. Was that another hint at something they'd been through together?

I didn't know what to say, so I gave him a brief nod, even though it made me feel slightly dizzy.

"Take care, brother," Mendez said before disconnecting the call.

The car was silent for a moment.

"Take out the sim card," Diego ordered me. I popped it out and set both in the cup holder. I didn't like taking orders, but something about today had taken the fight out of me. I'd used it all just to stay alive.

It was a short drive to the airport. Before purchasing our tickets, Diego made a beeline to the bathroom with me in tow. He pulled a box from his bag and handed it to me. Hair dye.

"Do I have to?" I asked.

He nodded. "One less identifying factor to track you by."

I sighed and got to work dyeing my hair in the bathroom sink under his watchful eye. I worked in silence as the occasional woman came into the bathroom, rolled her eyes at the sight of us, and then left. Twenty minutes later, after rinsing my hair, I squatted under the hand dryer to dry my hair.

I barely had time to finish brushing my hair before Diego tugged me over to the ticket counter and bought our tickets with cash and fake IDs. I got a nervous glance from the airline employee working at the counter. If she recognized me, she didn't say so. I hoped she'd keep it to herself. The last thing we needed was a camera crew to show up and alert anyone to our out-of-town plans. We knew that they'd learn I'd left D.C. eventually, but a three- or four-day head start would give us a lot of time to get situated and hidden.

When Diego handed me my ticket, I looked down at it.

"Diego, I think they made a mistake. This ticket says California," I said. I thought we were going to Alaska.

"No, it's not a mistake." He dragged me toward security.

"No?" I asked.

"No, flight manifests can be tracked. We don't want to fly to our final destination, even if the state is massive. We will charter a boat, where we don't need to show our IDs as passengers, and sail up to Alaska under the radar," he said quietly.

That made sense. We didn't want to be tracked, and airlines were easy to hack and get information from. Not to mention, California was a large state; hopefully they'd look there first before branching out. By then, we'd be long gone.

"That's why we aren't leaving the country, because we'd have to show our passports," I said.

He simply nodded.

We got to the security gate and waited patiently. At Diego's suggestion, I pulled my hood up and wore my beanie. The security guard made a comment about me resembling the First Daughter, and I faked an accent when I answered, "I get that a lot."

Once we found our gate, I pretended to take a nap. People didn't pay attention to those who were quiet and out of the way. I needed to blend in as best as possible. It also meant that Diego and I didn't have to sit in an awkward silence or engage in small chit-chat.

I sat and stewed on my thoughts, which bounced back and forth between Nina and my fear of flying. I didn't even like flying on Marine One or Air Force One. I was scared of heights, and the idea of a mechanical error midair terrified me. I kept my hands stuffed into my pockets to hide how they shook from nerves.

Once they announced our flight and we boarded, there was no hiding my fear. My forehead broke out into a sweat, and I couldn't stop bouncing my leg. I requested water from the flight attendant before we even took off.

"Diego, I hate flying," I warned him as the fasten-seatbelt light came on.

"I could tell," he replied. He put a comforting hand on my knee before he realized what he'd done and removed it quickly. "Everything will go smoothly."

I rolled my eyes at the gesture. "How can you be so sure?"

I barely trusted the safest airplane in the world; a thirty-year-old commercial airliner that took all kinds of abuse wasn't high up on my list of trusted modes of transportation. Especially when the large companies who operated them could barely be trusted to do the bare minimum to maintain them.

"Because if anything bad happens, I know how to jump from this plane and land safely on the ground," he said, dead serious.

"You do?" I asked, my eyes wide. I hadn't even thought about having to jump from this hunk of metal.

"Yes, many times. The parachutes are back there." He pointed to a spot not too far from us. "If anything bad happens, you and I will be just fine," he assured me.

I simply swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. I should have realized that he'd know how to jump from a plane; Special Forces soldiers were supposed to be badass.

I looked at the exit door with a timid expression. "How many times have you jumped?" I asked to distract myself. It was one thing for someone to know how to jump and survive in theory, but to actually do it, that was entirely different.

"Planned jumps are over fifty, and unplanned are at three."

I sat there unable to comment on that record. Planned jumps I understood, but that number for unplanned seemed kind of high. I had to hope those were all limited to combat situations, because otherwise it painted a rather grim picture of how unlucky he was. Did I want to be sitting next to a man who'd been in that many scary plane situations?

My heart pumped hard in my chest as the plane picked up speed as we made our way down the runway. In a moment of panic, I reached over and grabbed Diego's hand, squeezing hard. I regretted it instantly. It was going to make things awkward between us, and I didn't like to show weakness.

Instead of taunting me as I half expected, he gave my hand a gentle squeeze back. We sat like that for several minutes before we'd gained enough altitude and things settled out. I was able to relax a little once the seatbelt light turned off, and I pulled my hand out of his—it was sweaty. Great.

"Why don't you try taking a nap? We're going to have a long journey," he told me.

It would be nice to get some sleep, but I had a feeling my fear of flying wouldn't allow it. "I guess I'll try."

"I promise, I'll wake you up if anything exciting happens," he said with a smirk that almost took my breath away and seized my stomach.

Diego Garcia was going to finish what he started all those years ago. He was going to be the death of me—and I wasn't fully convinced that I shouldn't let it happen.