Chapter 10
Danielle
You’d think, eventually, people would get tired of telling me ‘no.’
I’m certainly sick of hearing it.
But it annoys me more, when I hear Janus say it.
It hurts—not that I’d let him know that—to see how much he underestimates me. Janus might say that it’s because he doesn’t want to see me hurt, but if people just let me get on with my investigations the way I want to, I’d be fine.
Maybe throwing South Sudan in his face was a low move.
I probably shouldn’t have done it.
But bringing up the past was what it took to get Janus to shut up about my plans for the future, so I can’t feel fully regretful on doing it.
I don’t know where Janus went yesterday after our talk about his undercover work at the police station, but I almost wished he had stayed. If that was going to be our last night as allies, then I wish that we could have ended it like we did in South Sudan.
But he was probably back to whatever pied-a-terre or hotel room he’s got in the city, and if he wanted to, he could’ve picked up a girl from a bar on the way. It’s not like the capital city is lacking of hotels, tiny apartments, and women. The whole place is a tourist trap.
People pass in and out of temples and ruins, go to museums, take selfies in front of statues, and take boats out to the island monasteries. If one of those boats doesn’t make it to its destination, it’s unlikely anyone would notice.
That’s not even counting the natives or the ex-pats who’ve moved to the city in their retirement.
And on top of that, there are refugees coming in and out of Greece, trying to find safety anywhere that they can in the whole country. Refugees who are weak and vulnerable and who don’t have family to miss them or identification to keep them safe within the system.
It’s perfect for someone to lie low, to not be seen—like Janus and me.
It’s also the perfect place to form a human trafficking ring. Vulnerable people go missing all the time, and the world rarely cares for them.
But I care.
I’m meeting my contact at a little café near the acropolis and the temple of Athena. It’ll be bursting with tourists who need to escape the sun, so I doubt that the two of us will be overheard. Not that it will stop me from checking over my shoulder every couple of minutes as I walk through the streets.
Paranoia causes me to try every trick that I know to make sure that I’m not being tailed. First, I pretend to stumble and crouch down, pretending to fix the straps of my shoes whilst looking behind me to see if anyone has stopped.
I see a man slip into a nearby storefront as soon as my head peeks through my arm.
He’s wearing jeans and a crisp white shirt, with short brown hair and a strong jaw. I commit these details to memory and keep walking.
Next, I simply do a case of simple misdirection—doubling back on myself and walking a completely alternate route. I’m not even thinking about the café; instead I’m strolling as a tourist would—pausing at interesting locations, taking photos on my phone, and constantly checking to see if I recognize anyone.
I see the well-dressed man again, except now he’s wearing sunglasses. They seem to be designer glasses—probably upper level Ray Bans or Armani. So, he’s not the usual type of goon that they send on after me.
If anything, he’s worse. Usually, I don’t notice them until they’re breathing down my neck, but that’s suspicious in itself.
Does he want me to see him?
Given the amount of times I’ve paused and stopped for ice cream and taken a picture, this goon has had ample time to grab me and give me the good ol’ fashioned shakedown.
He’s probably just here to listen to whatever I learn.
Well, the joke’s on him.
I walk back through the streets—clutching my purse and my can of mace tighter against my body—and head to the café. I’m almost certain that I can lose him in a tiny, family-run coffee shop, where you can rarely find a seat and have your order heard, let alone overhear a stranger’s entire conversation.
I see the familiar dark crop of hair that belongs to my contact sitting at the window bar, watching the streets, and waiting for my arrival.
I know her as Pandora—for the numerous times she has opened the box of secrets for me and let all the ugly in the world spill over the front pages. I’m fairly certain she’s a journalist, too, and somehow, she has contacts with the Athens police, but she’s never told me exactly. It’s safer that way, for the both of us.
I wait five minutes for my latte to be made and join her. There are no seats at the bar, so I perch beside her.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” I ask with a smile of faux nervousness.
“Go ahead. I’ll be leaving soon.”
I’m also standing right by the door, so our conversation is drowned out by the constant opening and closing of the door, and the air conditioning unit that barely keeps the whole place cool.
“You’ve been drawing attention to yourself.”
“With an ass like this, when don’t I?”
I smile still, but Pandora’s face is stony serious. She’s usually got a stick up her ass, but the weight of her scowl feels heavier than usual.
“You can joke, but when they take you, that ass will be your biggest regret.”
“Are they going to take me?”
“If you keep going, you won’t give them much of a choice.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re everyone, everywhere. They’re the authorities, and they’re the bums on the street.”
Pandora sighs and takes a sip of her half-empty Americano.
“You need to drop this investigation.”
“Not fucking happening.”
I feel a flash of indignation and anger. Pandora’s usually paranoid about what she tells me, but she’s never actually told me to stop before.
“Why should I stop?”
“If you succeed with your investigation, it’ll mean jail time for a lot of people, and it’ll hurt the pockets of so many more.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good enough excuse not to rescue people from slavery, Pandora.”
“The Greek economy…”
“Fuck the Greek economy! These are women and children —wives, mothers, and daughters. If you were taken next, wouldn’t you want someone to look for you?”
Pandora chews on her lower lip and runs a manicured hand through her hair as she thinks. She’s only trying to look after me, but I’m not a little girl to be taken care of.
I look around the café, wondering if the well-dressed goon from earlier has managed to find a seat. I see him—or I think I do—on the other side of the café, perched on the arm of a leather sofa, holding a teacup and saucer in his hands.
He catches me looking at him, and smirks in my direction.
The penny drops.
I know that’s a cup of Earl Grey—with a sugar and the barest splash of milk.
And I know it’s fucking Janus.
I turn my head back to Pandora, who seems to have finished thinking.
She sighs in defeat.
“I don’t know anything else, except that they’re noticing you.”
“Honestly, I’d be surprised if you did, Pandora.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt. If you’re not careful, this really could be the last lead you’d ever follow.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“That’s what scares me. At least, promise me that you’ll be careful. I’d hate to lose you.”
Pandora has a point. After the years that she’s been my informant and I’ve been hers—to a lesser extent—we have developed some semblance of friendship.
It’s dangerous, especially in our line of work, but sometimes you can’t help it when you develop feelings for someone.
It almost reminds me of Janus.
But that might just be the weight of his eyes on my back.
“I’ll be as careful as I can, Pandora.”
“Which is not very careful at all,” she smiles weakly and finishes her coffee.
For a moment, Pandora looks at me sadly—a lingering gaze that tells me she does know something. Perhaps not a lot, but she understands at least how dangerous this story is.
I smile back with a grin that shows off my teeth.
It’s almost scary how concerned she is, but I won’t let her see my fear.
It’s quickly replaced anyway, by determination. If Pandora thinks that I won’t make it through this, then she’s just another person I’ve got to prove wrong.
“Here, have my seat.”
“Thank you.”
I sit in the window, resting both my elbows on the bar and watching as Pandora slips into the crowd and out of sight.
Time to plan my next move.