The general requests an audience. 

I crumple the note in my fist. They’re such polite words for a ruthless man, but this isn’t a request. It’s a demand.

I don’t have a choice. 

After a short drive, Alex escorts me down a road bordered with marsh. It’s the same camp we drove into all those weeks ago, when General Espada posed us next to a fighter jet. 

A few days of heavy rain has transformed the jungle. It’s like walking through a thick soup. Moisture clings to every surface, swirling around the hangars in pearly mists. A few minutes’ walk in the stifling heat, and my shirt is soaked. Soldiers track mud everywhere.

We stop at a green building. It’s small. A black and gold flag stands on a pole, lifeless. It’s surrounded by soldiers. At the sight of Alex, they move aside. He opens the door.

The inside resembles an office. It’s supposed to be a command center—the windows are blacked out and hanging sheets cover cork boards. Roasting coffee hits my gut. I swallow, fighting the nausea. Ginger tea hasn’t made a dent in my suffering. I hope this visit is short. 

“What’s this about?” I watch Alex as he guides me to his father’s door. “Another stupid photo op?”

“Not quite,” he whispers. “Be careful.”

Alex never relaxes in the presence of his father, but this is different. A warning gleams in his eyes. 

Shit. “Something happened.”

“Have you read the news?”

There was no time between struggling to keep my breakfast down and preparing for a long day at the kitchen. I shake my head.

Alex grips my arm. “The UN voted on tougher sanctions. They’re cutting off oil imports and freezing international assets.”

“Wow, that’s huge.” It’ll be harder to fund President Cortés’s warmongering. “Your father must be furious.”

“He is.”

Alex acts like someone died. “This is good.”

“Maybe for the world, but not for you.”

I don’t understand. “What does that have to do with me?”

“The States pushed hard for the sanctions. He’s not friendly toward Americans at the moment.”

Fear pierces my heart. “What should I do?”

“Don’t provoke him.”

I stare at the doors, imagining the fury they’re containing. “What if he hurts me?”

“You’re his daughter-in-law.” Doubt tinges his words. “I’ll be outside. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Alex meets my gaze. He’s still hurting from my rejection. 

“Thank you.” I squeeze his bicep. 

Alex ushers me inside a richly decorated office themed with black and gold. The flooring is dark hardwood. Leather armchairs surround a wall of books and a coffee table. I expected it to be Spartan. Touches of excess decorate the room—the polished box sitting on his mahogany desk, a gold-plated handgun, a decanter of liquor, a chess set with off-white tiles probably made of ivory. 

Scumbag.

General Espada sits, boots propped on the desk. “Please, come in.”

He gestures to a seat. I take it, fighting a throb of anger as his mustache pleats with a smile. “How are you?”

Like he cares. “Good, thanks.”

“Do you have what you need?”

“Yes.”

The chair creaks as he leans over. He flips open a small box and grabs a thick cigar. He offers it.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Suit yourself.” Carefully, he unwraps it and discards the plastic wrapper. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

I shrug. “My parents were smokers.”

He rotates the cigar, inhaling its rich flavor. “A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.”

“‘The Betrothed.’” I cross my arms. “Not Rudyard Kipling’s best work.”

His eyebrows lift. “Beautiful and smart.”

August said the same, but it’s different coming from the general. “Why am I here?”

“To make my life easier.” He seizes a cigar cutter and clicks it shut. “You have been useful, no doubt. But you’re not enough. The world is united against us.”

Maybe you should resign.

I turn responses in my head, searching for an innocuous one. “I’ve done what you’ve asked.”

“You have.” He glares, warning me not to interrupt. “And you’ll do more.”

Palming a sheet of paper, he slides it across the desk. 

I grab it, scanning the text. It’s in Spanish. “I can’t read this.”

“You don’t have to. Just repeat what I’ve written, word for word.” 

He cuts the cigar. The metallic shriek of the guillotine sends a thrill down my spine. The page shakes as I try to decipher the foreign words. 

It looks like a script. “What is this—anti-American propaganda?”

He picks up a lighter. It’s old-fashioned, tarnished from years of use. “Recite the phrases for the cameras. A crew is waiting outside. It’ll air tomorrow morning.”

My hand trembles. “I need to know what it says.”

“You do not.”

“I won’t be your mouthpiece. I will not badmouth my country.” 

He stabs the table. “This is your country.”

My mouth drops. Does he expect me to believe that? “It’s—it’s where I live, but—”

“Do you care about us, or is the volunteering an act?” 

How dare he throw that in my face? 

Silver vapor wafts between us. I resist the urge to fan the air. “Lying to them won’t help.” 

“You’ll do this or there will be consequences.” He stares at me through the gray cloud. “Your choice.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe I’ll shut down the kitchen.” He waves the cigar as he lists more atrocities. “Torch my son’s plantations to the ground. Destroy everything he’s built. Maybe you’ll go on a no-fly list. Who knows. It depends.”

“On what?”

“How angry you make me.”

My heart slams into my ribs. I grip the chair, my nails gouging wood. “I’m not doing anything that’ll hurt Americans.”

“Then I’ll have to strike at the people here.” His feet slide off as he straightens, cigar clenched between his teeth. 

“You are a monster.”

“And you’re a stupid American.” The bright red circle smolders as he inhales. “Exchanging insults is a bore. We both know you’ll cave.”

My eyes burn. It’s easy to blame the cigar for the tears.

He slides the sheet toward me. “Be a good girl and smile.”