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Chapter 22
By night-owl standards, it was still early when Munroe left the Haven, 
although the Haven itself, in shutting down for the evening, had already grown dark and quiet. 
Unlike the rest of the city, The Chosen were early to bed and early to rise.
Elijah and Esteban walked her to the car, and then with feet shuffling 
and this time not-so-subtle suggestions about giving to God, they prolonged the good-bye to the point of awkwardness. 
Munroe refused to offer, they didn’t directly ask, and she toyed the issue along, string to the cat, courting an invitation, 
and it came right on schedule, Elijah offering to spare her the trip home if she’d like to stay the night.
Munroe appeared to weigh her options. She would stay the night, yes. But not tonight. 
She had prior plans with her family that she couldn’t break, but tomorrow she would be free and tomorrow she would return.
Tomorrow she would steal Hannah from this place.
Munroe drove to the hotel by rote, traffic signs, lane markers, and suicidal merging processed automatically by years of Third World experience. 
Her mind worked overtime to deconstruct the violent mix of emotion that she’d held in check throughout the evening, piecing together the steps that must follow to bring Hannah safely out.
Bradford was at the desk when she opened the hotel room door. He stood, his face expressing genuine happiness at her return. 
The welcome warmed her only until she opened the closet and sensed the subtle perfume of Heidi coming off his coat.
Munroe froze in a flash of knowledge and paused for the brief moment that it took to push back the hiss of anger that followed in its wake. 
She returned Bradford’s nod, his smile, and in a mixture of exhaustion and nervous tension, stepped to the bed and lay down, fully dressed.
“Can I join you?” Bradford said, and Munroe, hands behind her head and staring at the ceiling, shifted slightly to allow him space to sit. 
Legs over the side, leaning toward her in quiet company, he asked, “Have you eaten?”
“If you could call it food,” she said, and then, after the slightest pause, sat upright. “Come on, let’s get out of here. 
“You’ve been cooped up all day and I need to crawl outside my own head and process a shit-load of information— 
“I want to talk it out with you,” she said, “and I’m sure you’re waiting to hear it.”
“Indeed I am,” he said.
Munroe shed her clothes, changed into evening wear, and then from the hotel they found a milonga, one of the city’s many dance halls devoted to tango. 
Nearing midnight, and still early by city standards, the place was only partially filled, and they easily found a spot on the outer edge of the tables, among others who had arrived as couples. 
Here in the thick, smoky, dark, music-filled room, they could talk, undisturbed, while watching dance partners ply their skill on the wide center floor.
Over drinks and light food, Munroe told Bradford about the day’s events, taking him through the routines and what she knew of the building layouts thus far. 
They discussed strategy, options, and the pros and cons of a late-night extraction versus tagging a van and pulling Hannah off the street once The Chosen deployed their members for begging. 
Each option held its own series of unknowns and set of complications. They made preparations for both eventualities.
As was his reason for being here, Bradford would run matériel and specs as backup to Munroe’s intel, 
and he outlined the protocols necessary to get Hannah securely over the border once they had possession.
“I’m considering letting Logan know,” Munroe said. “If nothing else, that we’ve pinpointed the location.”
“Another person in the loop brings another potential round of trouble.”
She nodded, acknowledgment of his concern if not concession to his point.
Bradford continued. “Regarding Logan, I spoke with him just a bit before you got back today. He needs to talk to you about Gideon.”
Gideon’s name brought with it a different set of issues. 
Being this close to Hannah, the job really didn’t need a loose cannon getting into the mix, and any information Logan had to offer was crucial.
Munroe checked her watch. “What’s Logan’s schedule these days? You think he’s still up?”
“Even if he’s not, I can call him,” Bradford said. “I got him set up with a cell phone.”
She ran a finger around the rim of her water glass. “Invite him to join us, will you?”
He nodded and stood. “Let me find some quiet,” he said. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
When he returned, he said, “He’s on his way. Half an hour, maybe,” and Munroe let loose the grin she’d been holding back for the last half hour.
“There are women making eyes at you,” she said. And teasing, “Why don’t you dance?”
Bradford paused a moment, and he followed her line of sight down the room to a table of three single women. 
His expression morphed into a slow smirk, and with a sly glance back toward Munroe, said, “Maybe I will.”
She hadn’t expected that he would take her up on the dare, but without a hint of hesitation, he locked eyes with a long-haired brunette, and ticked his head upward in cabezazo, the way locals did. 
The woman smiled, nodded in return, and Bradford stood and made his way to her.
Munroe had observed the woman over the course of the evening, had seen her level of skill, and was certain that Bradford had as well. 
She wondered how the mixture would blend, how much embarrassment would ensue— but only as long as it took for Bradford to reach the center floor.
And then her jaw dropped, if only slightly, at the unexpected poetry in motion. 
The man could dance and displayed dramatic flair that she’d never before seen in this soldier of casual confidence.
The set ended, Bradford conversed with his lady friend long enough to be polite, 
the pain of broken English and broken Spanish etched on both their faces, and finally, catching Munroe’s eye, returned to the table, grinning.
“Ah,” he said, arms stretching, knuckles cracking, “that was good.”
“What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why I’m even surprised.”
“I don’t know why either,” he said. He held his hand out to her. “Dance with me?”
She raised an eyebrow, and he continued holding his hand in her direction. “After that performance?” she said.
“I’ll make you look good,” he said, “I promise.” And he motioned his fingers toward himself, as if to say “come here.”
She was still smiling but shook her head.
“Oh, come on,” he said, his tone wheedling and cajoling. “You, the woman who’s not afraid of anything, hesitate to dance with me?”
“I’m not afraid,” she said.
“Then let’s have at it.” The playfulness had gone out of his voice, his eyes were locked onto her, and he stood, undeterred, waiting.
She reached out her hand, and when their fingers connected, the warmth and the electricity of the moment transferred skin to skin.
In the center of the room, Bradford first led slowly, the motions of teacher to student, until realizing she was less a stranger to tango than he; he pushed livelier, harder, as the dance became magic, beat to angry beat, upper bodies taut, hips fluid and sensual, 
each touch alive and expressing far more than words ever could, coupled, heated and sweaty, 
until Munroe caught sight of Logan in the back of the room, and the spell was broken.
She nodded in his direction, and Bradford, following her line of sight, waited until the music paused and then led the return to the table.
Logan joined them a moment later. He’d been watching for a while, which was written on the cloud across his face, 
as if tonight’s snapshot of play was somehow indicative of how Munroe had thus far spent her time in Buenos Aires.
She reached over the table and pinched his cheek, the way she would a little boy. 
Her gesture was an instant icebreaker, and Logan batted her away. 
She laughed, ignored his silent accusations, offered him a drink and antipasti, and then went straight to business.
“I got the information you wanted about Gideon,” Logan said. “It might help to clarify his motives here.”
Munroe nodded, motioned for him to continue.
“So, apparently, he lived in Argentina when he was fourteen and fifteen. 
“Seems like when he first got here— right after he turned fourteen— there was a guy living in the Haven— single guy, American— don’t know his name.” 
Logan took a breath, paused long, and then continued. “He sodomized Gideon,” he said. “It was a pretty frequent thing.”
With Logan’s words, the air split, and Munroe, drawn away from the evening, from the distraction of Bradford and the music, stood on the edge of a precipice, staring down at molten depths. 
Her pulse quickened. She pulled her hands from the table and placed them on her lap, where no one would see the destructive anger that worked itself out in her knuckled grasp. 
Logan spoke, and with the description came the flood of fire from the depths. 
Images. Helplessness. Hatred. Violence. Not the events of today, but from long before.
“It went on for about a year,” Logan said, “and then Gideon was moved to a different Haven, and it was shortly after that when they kicked him out.”
“Why’d they kick him out?” she asked. Her words were calm. Hollow. Echoes in her ears.
“He started having emotional problems, behavioral issues; they said he was demon-possessed.”
Munroe was silent for a moment, working past the rage, through to calm. 
She understood Gideon’s anger, the passion that drove him, and the hostility with which he faced her and faced the world. 
She knew it. Felt it. Lived it. He and she were more alike than either would want to admit. 
To Logan she said, “I thought homosexuality was forbidden in The Chosen— excommunicable, you said.”
“Well, sure,” Logan replied, “but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It just wasn’t out in the open like all the other abuse was.”
“And nobody ever stopped to think that some of these behavior issues might be trauma-related?”
“That’s not the way they think, Michael. The problem is never the doctrine, never the leader, never The Chosen. 
“The problem never has an external source. The problem, no matter what it is, is you. So they get rid of the problem.”
Munroe nodded. She was running scenarios. Damage control. 
Not only on the project but also on her own emotions, which were charging blind like a team of bolting horses. 
“Why Argentina?” she said. “It’s been what? Seventeen years? Nineteen? 
“People in The Chosen move around so often, if the guy is even still part of them, there’s no way that he’s stayed here all these years— Gideon’s got to know that.”
Logan shrugged. “Maybe he has to start somewhere. Or maybe things have come full circle. 
“Seems like he got wind of something, some piece of news worth moving on, like maybe the guy had come back here or something like that.”
“Who’s your source,” Munroe said.
“Charity.”
“She knew all of this and didn’t tell you?”
“Yeah. It’s personal stuff, Michael, not exactly something a guy like Gideon goes around confiding in everyone. 
“I only dragged it out of her because I told her that if she didn’t let me know, she’d quite possibly never see her daughter again.”
Munroe said nothing.
“I also told her that you were getting really close and that if Gideon found out that you were looking into his past, you’d walk off the project.”
Munroe gave Logan an appreciative nod. He knew the look. It wasn’t gratitude, it was admiration. 
“You did good, Logan,” she said. More than good, because she now had what she needed to neutralize any threat from Gideon.
“So here’s the thing,” she said. “We’ve located Hannah.”
Logan blinked, inexpressive, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. 
The music set ended, and in the volume drop the table was ensconced in a bubble of impenetrable silence. 
Logan’s mouth opened, as if his mind couldn’t process the words from head to vocal cords. 
He paused another moment and then said, “What happens next?”
“That’s what we were discussing tonight,” Munroe said. “I’m torn, really torn about letting you in on this. 
“I can’t work with you stressing around me, and the last thing I need is to be worried about you getting hurt, but I feel you have a right to know. So you are to stay away, far away, you got it?”
Logan nodded.
“And whatever you hear tonight stays with the three of us, okay? If I want Gideon and Heidi to know, I’ll tell them myself.”