We drove from his Tampa office. Agent Gooding asked me to buckle my seatbelt, but we didn’t speak until from Tampa appeared in our rearview mirror. Downtown buildings framed the orange sky as sunset approached.
As the sun set, the palm tree fronds and long leaf pine trees along the highway set a majestic line on the drive south.
Sometimes the landscape changed, skinny cattle behind barbed wire fences broke the monotony of greenery, and metal signs announcing the fast food restaurants at the exits would appear every few miles.
I asked him again, “Where are we going, Agent Gooding?”
“When it’s just the two of us, just call me Xavier,” he said in a low voice.
“Well, are you going to answer me? I asked this question back in Tampa, after I signed my life away—literally. But no one’s said a
