9 The DMV
The DMV
For about five hundred bucks, anyone can get their hands on a scannable yet very much fake driver’s license.
It would be top-notch quality, but still fake.
Like with everything else in the world, there are levels.
A hundred bucks was about the going rate for a get-teenagers-into-bars kind of fake ID.
Any cop would spot that one, even in the dark.
Those weren’t for me.
I was willing to pay and risk it all for a real one. Issued by the Las Vegas DMV, no less. Able to withstand any law enforcement scrutiny, because a copy of it would be nestled in all the right databases, making my new identity legal.
As with the merciless game of roulette, getting a real ID without any supporting documents was a risky gamble and required a lot of work hedging my bets.
Walking into that government office was never easy, but by now, I knew how to mask the anxiety.
Knew how to steady my breath, square my shoulders, and act like I belonged.
Still, the familiar rush of adrenaline pulsed through me, sharpening my focus, tightening my muscles.
I couldn’t afford hesitation. That was what got people caught.
Even knowing that, a flicker of doubt coiled in my gut—one mistake, one wrong move, and this could be the end of who I was.
The end of my freedom, at least for a while.
With a deep breath, I pushed the thought away and kept walking.
The cab pulled to the curb in front of the huge DMV building. It was much larger than I’d anticipated. The size made me nervous, and I wondered how I could maneuver my way into landing at the right counter.
“Here okay?” the New Yorker asked, his hand reaching toward the meter.
“Keep it running for another moment, if you don’t mind, and let’s pull into the parking lot. I’ll walk from there.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.” I looked around for any signs of trouble as he turned around and drove into the parking lot, choosing one of the closest spots available.
There was nothing. No Jack. No police cars anywhere, ready to pounce on me and drag me away in cuffs.
Regardless, a strong sense of unease chilled my heart, like a bad omen that refused to let go.
Opening my purse, I checked the envelope I’d prepared the night before.
It included my full name on a yellow sticky note, the ARIA hotel receipt with the room number circled in black ink and the words Mailing Address scribbled in my handwriting, along with the address of a furnished home in Henderson that I’d put a deposit on without even seeing, in a printed screenshot from the realtor’s email.
The final item was a small memory drive loaded with crypto, in compensation for the new driver’s license.
Only that, in the wrong hands, could get me thrown in jail.
If I offered the money, that is.
But even if the money was requested, I could still walk away if things went south.
Or so I’d been told.
I got out of the cab and filled my lungs with air, slowly, then held it in for a few seconds. Breathing out just as slowly, I felt calmer, stronger, ready to conquer the day. I paid the cabbie and walked toward the entrance.
“Hey, you forgot your change!” he called after me. I waved him off without turning my head, busy scanning the facade and the people coming and going for any sign of trouble, any indication I should turn around and walk away from what I was about to do.
Then, I froze.
Jack was there, leaning against the wall in a section where the pergola cast alternating lines of shade and sun.
His cold gaze dared me to keep coming, but I did it anyway.
There was no turning back right now. If I ran from him in this moment, I’d have to keep on running all the way to the airport and leave Vegas forever, and with it, all my future plans.
Trying my best to mock indignation and hiding my fear behind it, I kept on walking toward the entrance, staying in defiant eye contact with him. Would he stop me? There, under at least two surveillance cameras? Why would he?
No one knew what I was about to do. No one except username DocsMaster93 on the Shadow Exchange marketplace, where we’d agreed on the terms of our transaction. I didn’t even know if DocsMaster93 was a man or a woman.
Or an undercover cop, setting me up.
Was Jack DocsMaster93? Stalking me since he’d learned I had secrets worth paying a small fortune to bury under a new identity?
How much did he know? I’d given DocsMaster93 my name online; he could’ve started there, and the article had given him my location.
That scenario explained how he’d known I’d come to the DMV.
I’d made an appointment for this date and time, at this precise location.
Nah . . . Couldn’t be.
My mind was going off the rails again, weaving scenarios that were so far-fetched, they were ridiculous. It was the voice of fear feeding itself, snowballing into a monster of illogical thinking and imaginary dangers. Yet this man was quite real, and so was his threatening demeanor.
As I walked into the building, I came within a few feet of Jack, close enough to see the bulging muscles on his arms, his clenched jaw, and the lines creasing his brow.
For a cop, he was too conspicuous. He had to be private security hired by the Taylor family.
That was actually worse, though. With cops, at least, I knew what to expect.
But then, how had he found me here?
Inside, the blast of air-conditioning hit me like a wall—just like it had when I first stepped into the hotel.
A shiver ran through me, but this time, it wasn’t just the temperature.
The chill burrowed deeper, settling under my skin, a reminder that no matter how many times I did this, the stakes never got lower.
Following signage, I was directed to a self-service terminal where I entered my name and phone number, and then I took a seat, waiting.
Worrying. Numerous service stations were spaced along the wall, set up quite closely together, and most of them were in use.
I’d be within earshot of at least two other employees and any number of customers.
I hoped DocsMaster93 knew what they were doing.
After about twenty minutes of waiting, a chime warned me of a text message. It read, Hello, Olivia. We are ready to serve you. Please come to Desk 9.
A slight tremor weakened my muscles as I approached Desk 9.
A middle-aged, slightly overweight woman with thick-rimmed glasses and a look of immense indifference on her face sat behind the counter.
Her home-bleached hair showed its brown roots spliced with lots of grays, and hung dull and matted over her shoulders.
Could she really be DocsMaster93? She looked nothing like a corrupt government official, and I’d seen a few.
This woman was more like a worn-out, overworked widow with a morning drinking habit and spiced-up coffee in her Starbucks travel mug.
What if my dark web source had been arrested or called in sick?
“Yes?” she asked, throwing me an impatient look. “How can I help you?”
“I need a new driver’s license. I just moved. My name is Olivia Taylor.”
No flicker of recognition came when I introduced myself. She extended her hand over the counter. “Let me see your documents.”
Holding my breath, I extracted the envelope from my purse and handed it to her. She didn’t flinch. She pulled out the papers folded inside and perused them quickly. Then she turned her attention to the flash drive inside the envelope.
For a split second that seemed endless to me, she stared at it. Then at me, as if wondering what to do. But finally she slipped the envelope under her desk with a quick, smooth move, as if throwing it into the trash.
I breathed.
Without another word, she began typing into her system, occasionally looking at my paperwork. She took my photo quickly, guiding me with monosyllabic jaded prompts. A few minutes later, she handed me a temporary license.
“You can use this until you get the new one. It’s expedited,” she added.
“You should have the new one delivered in about three days.” Her dark eyes turned to steel.
“Do I need anything to process this?” she asked in a low voice, making sure the crypto deposit on the flash drive didn’t need a password.
I shook my head.
“Excellent,” she replied, showing no emotion. “You’re all set.”
Relief washed over me. “Thank you,” I replied. She nodded and turned her attention back to her screen.
I bounced out of there with a spring in my step, headed for the door.
Until I remembered the mysterious man I’d nicknamed Jack.
Was he still waiting for me, right outside the entrance?
From where I was, I couldn’t tell. I stopped before reaching the doors and called an Uber, then waited impatiently inside, pacing the floor back and forth, obsessing over the ride’s arrival time.
And over Jack and what he could’ve wanted.
When the driver was about a minute out, I ambled toward the double glass doors, pretending to be rummaging through my purse and discreetly scanning for Jack.
He was there, his cold eyes glued to the doors. No reaction showed on his face when he saw me coming, and my ride was already at the curb, so I decided to walk past him without looking at him anymore. Perhaps ignoring him would work better, because challenging him surely hadn’t.
As I rushed past him, I kept my head high, my steps brisk but controlled, forcing myself not to react. Not to run.
I heard him move behind me, the scuff of his shoes against the pavement quickening. A cold spike of dread shot through me. Then his hand clamped around my arm, fingers like iron, yanking me back with enough force to knock me off balance and turning me toward him.
I gasped, my breath catching as pain radiated up my arm. I twisted, trying to wrench free, but his grip only tightened.
“You don’t belong here,” he said in a low voice, his breath touching my ear.
The overwhelming fear inside me turned into instant rage. Glaring at him, I hissed, “Let go of me. Or live to regret it.”
“You’re not safe here,” he said, releasing his grip.
His words stunned me. I gaped at him, speechless.
He shot a quick glance toward the parking lot, as if he was afraid to be seen speaking with me.
The cameras above our heads didn’t seem to matter to him.
“Run,” he said, his voice tense, loaded. “Get out of Vegas.”
His grip loosened, but the imprint still burned my skin. For a split second, I stood frozen, my pulse a frantic drum in my ears as his eyes drilled into mine. Without a word, I staggered back, putting distance between us.
Those words echoed in my mind as I climbed into my Uber. I looked back over my shoulder, my mind flooded with questions I had no answers to. Who was this man? What kind of danger was he talking about? And how had he known to find me at the DMV?
As the Uber drove out of the parking lot, I glimpsed the answer to the last question.
A black motorcycle was parked on the side of the building.
I remembered seeing one just like it when I’d left Crystals in the New Yorker’s cab.
A Harley in plain black—no flames licking the gas tank, no bells, and no whistles.
And a simple black helmet like the one I’d seen on the biker’s head, now hanging from the handlebar.
He’d followed me to the DMV.
An hour later, Jack was waiting for me when I finished visiting the Henderson property I’d rented. I’d just signed the lease, and found him standing across the street. Now he knew where I was going to live. That drove me crazy.
I wanted to ask him to tell me more about his warning, but I had my real estate agent with me. I pretended not to notice him and rode off in the agent’s car. She was kind enough to give me a ride to Hertz.
When I left the car-rental company in a red convertible Beemer I’d leased on a monthly deal, the black Harley started tailing me closely.
By now, I’d run out of lies I could tell myself.
That Jack was there to scare me off. That he’d just get bored of following me and be gone soon.
That I could evade him somehow. Was it possible that Avery Sinclair had sent him?
To what end? Just to make my life miserable?
The truth was, I had no idea who Jack was or what he really wanted. It was unnerving.
It made me want to scream and scratch his eyes out.
Fear choked me, holding air trapped inside my lungs. With every turn I took, he was there, weaving through traffic, impossible to shake off. What was I supposed to be running from? Why hadn’t he told me, if he really wanted me gone?
This couldn’t be about Winston Donovan. He didn’t know I existed just yet.
Defense Attorney Blake: For the record, how do you know the defendant?
Maria Garcia: She’s my next-door neighbor.
Defense Attorney Blake: The afternoon of the murder, what vehicle was parked in your neighbor’s driveway?
Maria Garcia: Her own car, a convertible red BMW. It was there all evening, and overnight, too. I have a security system, and it didn’t move all night. I could see the side of it. I checked. She was home all afternoon and all night. I’m sure of it.
District Attorney Mitchell: Objection, Your Honor. The witness is speculating about the defendant’s whereabouts. She cannot confirm the defendant was home all afternoon and all night based solely on the car’s presence and security footage.
Judge Thomas Antunez: Sustained. The jury will disregard the last statement.