Spies, Lies, and Alibis

Chapter 1 Ben

Ben

Dallas, Texas

Monday night

The day I walked into school in my Sunday suit, my hair slicked back, and my orange juice in a martini shaker I took from

my house, I felt like the coolest kid in school. “Shaken, not stirred,” I told Mrs. Connor with a wink. I’m not sure if I

earned detention for the wink or when I argued that a spy didn’t need to know algebra.

Not that it mattered. When Mrs. Connor asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I was all about bull riding. Or driving a

derby car at the local mud track on a Friday night. Or moving to Australia to wrangle crocodiles like the great Steve Irwin.

In sixth grade, the only thing I wanted was a taste of danger—like James Bond.

I scan the interior of the Dallas Museum of Art and feel like I’m in the middle of a Bond movie, but unlike the Ian Fleming

plots, the kind of danger surrounding me isn’t fictional. And to be honest, the taste of danger isn’t as sweet as I’d imagined.

Tonight the art museum is decorated with gold and white balloons and a live band is playing a broad range of music from across

the decades. Waiters with trays of appetizers and champagne slip in between the guests.

An older couple around the age of my grandparents is sitting at a secluded table in the sculpture garden.

It’s corny, I know, and I’d never admit it out loud, but there’s something mesmerizing about watching them interact beneath the twinkly lights strung between the live oaks as if they’re the only people in the world.

Somehow they’ve managed to ignore the three hundred other gala guests dancing, eating, and talking loudly around them. I don’t

know who they are, and my first instinct is to be suspicious, but for a few minutes I give them the benefit of the doubt and

believe they are good people—and not Mom and Pop Gambino.

My imagination paints them as a hardworking couple: He invested in the market when he was young and grew his wealth while

working his way up the corporate ladder; his wife is a schoolteacher who truly did it for the love of her students while filling

their home with love, children, and memories.

I let my mind play out their story, and when I see the husband gently cradle his wife’s hand, I can’t help but hope my version

is right. It stirs a longing for my own story.

“So, no risk, eh?”

My attention is dragged back to the man standing next to me at the outdoor bar. Charles Rinault’s brown eyes are a little

glassy but not enough to hide his interest in my answer. “Low risk, low reward. High risk . . .” I smile. “Well, with your

success you must know the rest.”

Mr. Rinault’s expression lights up with pride. He’s a restaurateur, and from the story he’s fed me for the last twenty minutes,

he started from nothing except a fat inheritance from his French great-grandmother he never knew. He took that money and opened

two French nightclubs that also serve food, hence why he calls himself a restaurateur rather than what he truly is—a shady,

criminal club owner.

It’s so cliché. Burlesque club owner? Sometimes I wish criminals would be a little more imaginative, but their lack of creativity

makes my job easier. At least most jobs. My gaze slides back to the older couple again, and tonight my job feels . . . taxing.

Eighteen months ago my real life was put on hold when the FBI assigned me to go undercover as a financial advisor working for AJ Finance, a fictional boutique investment firm that requires interested clients to have a financial portfolio in the high millions to even be invited to a concept meeting.

But I’m only interested in one man’s accounts, and that man isn’t Charles Rinault.

“It’s my job to leverage the risk so that your investment remains clean.” The band has chosen a slow number, allowing the volume of the conversations around me to pick up, so I lower

my voice. “I’m not here to convince you to use my service, Mr. Rinault. My client list is quite full, and honestly, I’m not

even sure I can take another—”

“No, no.” Mr. Rinault slaps his glass of whiskey on the bar top and then throws a sloppy smile at the couple on the other

side of him. “I want to invest. Just tell me what I need to do.”

A tall brunette enters my line of sight, her green eyes locked on me as her slender frame saunters in my direction. Her appearance

at my side steals Mr. Rinault’s focus, turning it envious when her hand grazes the sleeve of my tuxedo. “I’ve been looking

for you.” Her gaze shifts to Mr. Rinault and then back to me. “Are you going to be here all night?”

Her tone isn’t flirtatious, which matches the tight smile she gives me. She wedges her way between me and Mr. Rinault to order

a drink from the bartender. Her eyes flash with a message. It’s time.

The move is intentional and gives me the chance to look over my shoulder in the direction my partner, Ruby Knight, alluded

to. I scan the area searching for anything that seems . . . suspicious. Anything that stands out among the lavish show of

wealth on parade by the guests who have all congregated in the name of philanthropy. And crime.

It’s not lost on me that some of these individuals hiding behind their overly bright veneer smiles are slimy snakes with hushed-up

criminal histories. Or, like Charles Rinault, they believe laundering money with me is worth the risk. I should feel out of place given the net worth surrounding me is in the millions, billions for some. Meanwhile,

I spent last night budgeting for a summer fishing trip and debating whether a three-star motel is better than a two-star hotel.

In my notch lapel tuxedo—the same one James Bond prefers (I checked)—no one should suspect I’m not who I say I am, which means

my meeting tonight with a crime boss shouldn’t draw any extra suspicion.

Especially when I disappear.

After a minute, my eyes catch on a familiar face—Lorenzo Ramirez—and every nerve in my body goes on alert.

Ramirez owns Enzo Coal it’s all Ruby. And I’m concerned. Making my way down the hall, I take a few

seconds to appreciate a woodblock print called Hara: Mount Fuji in the Morning just in case someone happens to catch me up here. “What did you do?”

“Why do you always assume I did something?”

I walk quietly toward my destination at the end of the hall.

There’s a door marked Employees Only, and with a quick glance over my shoulder I turn the knob and let myself through.

Behind the door, I feel less exposed and continue my conversation with Ruby as I take another set of stairs back down to the second level. “Did you do something?”

She hums in my ear all innocent, but Ruby Knight is one of the FBI’s best agents, with a nearly flawless résumé. Nearly. There

are three things that Ruby hates, which have caused some issues on the job. One, having to prove herself as a female agent;

two, people touching her food; and—

“He called Tucker Reid a hack. Said the Cowboys would have a more consistent running back in a turtle.”

And people who dis the Dallas Cowboys. Ruby is very sensitive about football. I close my eyes briefly, unsure if I want to know more. “Please tell me Mr. Rinault

is still walking.”

“He’s walking.” I can hear the spark of unapologetic mischief in her voice. “But with a limp.” I imagine her giving an innocent

shrug. “What can I say, I’m a little clumsy in these heels.”

Lies.

“You’ve got eyes on Ramirez?”

“Yep,” Ruby answers. “What time is your meeting?”

“Fifteen minutes,” I answer after checking my watch. With caution, I slowly push open a door that leads me into another gallery

room. Just like on the third level, a velvet rope cordons off this section of the museum from guests. Soft lights illuminate

the artwork on the walls and the Latin American sculptures on pedestals.

Tonight’s meeting is going to take place in the Mayer Library. It’s private, quiet, and off-limits to everyone but Lorenzo

Ramirez and whoever he’s supposed to be meeting to discuss a deal with great financial opportunity. My role was to come with

a plan to manage the profits of the deal and, as advised by Jimmy Rook, “prove my worth.”

Oh, I have a plan. I double-check my pocket, ensuring the cigarette lighter containing the Raspberry Pi Zero is secure.

The human interface device will act as a covert back door, allowing the FBI to remotely intercept network traffic and access Ramirez’s laptop as soon as he logs in.

If he opens any accounts or sensitive files, we’ll see everything.

All I need to do is get inside the office and plant it.

I pull out my Lishi lockpick tool and start toward the locked door.

I’m careful not to let my confidence lure me into complacency. Ruby will alert me if Ramirez moves, but there are still museum

security employees making rounds. I need to tread carefully. I can’t risk exposure of any kind. Lorenzo Ramirez might not

pull the trigger, but his hands are as bloody as the ones he pays to do it.