Chapter 10 Ben
Ben
Dallas, Texas
Tuesday afternoon
Well played, Billy.
I crack a smile, stepping out of the busy restaurant and into the humid press of downtown Dallas. Sunlight glints off passing
traffic, and I give another wave to the women who marched me out. Not one but two ladies caught me in the women’s restroom
seconds after Cybil left, and I can’t be sure it wasn’t a planned assault. A solid one given the Southern scolding one lady
gave me while a tiny hurricane of a woman waved her hands and shouted in Spanish—something about chanclas and cabezas, which
translated roughly to: You’re about to regret your life choices, gringo.
And I did what any grown man trained by the FBI would do: apologized like my freedom depended on it and made a tactical retreat
before anyone could call security. I half expected Cybil to be waiting in the hallway with popcorn and a scorecard. But she
wasn’t.
Now, as I walk the few blocks back toward my office building, dodging sun glare off car hoods and construction noise, I find
myself hoping—really hoping—that she bought it. The alias. The explanation. The whole carefully packaged version of Craig
Miller I delivered with a straight face and a pounding pulse.
Not in a million years would I have expected to find her here—older, sharper, still full of fire. And I definitely didn’t expect to feel seventeen again just from the way she looked at me. Like she was remembering too.
Back then, she could outrun me on foot and outsmart me with a dare. Cybil Langford was all elbows and sarcasm and never backed
down from a challenge—especially if Rex and I were the ones issuing it. I used to drive her nuts on purpose just to see how
far I could push her before she snapped—and it usually involved a threat of duct tape and a permanent marker.
But that’s the problem.
The fact that I spotted her at my building tells me exactly what I should’ve remembered—Cybil doesn’t let anything slide.
I knew she was going to call me out on the lie. On the name I chose. Katherine wants me to turn Cybil into an asset, but I’d
forgotten she was more likely to flip the script than play along. If I’m going to make this work, I need to figure out how
to use her with as little contact as possible.
Which means I need to stay away from her. Spend as little time as possible around her. One, for her safety, two, for my safety,
and three because apparently I have a death wish and think flirting with someone who could expose me with one wrong word is
a great idea.
It’s not. Obviously.
Just because she still makes me laugh. Just because I remember how her hair used to smell like coconut in the summer. Just
because her smile hits like a sucker punch. None of that means anything.
It’s nostalgia. Hormones. Proximity. And totally manageable.
My building rises ahead, all mirrored glass and steel edges. My focus needs to be on the mission. On Ramirez. He’s who I’m
working for, so there shouldn’t be any reason Cybil and I cross paths again.
I’m a few feet away from the entrance when one of the security guards—Manny—calls out and jogs over with a brown paper bag.
“Hey, Miller! You forgot your lunch.”
I squint at it. “I already told you, I didn’t order lunch.”
He shrugs. “Delivery said it was for you. Name’s on the order.”
I take the bag, already suspicious. Manny’s right. My name is on the order, but when I peek inside and see the fish sandwich, I know it’s a mistake. I’d rather eat a stapler than fish.
I’m about to hand it back when a black Mercedes G-Wagon glides up to the curb like it owns the street.
The passenger door swings open, and Jimmy Rook steps out like we’re old friends meeting for coffee. “Craig, you got a minute?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just opens the back door—removing any illusion of choice. My pulse jumps. This is out of the
ordinary. And in my line of work, out of the ordinary has a nasty habit of turning fatal.
Lorenzo Ramirez is in the back seat, calm as ever. I climb in beside him, keeping my expression neutral, like this is all
part of the day’s agenda and not a potential prelude to getting buried in a ditch off I-35.
I settle into the leather seat, and if the surprise meeting wasn’t enough to spike my blood pressure, the sight of Sammy “The
Paws” Pawson behind the wheel finishes the job. Crime bosses don’t bring their muscle to a lunch meeting unless it comes with
a side of cement shoes.
Ramirez glances down at the paper bag still in my hand. “Lunch?”
I look down at the bag. “It’s not mine.”
Before I can explain, Sammy Pawson reaches back from the driver’s seat and snatches it out of my hand.
“Be my guest,” I mutter, watching him peel open the bag and pull out the sandwich. He bites into it like he hasn’t had a meal
in . . . well, at least since the shrimp last night at the museum. Punching people probably burns a lot of calories.
When we don’t pull away from my office, I breathe a little easier that maybe I’m not about to meet my Maker. There are too
many witnesses. But still, I understand the tango of power has begun. Him showing up unannounced demanding my attention is
all about control. And the only way not to let someone like Ramirez think he has complete control is to limit his access to
what he wants—me. I check my watch. “I have a few minutes between clients, Mr. Ramirez. What can I do for you?”
He gives me a practiced smile. “You’re familiar with international banking, yes?”
I know nothing about international banking.
That’s why Seth Jackson is on the team. It’s taken months to set up Craig Miller’s portfolio of wealth-building for clients who are powerfully, politically, and criminally connected.
And quicker than a rumor can spread through junior high, the FBI made sure word got around until Jimmy Rook “stumbled”
upon the not-so-secret ways I was making my clients wealthy. But rumors aren’t everything if you can’t back them up. The FBI
had to filter hundreds of thousands of dollars into Rook’s investment account to prove I could deliver before he finally introduced
me to Ramirez.
Or rather, introduced Craig Miller. He’s the expert and it’s his persona that I shift into effortlessly. “Intimately. I’ve handled foreign accounts from Dubai
to the Caymans. I know how to navigate international compliance laws and move money to where it needs to be.”
“What about Italy?”
“Sì, sono preparato,” I say, assuring him I’m prepared. And grateful for taking Italian in college to impress Cassidy Jo, who dropped out after two weeks. “Just have your banker in Italy send me the documents, and I can make sure your accounts are ready.”
“Oh, we won’t be leaving that to email, Craig.” Ramirez adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, casual as ever. “Italy can be tricky.
Beautiful, yes—but it has a habit of chewing up amateurs and leaving their bones on the beach.”
Was that a threat of scenic dismemberment?
“This requires a face-to-face meeting in Lagoverde.” He studies me. “To ensure there are no miscommunications and transactions
stay clean.”
This is why Lorenzo Ramirez has never been arrested. Because he knows exactly what to say and what not to say in case anyone
is recording. When I first met him, I suspected I’d be patted down, possibly given a cavity search, to look for a recording
device. But no one touched me. That didn’t mean there wasn’t an underlying threat of it, and we weren’t going to take any
chances on trying to get Ramirez to say something that his attorneys—the ones smarter than Rook—would somehow get thrown out
of court before the ink dried on charges.
“You want me to go with you to Italy?”
“Is that going to be a problem?”
Sammy crumples the sandwich wrapper and looks back at me. If I were really a financial advisor to the criminally nutso, I’m
sure I could charter a jet and be sipping espresso in Lagoverde by dinner. But the FBI doesn’t work that fast. I meet Ramirez’s
gaze. This isn’t a request.
“It shouldn’t be,” I answer. “But I’d need to check my schedule. When would I need to be there?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Thursday.” I school my expression, hoping it looks like I’m mentally rearranging my schedule instead of trying to show how
much that date complicates everything.
“That’s . . . quick,” I say. “Is there a reason for the urgency?”
“Edmond’s concerns require our immediate attention in Italy.” He flicks a glance at Rook. “And I’m afraid time is what we
don’t have, Mr. Miller.”
Edmond. My muscles tense and Cybil’s face flashes to mind, nearly snapping me out of character. That’s the difference, isn’t
it? I’m playing a part. But Cybil? She’s in the middle of this for real. And if Earl Edmond is involved with Lorenzo Ramirez, that makes
him dangerous.
Does she even know who she’s working for?
I’m second-guessing Katherine’s directive now. Turn Cybil into an asset. Great. But how do I do that without putting her in
more danger? How do I warn her without blowing my cover? I can’t. I saw the look in her eyes in the bathroom. A harbored distrust
of me. But I can’t sit here and do nothing. I have to try . . . something.
“I understand,” I say carefully, “but if I’m going to do my job right—keep everything tidy—I need time to do my due diligence.”
Ramirez waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t waste my time, Miller. If you can’t handle my business, I’ll find someone else who
can.”
I know I’m treading a fine line. Getting to Italy, working alongside Ramirez’s bankers—that’ll put me close enough to his
systems to find what I need. His files. The accounts. Maybe even the hit order to take out Danny Morales.
I nod slowly. “Time is money, Mr. Ramirez. I never waste either. I’m here to make you a very rich man—and protect your money while I’m at it.
If that means Italy, I’ll make it work. But .
. .” I pause long enough to make him lean in.
“It’s important I know who I’m working for. That I can trust them.”
“And you don’t think you can trust me?” Ramirez gives a hearty chuckle. “Is that it?”
“You’ve had me fully vetted,” I say, glancing at Rook, who nods. Then I look back at Ramirez. “I’d like the same courtesy.
Mutual trust. That’s how my business works. I know nothing of Earl Edmond.”
Ramirez watches me for a long second and then smiles, slow and satisfied, like I just passed a test I didn’t know I was taking.
“I appreciate your instinct, which is why I know you’re the right man for the job. You can trust Edmond. Just like with you,
Rook’s made sure we won’t have any issues there.” He flicks his eyes to his lawyer. “Right?”
Rook smiles. “We won’t have any issues from Earl or Sebastian Edmond.”
Not sure I like the way that sounds. I keep my voice level. “So they’ll be joining us in Italy?”
“Yes.”
“Hope he brings that assistant of his,” Sammy says with a smile.
My spine locks. I don’t know if it’s the way he says it or the way Rook smirks beside him, but every alarm in my head goes
off. Cybil. It’s her sass, her smarts, her looks—she draws attention like a match draws oxygen. And attention, in this world,
is a problem.
My hand tightens around my knee. Any chance I had of getting Edmond out of this deal evaporates. So does the chance of getting
Cybil out clean.
Ramirez slips a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, the meeting apparently finished. This time Rook doesn’t open the door for
me. I let myself out of the car. “I’ll see you in Italy.”
There’s a reason why Ramirez hasn’t been caught.
If anything in his plan goes south, he knows how to protect himself.
Just like Katherine said, he’ll disappear.
The FBI has contingencies in place to protect me—make me disappear so it looks like I’m sitting on a beach somewhere without an extradition agreement. But what about Cybil? Who’s
going to have her back? Who is going to protect her?
My sixth-grade teacher said there’s no such thing as a dumb question, but that’s not true. The only thing dumber than asking
who’s going to protect her is pretending the answer isn’t me.