Chapter 23 Ben
Ben
Dallas, Texas
Friday morning
There are a lot of ways to lose a woman. Apparently, standing still for five minutes while an Italian parade stampedes past
you is one of them. I still don’t know how she pulled it off. One second, Cybil was in my sights. The next? Gone. Whisked
away by some wolf-masked Casanova like she was the start of an underfunded Venetian soap opera. He dipped her, the crowd shouted
“Bacio!” and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to rip off that guy’s papier-maché snout and flatten him.
But that was six days ago. Now I’m back in Dallas, tucked inside the four beige walls of my fake office, where I shouldn’t
be thinking about a guy in a wolf mask—or how close his lips got to Cybil’s neck. I need to be focused on how I’m going to
keep Cybil from getting crushed in the middle of whatever power play Ramirez is orchestrating against Earl Edmond.
Cybil’s lying. I’m sure of it. I just don’t know why. The conversation on the veranda about her father’s settlement money
getting stolen has me convinced she’s the same girl I remember—one who wouldn’t let anyone use her. But people change. Life
wears them down. My heart wants to believe she’s still that girl. My brain reminds me I can’t afford to be wrong.
Ruby walks in and drops into the seat next to me. “Thought you might want to know—your gran’s background check was approved for a missile launcher.”
Katherine looks up from her computer, clearly concerned about the direction of the conversation.
“That would be funny, except you don’t know my gran. She found a guy selling a cannon on Facebook Marketplace and talked him
down to fifty bucks and a blueberry pie.”
Ruby laughs. “Which is worse? A grandma who’s into black-market artillery or one who keeps trying to marry me off?”
“Okay,” Katherine says in a tone that sobers the mood. “We didn’t get into Ramirez’s account with the airdrop device, so that
puts us back to square one.”
She says we, and I appreciate it. Katherine has always made this feel like a team effort instead of a one-man mission. Doesn’t make the
sting of failure any less sharp though.
“Let’s focus on what we do have,” Katherine says, refocusing our conversation.
“What about the guy in Italy—the one at the coffee shop?” Ruby asks.
I scrub a hand through my hair. “I thought he might’ve been following me, but when he left the café, he went the opposite
direction as Cybil—Ms. Langford,” I correct, a little too quickly. “After my meeting with Ramirez, maybe I was just being
paranoid.”
“Don’t do that,” Katherine says.
“Do what?”
“You’re trained to spot anomalies. Is this the guy you saw?”
She swivels her monitor around so I can see. A grainy security still. I lean forward, squinting. The guy’s build matches.
Hair color too. I’m about to say maybe when I spot the background—the café. And just behind the suspect? Cybil. Standing close. My hand on hers. It’s the exact
moment I tried to stop her from leaving. But from this angle, it looks . . . intimate.
I shift in my chair. Clear my throat. “Yeah, that’s him. Who is he?”
“No idea,” Katherine says. “And apparently, nobody else does either.”
“What do you mean?”
She leans back, crossing her arms. “No matches on facial recognition. Not in our system, Interpol, or Italy’s internal records.
We’re working with our liaison in Florence, but for now, we’re dealing with a ghost.”
“Think he could be the guy from the museum?” Ruby asks.
I stare at the screen. The possibility clicks. “Could be. If it’s the same guy, then he’s targeting Ramirez. Or at least his
deal.”
“And that makes him a variable,” Katherine adds. “One we need to be prepared for before the cocktail party tomorrow night.”
Right. Back to the plan.
“Seth will be going in as a high-level crypto investor with a few aggressive global partnerships. The Bureau’s been building
out his cover for the last few days—contracts, offshore accounts, a fake website that makes him look like Forbes forgot to name him their ‘Next Tech Billionaire.’”
Ruby lifts an eyebrow. “And Seth’s ready to mingle with sharks now?”
“He’s ready,” I say. “And he’s already practicing how to sip champagne without choking.”
The joke lands flat. Because the truth is, I’m worried. The last thing I want to do is put another innocent person in the
crosshairs of Ramirez. But we don’t have any other options.
“Seth may not have operative experience,” I admit. “But he’s great with the numbers. He understands the language of deals.
If Ramirez starts pushing, I think he’ll be able to hold his own. And if not, I’ll be there.”
Katherine nods slowly. “And Mercer too.”
“Right.” Julian Mercer is our fail-safe, but he’s also a loaded gun. If he gets involved, things can escalate quickly, so
I’m hoping we don’t have to use him. “Ramirez wants to feel like he’s in control. The cocktail party gives him that. He gets
to ‘interview’ new prospects, test the waters, and send a message to Edmond without lifting a finger. Seth only needs to keep
him occupied enough for us to clone the YubiKey.”
“Without getting killed,” Ruby adds as if necessary. She flips through a file on her tablet. “Anything new on Edmond?”
“Still quiet.” I glance toward the whiteboard at the front of the room. Edmond’s name is up there in all caps. “He’s either planning his exit or trying to go around Ramirez.”
Ruby pauses. “Why does Ramirez think Cybil will turn on her boss?”
“Maybe he thinks she’s easy bait,” I say. “A pretty face he can use to get to Edmond. But if that’s the plan . . .” I shake
my head, jaw tightening. “Then he clearly doesn’t know the girl I know.”
There’s a beat of silence. Ruby and Katherine look at me.
I clear my throat. “Or used to know.”
“She’s got several thousands of reasons why she might be an easy target,” Katherine says.
When I got back from Italy and faced the debriefing with Attorney General Fritz, Katherine made me go through Cybil’s dossier.
And the debt Cybil is in is staggering. In my job, I’ve learned crime has a price and people in need of money are usually
willing to cross lines they wouldn’t have otherwise. But Cybil?
It’s the question that keeps me up at night. And it doesn’t change the fact that she’s still dodging questions like she’s
got something to hide. But if Ramirez thinks he can use her to get to Edmond, I need to get to her first.
“So far it doesn’t appear like Ramirez has made any attempts to get to her,” Ruby says. “Outside of you.”
I glance at her. “You’re tracking her?”
“Light surveillance. Public-facing feeds only,” Ruby says, tapping her screen and then handing her tablet to me. “Working
for someone like Earl Edmond, she really ought to vary her routine. Way too predictable.”
I study the screen. Ruby’s right. Cybil’s schedule for the last week is mapped out in clean, clinical detail. Surveillance
time stamps. Locations. My eyes land on an address she visits every afternoon, right around this time.
“We’re also watching to make sure Sammy Pawson isn’t circling,” Katherine adds.
My jaw tightens. The guy was a menacing shadow in Italy, and if Cybil’s schedule is this predictable, she’s an easy target.
“If Ramirez is watching her,” Katherine says, “we need to get ahead of this. You need to find out if she’s either an asset
we protect or a liability we neutralize.”
The words land with a dull thud in my chest. Asset. Liability. She’s more than a bullet point on a threat assessment sheet.
She’s Cybil.
The meeting ends. I tell myself I need some air. But five minutes later, I’m in my car, punching the address into my GPS.
I’m just going to drive by. I’m not stalking her. I’m protecting her. And—minor technicality—I can’t stay away.
Twenty minutes later, I walk past the bookstore. For the third time. I’m not here because I’ve missed her. Her smile. Her
sass. The way she glares at me like she’s already planning where to bury the body. I’m here because Cybil Langford might be
compromised.
And—fine—because I care. A lot.
I push open the bookstore door and step inside. All right. Just in and out. Quick visual confirmation. Zero interaction. Nobody
has to know.
It takes me a minute, but I spot her—tucked into a corner chair near the Reference section, sipping something iced with a
thick book resting on her lap.
From a perfectly normal spot behind a rotating wire rack of greeting cards, I watch her. She taps a highlighter on the corner
of the book, completely focused, her forehead creased just slightly in thought. Her fingers twitch on the page when she reads.
She marks things with her highlighter. And I don’t know what it is about girls who read, but it’s incredibly attractive. And
dangerous to my heart. I want a closer look.
I skirt around the perimeter of the store, keeping shelves and tables stacked with books between us. I’m trying to see what
she’s reading—because apparently, now I want to be a part of the thing that has her so locked in.
I lean just a little too far to the left . . . and knock over a carefully balanced tower of “Staff Picks for Sensitive Souls.” The pastel paperbacks go down like a literary Jenga game. I freeze. Cybil looks up. I duck behind the nearest bookshelf.
And immediately regret it.
“Why are you hiding?”
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn my head. A toddler—small, sticky, and deeply suspicious—stares at me. His eyes narrow. He’s got jelly smeared
across one cheek, Dragons Love Tacos in one hand, and a half-eaten graham cracker in the other.
I’m surrounded by picture books and plush dragons wearing tiny sweaters. I grab the closest book—something about a pigeon
who doesn’t want to share his sandwich—and whisper, “I’m not hiding. I’m reading.”
Before I can shoo him away, he plops down directly on my foot and shoves the taco book into my hands.
“Read it.”
“Not today, buddy.”
His blue eyes well up. Chin trembles. And I’m one wrong word away from detonation.
“No, no, no—don’t cry,” I whisper in a panic. “I’ll, uh . . .”
I look around. I spot a stuffed dragon and grab it.
“Here. Why don’t you read the story to the dragon?”
He accepts it solemnly, like we struck a truce. I silently pat myself on the back for a successful toddler negotiation.
And then . . . she appears. Stylish. Flustered. Latte in one hand, diaper bag in the other. Her eyes lock onto me.
“Charlie, did you make a friend?” she asks brightly, smiling in a way that makes me suspect this is what a rat feels like
right before a cat pounces. “What’s your friend’s name?”
Friend?
I try to shake Charlie off my foot. No luck. Kid’s got the grip of a barnacle. “I was just, uh”—I rise slowly—“looking for
a book.”
“In the children’s section?” Her tone lifts like I’ve just proposed. “You have kids?”
“No.” Too fast. Too loud.
So loud that Cybil’s head lifts across the store. She turns. Sees me. I duck. Hard. In the process, I knock Charlie over.
“Whoops, buddy, you okay?”
“Yeah!” He grins and—naturally, as boys do—interprets the fall as an invitation to wrestle. He launches at me. I catch him
midair just before he collides into a shelf of board books.
“You’re a natural.” Charlie’s mom beams. “Are you here every Friday? Because this place could use a few more knights in shining
armor.”
I offer a strained smile and dare another glance over the top of the bookshelf. Cybil’s at the counter now, talking with an
employee. If I don’t get out of this preschool rom-com subplot, I’m going to lose her again. And after Italy, I’m not ready
for round two of the vanishing act.
“It was nice meeting you.” I look from mother to child. “Charlie.”
She steps in front of me and blocks my escape. “This might be a little bold, but Charlie doesn’t usually take to people. If
you’re single, maybe I could get your number? We could meet here again? Or at the park? Or my—”
“Excuse me, sir.” A store employee appears beside us, holding a large book with the caution of someone handling nuclear material.
“Here’s that book you asked for.”
She hands me a hardcover with the title Surviving Incurable Fungal Infections.
My cheeks flame and I try to shove the book back at her. “I didn’t ask for this,” I stammer.
From the corner of my eye, I see Cybil watching. Smiling. Smug.
“We don’t have the one on rashes,” the employee adds helpfully, “but we can order it for you.”
Charlie’s mom blinks. Looks at me. Then the book. Then me again.
“Good luck with that,” she says, scooping up her son like I’m radioactive and speed-walking toward the exit.
The employee leaves me with my book and my publicly diagnosed fictional fungus, and when I look to find Cybil, she’s gone.