Chapter 28 Cybil
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Saturday night
As I speed away from the restaurant, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the last solid thing in my life, two things are
abundantly clear—I am not a spy, and I should’ve passed on the fettuccine ravioli appetizer.
I swallow back the nausea and repeat myself to Athena. “I’m in trouble.”
Athena’s calm voice comes through my speaker. “What happened?”
The words spill out, rushed. “I think I’ve been compromised. Ben was questioning me again and I needed to get away from him”—and the feelings he was stirring up in me. “I went to the bathroom, but there was this guy and—”
“Take a breath, Cybil.”
I suck in a breath. “I overheard something, just a few words, but it was Ben talking to Ramirez and Rook. They said my name.
And then they caught me.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. I can still feel the weight of Ben’s stare when he found me in the hall, the way his expression
shifted. Like he knew what I was doing.
“Who caught you?”
“Ben. And Rook, Ramirez’s lawyer.” My mind was spinning, replaying every second of the night in an endless, stomach-churning loop. “Athena, what if he sold me out?” My voice cracks. “What if Ben figured out what I’ve been doing and he—”
“Breathe,” Athena reminds me again, her voice steady as ever. “Where are you now?”
I blink. I’ve been so consumed in getting as far away from the restaurant as possible, I haven’t paid attention to where I’m
driving. The city lights have faded behind me, replaced by dimly lit streets lined with aging brick buildings and low-rent
office spaces. A few neon signs flicker overhead, casting eerie glows onto the cracked sidewalks. Most of the storefronts
are dark—insurance agencies, bail bond offices, a payday loan place with bars on the windows. Exactly the kind of place where
no one asks questions if they hear gunshots. My paranoia spikes. “Somewhere near downtown.”
“How far are you from your apartment?”
I open my mouth to respond when something shifts behind me. A faint rustling that causes the hair on my arms to stand.
“Athena,” I whisper. “Something’s wrong.”
Another noise—heavier this time, like a shuffle of weight against fabric. I twist my head, looking at the back seat, and my
breath catches in my throat. A man is in my back seat.
I scream. The car swerves violently, tires screeching. My seat belt locks as I yank the wheel, barely managing to keep my
car from crossing into the opposite lane. My tires smash against the curb with a jump and I throw the car into Park.
“What’s happening?”
I can’t get out of the car fast enough . . . but my stupid seat belt is determined to keep me trapped. “There’s someone in
my car!” I shout, still clawing at the buckle.
“Right now?”
Her confusion incites me. I finally wrench myself free and scramble out of the car, nearly strangling myself with the seat
belt. I don’t need to fear Ramirez after all—seems like automobile safety will be the thing that kills me.
“Yes, right now.” Should I be running from my car? Screaming for help? Calling 911 instead of explaining to Athena that there’s a freaking man in my car?
“What’s he doing?”
My car was just hijacked, I’m on the verge of puking my guts out or having a heart attack, and she wants to know what the
man’s doing?
“Cybil, what is he doing?”
Heart hammering, I spin around and yank open the back door, fully prepared to run for my life.
But the man doesn’t lunge at me with a knife or point a gun at me. His slumped-over form doesn’t move at all. I stare at him,
my brain short-circuiting. “Uh . . .” I swallow. “He’s not doing anything.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
I retrieve my phone from where it slipped between the seats and change it from my car speaker to my phone speaker. “He’s not
doing anything. He’s not moving.”
“He’s unconscious?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he breathing?”
My heart stalls as I stare at the unmoving man. “He’s dead?”
“I don’t know, is he?”
“Athena!” I hiss. “What do I do?”
“Stay calm.”
“Are you serious?”
“Listen, I’m assuming you don’t normally keep spare bodies in your car to save on tolls, right? So let’s just take this one
step at a time. I need you to check for a pulse.”
“Do I have to?”
“Dealing with a drunk man is different than dealing with a dead man.”
“Fine.” I lean into the car and gingerly reach toward his wrist. His skin is hot against my fingers, but relief rushes through
me when I feel proof. “He’s alive.”
“Good. Now describe him.”
“Describe him?”
“What’s he wearing?” Athena’s voice is unshakable like she’s walked a person through this type of scenario before, and for some reason that does not make me feel better. “Does he look like a homeless guy who took advantage of your unlocked door or—”
“No. He’s wearing a suit. Nice shoes. Wait . . .” My hands are still shaking, but I lean into the car again and look at his
face. “I think I recognize him. Yeah, he was at the restaurant. I thought he was drunk—he staggered outside right before I
left.” My mind is racing, piecing things together. “Oh no. I told him to get to his car, but he must’ve gotten into my car
by mistake.”
Athena snorted. “That excuse won’t hold up in court.”
I jump back. “What?”
“Check his pockets for ID.”
I make a face. “Um, no.”
“We need to find out who this guy is, Cybil. Someone could be looking for him—maybe Ramirez?”
My eyes flash to my surroundings. Dark, isolated, perfect spot to kill me. I look back at the unconscious man and groan. “Sir,
I’m just going to check your pockets for identification,” I say in case he can hear me. He lets out a snore and I jump, smacking
my head against the car frame. “I hate this.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“You’re not the one groping an unconscious man.” I decide to check his suit jacket pockets first. Sliding my hand between
his jacket and chest, I’m not prepared for the heat radiating off his body. It’s like I stuck my hand inside a sauna. I quickly
search the first interior pockets and find nothing. My gaze slides to his pants pockets.
Just do it fast.
With a deep breath, I reach for his back pocket and squeeze my eyes shut as I pat them down. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Cybil, can you hurry instead of apologizing?”
“I’m going as fast as I can.” I grit my teeth and give his front pockets a G-rated patting. “He doesn’t have a wallet.”
“Cell phone?”
I back away from the car. “Nothing.”
“Take a picture of his face and send it to me.”
I snap a quick photo, send it, and begin pacing. If I’ve ever had any delusions about being some kind of elite undercover
agent, this disaster has just smacked me upside the head with reality. Hard. There’s an unconscious man in my back seat.
How has my life gone so completely sideways?
I was just supposed to get names. That’s all. Simple. Easy. Or at least it should’ve been—until Ben showed up. Ever since
his perfectly smug face showed up at the museum, my carefully laid-out plan has turned into a chaotic mess of close calls,
unexpected complications, and way too much eye contact for someone who’s working for the enemy.
Have I been duped?
The question sends bile into my throat, and I don’t feel well.
“Cybil, I need you to listen to me and not panic.”
“Why would you say that?” My voice shoots up an octave.
“Because I need you to stay calm.”
My heart is racing. “You don’t tell someone with an unconscious man in their back seat not to panic unless there’s a really good reason to panic.”
Athena exhaled. “He’s an FBI agent.”
The world around me tilts, my knees turning to jelly, and I lurch for the back of my car, puking. I will never eat fettuccine ravioli again. Who am I kidding—they don’t serve that in prison. I’m going to prison. I heave again, emptying what’s left in my stomach
on the side of the road.
“Cybil, you’re going to be okay.”
Tears sting my eyes. “I kidnapped an FBI agent, Athena. Nothing is going to be okay.”
“Technically, he got into your car,” she says dryly.
“That won’t hold up in court,” I say, repeating her earlier words. “I’m going to jail. This is it. This is how I go down.
They’re going to put me in handcuffs, a jumpsuit. I don’t even look good in orange—”
“Cybil.” Athena’s voice cuts through my spiral. “You’re not going to jail. Focus. Why would an FBI agent be at the cocktail
party?”
I wipe my mouth and lean against the car, feeling unsteady. “How would I know?”
“Think. You were at a cocktail party with a curated guest list. You got names, right?”
It takes a few seconds for my brain to focus on what Athena is asking. “Yes, a few.”
“Give me their names.”
I press my fingers to my temple, willing my brain to work, but it’s useless—muddled by adrenaline, exhaustion, fear, and the
freaking unconscious FBI agent sprawled across my back seat. “I don’t know,” I rasp, trying to force clarity through the haze. “Baird, that’s his last name.
I can’t remember his first name. And Milosh.” I squeeze my eyes shut, grasping for his last name, but instead, Ben’s face flashes in my mind, smug and unreadable. My chest tightens. “Kamarov.” I exhale. “Ben . . . Ben was questioning why
I was talking with a Russian oligarch.”
“Okay,” Athena says, followed by the rapid clacking of a keyboard. “Milosh Kamarov is former Russian intelligence with a rumored
history of torture. Definitely not a good guy.”
I’m past the part where I should be freaked out that almost being accosted by a Russian supervillain is not the worst part
of my night. “What does that have to do with me not going to jail?”
“Ask yourself what an FBI agent is doing at the same party as an ex-KGB officer with ties to arms dealers and money launderers
and who could write a book on how to make his enemies disappear without a trace.”
My panic pauses just long enough for reason to creep in. “They wouldn’t be at the same party unless the FBI is investigating
someone at the party.”
“Exactly.”
I frown. “But who? Ramirez?”
“I don’t know.”