Chapter 38 Ben
Ben
Dallas, Texas
Monday evening
Another day, another felon with too much money and not enough imagination. Lucky for him, I’ve plenty of both.
I’m sitting at a table on the rooftop of Stirling and Vine. The steaks are dry-aged, the waiters can moonlight as bodyguards,
and private deals are as abundant as the lies whispered over seared scallops and bourbon.
“If you’re happy with everything we discussed”—I slide the contract across the table between us—“sign here and your money’ll
be cleaning itself through five countries and a church donation box before you finish that glass of scotch.”
Marshall Dade doesn’t even blink. The Texas oil tycoon made his first billion handling land rights, drilling contracts, and
a wide network of senators on speed dial. As far as I can tell, he’s conducted his business legally—until now. Now he’s trying
to keep the IRS out of his pocket and his name off any list that ends in “sanctions.”
He picks up the glass, swirling it like it’s a vintage truth serum. “I never rush through a scotch, son.”
I smile. “Then I’ll make sure the first wire hits before the ice melts.”
He smiles appreciatively. “I didn’t think anyone wore those anymore.”
“What?”
“Tie tacks.”
I glance down and adjust the silver oak tree pinned to my tie. “A friend gave it to me.”
Marshall finishes his scotch, signs the last page, and slides the contract back across the table with the kind of smug satisfaction
you only earn after a lifetime of stepping on necks in handmade boots.
“Pleasure doing business,” he says.
“You have my number if you need anything else,” I reply, tucking the document into a folder. Nothing says capitalism like laundering your morals before the sun sets.
He shakes my hand and then leaves me to take care of the check. I ask the server to add a steak sandwich to my bill and hand
him my credit card. I pull out my personal phone. I shouldn’t have it with me, but I missed three calls from Cybil last night
and I haven’t stopped worrying about her.
I try calling her number. No answer. Straight to voicemail.
The rooftop wind hits stronger now, like the air’s trying to shake loose the tension crawling up my spine.
Cybil’s probably fine. She’s smart. Capable. But she’s not trained. Not like I am.
And she’s under serious pressure. I have no idea of the extent of her role in collecting intel for SNAP, but going toe to
toe with a mobster like Lorenzo Ramirez is a lot different than stealing meeting notes.
I shove the phone back in my jacket and exhale, tight and sharp.
I told her I’d protect her. That she wasn’t alone in this. But now, standing here with a rooftop wind whipping against my
collar and a contract full of fake promises, all I’ve got is radio silence and a clock ticking louder than I like.
This whole thing was supposed to be about justice.
About taking Ramirez down for what he did to Danny Morales.
And I understand the stakes now—the mineral deal, the international buyers, the fallout if it all goes through.
But if I’d done my job in the first place—if I’d gotten access to his laptop—this would already be over.
And I’d be living a different version of my life—the kind where I’m not paying for overpriced scotch for another person trying
to cheat on his taxes, but instead I’m with Cybil, locked in a standoff over whether or not she knew it was me when she punched
me in the face with a bag of flour—or if she’d just been waiting for the perfect opportunity to give it to me.
In that version, we’re arguing over pancakes at her kitchen table, pretending the biggest threat in our lives is that rogue
rooster on her uncle’s ranch—not this.
But I’m not living in that version.
I’m in the one where Cybil thinks I didn’t show up all those years ago. I can’t shake the way she looked at me back at the
ranch. When she said she heard me, years ago. That she thought I didn’t like her. That I’d said something awful about her.
I’ve carried a lot of regret in my life, but that one—that she believed it, that she lived like it was true all these years—that one cracked me.
And now? I’d do anything to make up for it.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.
It’s my work phone. Ruby.
I answer just as the server sets down my sandwich and returns my credit card. I sign the receipt. “Where is she?”
“With Edmond.”
“Is she safe?”
A pause. “Define safe?”
My grip tightens around the phone. “Is she okay?”
“She’s with her boss and the plan is moving forward.” There’s a bite to her tone before she exhales. “Are you sure you’re
up for this?”
I crack open the to-go container and hit it with some special seasoning I brought just for the occasion. I close it up and head toward the elevator, grateful it’s empty. “You know I am.”
“Do I?” she asks, her tone softer now. “Look, I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I’ve seen the way you work and how dedicated you’ve been to get to Ramirez.”
“I’m still dedicated.”
“But there’s more at risk now. You have feelings for her. Strong ones.”
I’m not going to lie. I’m tired of it. “I do. I always have.” I lean against the elevator wall and run a hand down my neck.
“I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Yeah, falling in love in the middle of a mission has never worked out for James Bond either.” Her teasing eases some of the
pressure building in my chest. “But here we are, and I want to make sure you don’t do anything dumb like give her the door
while you freeze in the water.”
I frown. “Did you just identify me with Jack and Rose from the Titanic?”
“Movie night with my mom and aunts.”
“Don’t you hate sappy romance movies?”
“It’s a tragic maritime accident. I blame the director and Leo for making it all . . . human.”
“You know people di—never mind.” The elevator doors open. “I promise I won’t do anything dumb.”
“Or heroic,” she deadpans.
“Heroic?”
“You know what I’m talking about. That whole alpha male chest puffing,” she says. “You know, ‘Let me fight the bad guy in
a dumb heroic way that only works in the movies and never in real life.’”
I start for the parking garage. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Just stick to the plan, Miller.”
Calling me by my alias is Ruby’s way of reminding me that I’m still playing a part. One that needs to be Oscar worthy. Did
Bond ever win an Oscar?
“Do you trust her?” she asks, quieter now. “I mean really trust her—not just the part of you that’s eighteen and still hung
up on her, but the part that knows Earl Edmond might make her talk if he pushes hard enough?”
My throat tightens and I loosen my tie and unbutton my top button. “She’s not trained.”
“She’s not,” Ruby agrees.
“But she’d never let down the people she cares about,” I say. And that’s exactly what scares me. Because I know Cybil. I know the girl with steel beneath the sarcasm. The girl who carried the weight of her mom’s condition like it was
her personal responsibility—still does. Cybil won’t let anyone down. Not even if it costs her. And that’s the part that kept
me up all night.
My personal phone vibrates in my pocket.
“I have to go,” I tell Ruby. I’m not going to miss another call from Cybil. “I’ll see you soon.”
I end the call, anxious to speak to Cybil, but it’s not her number on my phone. “If you’re calling me to bail you out of jail,
I’m a little busy right now.”
“Well, hello to you, too, grandson. And you don’t have to worry about that. Bernie handles all the bail bonds for our group.”
I don’t even know where to go with that. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m working. Is there something you need that doesn’t
require a background check or permit?”
“Not today, honey. I just wanted to check in on you and your sweet friend, Cybil. Such a nice girl, and I’ve talked to our
members and we’ve agreed to make an exception if she wants to join. An honorary member of Pistols and Pearls.”
It’s both sweet and scary that my grandmother has already taken to Cybil. Or maybe it was the fact that Cybil was so willing
to commit felonies with Gran that won her over. Either way, I probably need to keep expectations low for Gran’s newest recruit
until I know what a future with Cybil looks like. Or at least get us through this mission.
A black SUV drives by, slow enough that it immediately catches my attention. “Gran, I need to call you back later.”
“Don’t you lie to me.”
“I won’t. Love you.” I hang up on my grandmother and drop the phone into the nearest trash can just as the SUV pulls up to the curb and jerks to a stop. The back door opens and out steps Rook.
The hair on the back of my neck rises.
“I need you to come with me,” Rook says, glancing around like he’s suddenly a Bond villain on retainer—minus the charm and
the British accent.
“Unfortunately, I’ve got to get back to the office.” I hold up the folder. “Trying to catch up on work before Mr. Ramirez’s
auction.”
“Marshall Dade can wait a few hours for his paperwork to go through.” His eyes lock with mine and I stay silent. “We should
go.”
It was a flex, Rook admitting that he knew who I was meeting with, and I have to keep my nerves in check because this can
only go one way.
“I really don’t have time today.”
Behind Rook, the driver circles the front and it’s none other than Sammy Pawson. His suit jacket opens to give me a not-so-subtle
flash of the gun tucked into his waistband.
“What’s going on?”
“Lorenzo wants to talk.”
I glance back at the parking garage, weighing my options, and sigh. “Well, I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
Pawson eyes my bag of food, and I shake my head and just hand it to him before I slide into the back seat, Rook behind me.
The ride is silent except for Pawson’s noisy enjoyment of my steak sandwich. No one talks. No music. Just the low hum of tires
on pavement as Rook stares out the window like this is some kind of scenic drive.
If I’m headed to an early grave, I might as well dig for intel. “Is this about the auction?”
Rook doesn’t blink.
“If Mr. Ramirez is still looking for interested investors, I might have a few clients with money to spend.”
Nothing. I’ve got to hand it to Rook—this is the quietest he’s ever been. No conversational narcissism. Normally, someone like Rook wouldn’t bother me, but today? By the time we pull through a chain-link gate and up to a half-finished construction site, my nerves are fried.
Dust swirls through the afternoon sunlight, scaffolding clings to skeletal concrete walls, and a metal crane looms overhead
like a guillotine waiting to drop. Rebar juts from unfinished flat work and pallets of lumber are lined up like a dangerous
maze.
Rook gets out, sharp and composed. Sammy trails behind me, but some of the color has drained from his face, and that “I don’t
need a weapon, I am one” swagger is noticeably gone. Either the plan is going to work or this is the part where I disappear quietly.
I walk with Rook toward a trailer where I notice a single security camera mounted. I have no expectation that it works or,
if it does, that it’ll have any record of this visit.
Lorenzo Ramirez steps out of the jobsite trailer, every inch the man pulling the strings. His dark eyes scan me like I’m a
spreadsheet with too many inconsistencies. He walks over and I reach out my hand to him. He shakes it, but his grip is tight.
“Glad you could meet me on such short notice.”
I flash a look at Rook like I had any choice in the matter. “I’m here for whatever you need, sir.”
“Good,” Ramirez says, his tone serious. He releases my hand and walks away. “Let’s talk.”
I follow with Rook falling into step behind me. We step deeper into the construction site—sunlight catching on exposed steel,
the air thick with dust. There’s a sign reminding workers this is a hard hat area, but the way Ramirez strolls ahead says
that he’s not concerned about OSHA fining him. Or safety.
“I’m afraid I don’t have my laptop with me, but if there’s anything you need me to have ready before the auction tomorrow,
I can—”
We round a corner and my words dry up on my tongue when I see them.
Cybil’s eyes lock with mine. Barely a flicker of recognition. She’s standing stiffly beside Mr. Edmond and Sebastian. In front of them is a table where Ramirez’s laptop is open, the screen angled just enough to catch the light—and my attention. Rook walks over to it and gives Ramirez a nod.
Ramirez sweeps his gaze across all four of us—slow, deliberate, like he’s choosing which fuse to light first.
Then he says it.
Calm. Cold. Deadly.
“One of you has been playing me. And it’s time to find out who.”