Chapter 42 Cybil
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Monday night
My shoes scrape against loose gravel, heart pounding against my ribs as I fight the adrenaline coursing through me. I round
the corner of the half-built retaining wall where I watched Ben fall—and stop cold. He’s not there.
I didn’t shoot to kill him. I know that. I know where I aimed. But still—he should be here. Panic pricks at the edges of my thoughts.
There’s a mess of rigid foam insulation sheets leaning at an awkward angle—cracked and dented. It takes me a second to register
the streak of blood trailing across them. My stomach knots.
I search the open floor slab, heart hammering harder now. My eyes dart across the exposed concrete and jagged debris. Nothing.
No sign of him.
Just—blood.
A faint trail of it, smeared across the cement. Not enough to say fatal. But enough to make my skin crawl. I know where I aimed . . .
“Ben?” My voice catches. Breaks.
No answer—just the lonely thwapping of a torn tarp flapping in the wind.
I back up a step, nearly tripping over a snapped rebar. This isn’t how it ends. It can’t be.
I blink hard, willing my vision to sharpen through the haze of dust and fear. Nothing moves. No groan, no cough, no smart-aleck
quip rising from the shadows to tell me I’m overreacting.
Only that blood.
A soft ding cuts through the silence. I freeze. Another ding. It’s faint but distinct—the sound of a notification. An alert. From a cell phone?
Or laptop.
I follow the sound, heart in my throat, creeping past a low partition wall partially framed with exposed beams and bent conduit.
The jagged outline of scaffolding looms overhead as I walk deeper into the site, like I’m walking into the belly of the beast.
I keep going until I see it. The laptop. Perched on a stack of paint buckets. It’s open, the screen lit, and . . . My eyes
scan the area around it. Unattended? Where’s Ramirez?
Another ding draws me to it. The auction window is open and showing a live feed of bids still rolling in. A timer is ticking down as numbers
continue to climb. Bank account strings. Transaction IDs. Countries I can’t even pronounce.
The auction is still happening. I glance around, half expecting Ramirez to jump out from behind a support column, gun drawn.
Nothing. If he ran, why didn’t he take this with him? I think about the empty spot where Ben’s body should’ve been. Did something
happen?
It gives me hope that Ben’s alive—wounded—but maybe he’s subdued Ramirez somewhere, which means it’s my job to stop the auction.
But how?
I begin jabbing at keys. Try to close windows. Hit the escape button several times, harder with each hit. Nothing works. It’s
encrypted, locked tight behind layers of code. What if I smash it? Would that stop it? I don’t know but I have to try.
I look around and spot a broken brick a few feet away. I run to it, but before my fingers can latch onto the rough edge, I
hear it.
A scuffling noise.
I freeze.
Then his voice slithers out from the shadows behind me—low, quiet, and ice-cold. “You should’ve stayed the assistant. You’re
better at coffee than betrayal.”
I turn slowly. Ramirez steps out of the shadows, gun in hand. Dust streaks his jacket, his expression unbothered, like he’s
walking into a meeting and not pointing a gun at my head.
“I’d love to get you a latte laced with arsenic,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Or do you prefer antifreeze?”
His lips twitch, a flicker of amusement as he starts to circle me—slow, deliberate, like a vulture with a Rolex. “You really
don’t know what you’ve walked into, do you?”
“I know enough to suggest adding ‘violent narcissist’ to your dating profile.”
Is it wise to joke with a guy with a God complex who’s holding a gun? Probably not. But until I find a way out of this, I
use what I’ve got—sarcasm and nerve. Unfortunately, neither is bulletproof.
“It’s a shame.” Ramirez pauses. “You almost got past my defenses.” His eyes narrow. “Almost. You’re smart, resourceful. A
waste with someone like Earl, but with me, with a little mentoring, you might prove useful.”
I blink. Then laugh—sharp and humorless. “You always try to shoot your employees before hiring them?”
He lifts a shoulder. Not quite apologetic. “Shows me what they’re made of.”
“Not really the employee benefits I’m looking for.”
He actually chuckles, the sound dark and easy. It’s unnerving how calm he is. “Loyalty is overrated. Fear motivates people.”
“Well, I’m not looking to work for a psychopath willing to sell out his own country.”
“You think I’m selling out my country?” He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “My dear, you think I’m the villain? I’m leveling
the playing field. You don’t think our government won’t do the exact same thing I’m doing when they get their hands on my
mineral?”
I look at the laptop. “Uncle Sam’s bidding right now?”
He smiles. Slow. Sinister. “No.” He tilts his head. “They weren’t invited to the sale. Too much red-tape bureaucracy to dip
into America’s pockets. But you’re not seeing the bigger picture.”
He’s talking too much. Explaining his plan like I should be impressed. But men like Ramirez don’t narrate their strategy unless
they’re planning to bury the witness. If I don’t do something now, I’m not walking out of here.
My gaze flicks to the brick. It’s too far. Running for cover would just give him a moving target. I track his position, the
way his finger rests against the trigger. I need to stall. Buy time so he won’t see it coming. “Global warfare not big enough?”
A flicker of annoyance crosses his face before his expression smooths back into that eerie calm. “This auction?” he says,
taking a step closer. “It’s history in the making. And every name on that ledger—the buyers, the countries, the clients—they’re
mine now. I own them. They—”
I move. Fast. My elbow snaps up and knocks his wrist to the side. The gun goes off—crack!—and the shot slams into the steel column behind me. I drive my knee into his leg, reach for the gun, anything—
But he’s stronger. Faster.
He slams into me and I go flying, landing hard on the uneven slab. My palms scrape across crumbled mortar and loose gravel,
the sting blooming instantly. My breath punches out of my lungs. My ears are ringing, my vision swimming, but I force myself
to focus—on him.
Ramirez barrels forward, gun leveled at my chest, his steps deliberate, intent evident. “Such a shame.”
Thwack.
The sound makes me flinch—sharp and quick—but it takes a second to register it wasn’t a gunshot. Ramirez’s body lurches forward
and collapses face-first into the concrete. Behind him, shovel in hand, stands Ben. Dirt-smeared. Bloodied. And wearing the
kind of smug grin that could probably be weaponized by the Department of Defense.
I exhale, breath catching in my throat. “About time you showed up.”
Ben drops the shovel with a clunk. “You shot me.”
It’s then that I notice the dark bloom of blood on his left arm, staining his shirt.
“He was going to shoot you first,” I say, brushing my hands against my pants. “I just . . . sped up the timeline.”
Ben raises a brow, offering his uninjured arm to pull me up. “So you did it to save me?” he asks, voice low and warm, wrapping
around my spine and daring my knees to hold me steady.
I bite my lip, not bothering to hide the grin. “Absolutely.”
“Seems like you enjoyed it.”
“I’m not saying I didn’t.”
His brow lifts in amusement. “What are you saying, Billy?”
I lean in, whispering like it’s classified. “That it gave me immense satisfaction to shoot Craig. Freaking. Miller.”