Page 10 of Lethal Deceit

Inside is nothing but a refrigerator.

With a glance behind me, I open the freezer compartment, grab the ice tray, and flip it over. Stuck to the back is a memory card with enough information to call into question the integrity of the entire justice system. With this, I can buy my way out of almost any situation.

But not yet.

Not when I can still salvage my livelihood.

Feeling lighter now I have it back, I push it into my bra, put the tray back, and close the freezer door. I don’t bother to close the locker. There’s nothing of value in it now anyway, and the woman who rented it a year ago is about to disappear forever.

As I return to my car, my phone rings. Only two people have this number, and I don’t want to hear from either of them right now.

I climb into my car and remove the permit. Leaving it will draw too much attention. A missing woman is one thing; a missingdisabledwoman is another.

When I recognize the number on screen as one of Mona’s burner phones, I smile. “Calling to wish me bon voyage?”

“You haven’t seen it,” she says.

I tug the seat belt across my body and click it into place. “Seen what?”

“Where are you?”

I glance at the storage locker. “On my way to the marina. What’s going on?”

“It’s him. Your Coast Guardsman. He’s…everywhere.”

I freeze, sure I misheard. “What are you talking about? He can’t be everywhere.”

Her voice comes out shrill. “Call me back when you’ve seen it.”

A blip sounds in my ear as she sends me a link, and I yank my phone away to see what’s gotten her so spooked. I click the link, and my breath catches in my chest.

Him.Filling the screen. Heat tracks over my cheeks and spreads to my entire body as I read the banner scrolling along the bottom.

NBC6 Exclusive: Coast Guard Rescue Swimmer Vows Revenge.

A voice-over begins, mixed with dramatic music. “You’re about to hear a chilling story straight out of the mouth of a man who, by rights, should be dead.”

I swallow asheappears, gazing out over the water as if searching for someone to rescue.

“Meet Mick Weston. Helicopter Rescue Swimmer. He’s been touted as a hero by the president, but you won’t hear him call himself that. He says he’s a victim, a victim of a woman who may be a cold-blooded killer.”

The camera cuts to the reporter. She’s in her late forties, her hair styled in a chin-length bob. Her expression is serious, empathetic, as she speaks. “Mick, you’ve shied away from telling your story. The question on everyone’s lips is ‘Why now?’”

“Because people deserve to know the truth,” he says.

“Mick, it’s been reported that you helped thwart a terror attack to rival 9/11. Are you saying that’s not true?”

He shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “The truth is that the threat is still out there.”

The reporter nods. “And by ‘threat’—you’re talking about the female terrorist who lured you into a death trap?”

I curse under my breath. “I amnota terrorist.”

Mick’s shoulders stiffen, and his jaw works. “The public has a right to know she may still be in the US. But if there is any chance of catching her, we need everyone to be vigilant.”

On screen flashes an artist’s sketch of me so eerily close to how I look there is no doubt in my mind that Mick recalls every last detail of our brief encounter.

“She may look different now, wearing baggy clothing, maybe changed her hair or eye color,” he says.

---