Page 12 of Lethal Deceit

“I told you I could help, and I meant it. The question is, are you ready to stop thinking about what youwantand consider the big picture?”

“I am thinking about the big picture.”

“Really? And in this big picture did you factor in that whoever hired her now knows your name and can find out where you live?”

He may as well have sucker punched me. “Let them come. I can deal with them.”

Silas chokes out a laugh. “You sure about that? We managed to get a cell phone into your apartment, and you didn’t notice.”

My gut tightens, and my anger flares at the reminder. “I’ll be more careful.”

“It’s too late for that. If you’re going to throw tantrums, you’re going to make this harder than it needs to be.”

“Who—”

“Do I think I am? I’m the person who knows exactly where she is, that’s who I am.”

My voice escapes in a hiss. “You found her?”

“Caleb’s outside your door waiting. You have one more chance, and we cut you loose. Got it?”

Sure enough, a hefty fist pounds on my door. “Open up.”

I throw open the door, phone cradled between my ear and shoulder. “If you really do have her location, you have my word.”

Silas rumbles in my ear. “Swear it on your mother’s life.”

Another low blow. “I swear. Where is she?”

“Pass the phone to Caleb.”

I shove the phone into his brawny chest, and he jams it to his ear. His forehead grooves as impatience makes my foot tap on the carpet.

His eyes lock onto mine. “Got it,” he grunts. He tosses the phone at me. “Time to go.”

Samantha

I walk into the nail salon, holding a box, and remove my shades as my eyes adjust. The salon is open, and all the reclining chairs are full with women either in the process of a cheap pedicure or soaking with their fingertips wrapped in foil to remove shellac from their nails. Barely any spare me a glance as I breeze past, heading right to the back, announcing to any of Irina’s staff that she has a delivery.

They know better than to ask questions, and the generic uniform I keep in my suitcase with a vague logo, the fake pager, and the device that mimics the scanner couriers use ensures that no one else will ask why I’m here either.

The door is closed, so I rap my knuckles, once, twice, then four times, and hope she hasn’t changed it since we last spoke.

“Da?” she calls out.

I try the door. Locked, as always. “Delivery.”

The door opens, and she peers out at me, eyes heavily rimmed with black, a cigarette in her hand. Today, like most days, she’s dressed to look like what she wants people to think she is, a Russian immigrant, part gypsy, part businesswoman in her flowing dress and shawl.

Her eyes widen then instantly narrow as she looks over my shoulder. “No deliveries today,” she says.

My heart rate quickens. Irina’s salon is a front for her more lucrative business of selling passports. She’s the best in Miami. Without her I stand no chance.

I hold up my hand to reveal a wad of rolled-up cash concealed in my palm. A thousand dollars just to gain entrance is a small price to pay.

She blinks rapidly, almost as if mentally counting the notes, before she beckons me inside. I barely have time to orient myself before a gun is jammed against my temple.

The empty box tumbles out of my hands, and Irina kicks it aside. “Why are you bringing trouble to my door?”

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