Page 8 of The Biker's Brother

When the barista handed over her cinnamon latte, she said, “Sophie. Can I please go out the back door? My ex is playing at being a stalker.”

“Oh, sure. It’s that way.”

Sophie pointed, but Cami knew the way. She’d checked it out when she and her dad’s people were devising her getaway. It was still dark outside, always helpful when you’re running.

The car was waiting in the alley, just as had been planned. She climbed in the back, deciding that she didn’t much like acting out thriller adventures.

“Good morning, Ms. Carmichael,” the driver said.

“Morning.”

“I’m Raleigh. Let me know if you need anything.”

She looked out the window at the familiar sights of her neighborhood and felt sad to be leaving it behind.What I need is a normal life.

When they reached the corner, they stopped long enough for the guy in the suit to get in.

When he closed the door, he said, “Nice to see you again, Ms. Carmichael.”

She nodded and smiled, but her anxiety was probably evident. She didn’t think she was cut out for clandestine operations.

“Hello, Logan.”

Other than the large shoulder bag, she had no luggage. She and Logan went straight to security at Logan Airport. Normally she would have had them scan her boarding pass from her smart phone, but she’d been told to leave her phone behind.

She sat next to the window in the first row of first class and Logan took the aisle seat. The flight to LaGuardia was just a little over an hour. Just enough time for a Bloody Mary and two reruns ofFriends.

When they gave the okay to deplane, Logan stepped into the aisle, which blocked other passengers from exiting before Cami. She hitched her bag up on her shoulder, walked up the jet way and turned toward baggage claim where a car would be waiting at passenger pickup. Halfway up the concourse she stopped at the Ladies room. Logan took up a post leaning against the wall, presumably waiting for the woman he was with.

Inside a handicapped stall, she removed her silk dress and pumps, donned jeans, a ribbed green hoodie, and high top Converse, stuffed her mahogany tresses under a black wig with a severe chin-length cut, and pulled a cream-colored knit hat over that. Her stylish slouch bag was reversible. She turned it inside out so that it was a muted satin stripe instead of burgundy leather. She threw the silk dress and pumps into the waste receptacle and exited the restroom, keeping pace with the fast-moving crowd. Logan didn’t acknowledge her in any way.

A man wearing a black tee and dark slacks with a raspberry scarf had fallen in beside her. She wasn’t alarmed. She’d been told to look for him. All part of the plan that seemed to be working.

So far.

As he escorted her to the exit he said, “My name’s Loomis, Ms. Carmichael. I’ll be accompanying you to the city. Keep your face down and turned toward me as much as you can.”

She nodded as they got into the taxi line. She kept her face averted as he said until they reached their turn at the head of the taxi queue.

“The Park Lane,” he told the driver.

The ride into Manhattan was silent. At least it was silent as soon as she figured out how to turn the volume off the commercial-playing video screen attached to the back of the front seat.

It was an overcast day, the perfect backdrop for a life that had taken a turn for the worse. When the taxi pulled up in front of the Park Lane on 59th, Loomis paid the driver and ushered her inside. He covered their reason for being there by getting a room while she went to the Ladies room off the lobby.

Inside she changed into a silk dress and pumps, and changed the black wig for one that was short auburn. Last, she put on sunglasses and the wide-brimmed black hat that had been rolled up in her bag. She kept the demure clutch, but left everything else inside the big slouch bag and stowed it all under the overhung sinks.

She headed out the Park Lane back door on 58th. The town car was waiting for her as planned, back door already open.

The man who closed her door got into the front passenger seat. He angled his body toward her as they pulled away from the hotel.

“Relax, Ms. Carmichael. Everything is going as planned.”

“Alright,” she said, feeling like the entire sequence of events was a surreal game, more like an out-of-the-body experience than anything. It was an odd, numb feeling and hard to describe. Like being part of reality physically, but not emotionally.

The back windows of the town car were so dark that people outside the car wouldn’t be able to tell if there was a passenger, much less identify a person. So, if she’d been able to get to the car without being followed, she was probably safe. It was still rush hour. Again, that had been part of the plan. It’s hard to be followed in rush hour traffic. Too many taxis playing chicken, squeezing into tight openings between cars.

“Would you like to listen to music, Ms. Carmichael?”

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