* * *
Zephyr
I’m almost through the Boston DMV firewalls. Another hour, and I’ll be able to check every Michael Lawrence in the state. I haven’t seen Martín in more than five years, but unless he paid for a hell of a lot of very expensive plastic surgery, I’ll recognize him.
The scone is long gone, and all I have left to eat are granola bars, jerky, and fruit leather. Functional, but nowhere near as tasty as my breakfast. If I were here on vacation, I’d walk into a restaurant like anormalperson and order a bowl of New England clam chowder as big as my head.
I haven’t eaten in a restaurant since—
Stop wishing for things you can never have.
Tearing the wrapper on a granola bar, I manage a single bite before my stomach twists into knots. I’m safe here. The cartel doesn’t know I’m in the United States.
Then who was the man outside the bank?
While my code runs in the background, I pull up his photo. Serious, brooding brows. Dark green eyes. A fine layer of stubble. He’s built under that leather jacket.
The laptop beeps, and I curse softly. A layer of security I didn’t expect. I’ll need at least another hour before I can access the DMV database. There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts three blocks away that’s open all night. Locking the laptop so only my fingerprint can access it, I pull a ten-dollar bill from my wallet. An extra-large tea and some fresh air will help me focus, and staring at something other than this dark, empty shop might calm my nerves.
The rain starts halfway back to my hideout. Dammit. I should have brought the drugstore slicker. My wool cap and sweater do nothing to keep me dry.
Turning onto Newbury Street, I freeze. At the far end of the block, the man who was surveilling outside the bank tries the door of the shop next to the comic book store. The to-go cup falls to the sidewalk with a splash, and he whirls around and stares straight at me.
Run. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Just run.
Footsteps pound behind me, and I hear a rough voice with a distinctly Irish accent call out, “Stop!”
I can’t. If I do, I’m dead. The streets in Back Bay are a maze, but after walking for hours yesterday afternoon, I have a vague idea where I’m going. The city is too empty this time of night. The man follows me all the way to Boylston, but thank God, there’s a bar full to bursting two doors down.
Getting lost in the crowd shouldn’t be difficult. Except I’m soaked to the skin and it’s barely forty degrees outside. I can’t stop shivering. Drunk patrons shove at me, and I go down, hard, my knees slamming into the concrete.
“Get outta here!” the bouncer growls. His thick fingers wrap around my upper arm, and he jerks me to my feet, propelling me back out the door.
My legs ache with every step, the bullet wound from Rotterdam still not fully healed. A quick right down another alley and I see my destination up ahead. No footsteps behind me. I can’t risk the time it would take to look over my shoulder, but all I need is two minutes to hide. I hope.
The parking garage looks more like an abandoned storage facility than a place for cars. Haphazard stacks of pallets line one of the walls, with disintegrating piles of cardboard boxes in front of a rusty dumpster.
I check the dumpster, but the stench…shit. There’s no way I can hide in there. Throwing up will get me caught without question. Instead, I squeeze behind the stacks of pallets. It’s a tight fit, but I turn sideways and crouch down on my hands and knees.
Shivers wrack my body, some so strong, I’m terrified they’re going to rattle the wood. I’m trapped. And by the beam of light sweeping above my head…I’m about to be caught and lose everything.
Chapter Five
Zephyr
A beadof icy water hits the back of my neck, and I grit my teeth to stop my shiver. Any movement, any reaction, and he’ll know where I am. He’s close, and whoever he is, he’s a pro. My muscles ache. Crammed behind the stack of old pallets, I tense my thighs, desperate to stop the endless pins and needles, then press my hand to my mouth so I don’t cry out.
I’m so tired. Tired of running. Tired of nights spent napping in “borrowed” cars, in abandoned buildings, in seedy, cheap motels. But shit. Martín is in Boston somewhere. I feel it in my gut. If I can find him, I can prove my innocence andmaybeget some semblance of my life back.
A single scuff of his foot gives his position away. Too close. He’ll be on me in seconds. It’s now or never.
Scrambling to my feet, I take off for the opposite corner of the parking garage, running like my life depends on it—because it does.
“Stop!” The bullet passes so close to my ear I can feel it, and he continues, “Or the next one will be two inches to the left. I don’twantto kill you, but I will if you run.”
Hands in the air, I force my next words out over the lump in my throat. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“Really, now? You expect me to believe I’m lookin’ at St. Zephyr of the Church of Mistaken Identity? I’m not that daft.”
