“Yes. But she told me she didn’t land in São Paulo until three days after Yoden was killed, and Wren verified customs records. She wasn’t there. Trevor made some calls to his CIA contacts and that’s when I found out Lambert wasn’t who he claimed to be. I’ve been workin’withZephyr for two days, tryin’ to track down another former cartel member she believes can corroborate her testimony about a legion of crimes perpetrated by François Strauss and half a dozen others over the past nine years.”
A vein in Dax’s neck throbs, and I’m no longer convinced my brilliant idea is anything but pure, unadulterated shit.
“I’m tempted to revoke your promotion right fucking now for disobeying a direct order, but if I gave you bad intel, then this is partly on me. I stand by my earlier statement about murder being against office policy, but I need to know one thing.” He takes off his glasses, and though it’s obvious his eyes can’t focus, they’re trained on whatever vague shape of me hecansee.
“What?”
“Would you bet your life on her innocence?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yes. Zephyr has never killed anyone. She was set up, and she’s in mortal danger if we don’t help her.”
Dax pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed, and heaves out a breath. “All right. You have twenty-four hours to bring her into this office.”
“Dax—”
“I said ‘bring her into this office.’ Not arrest her, not turn her over to the authorities. Not cuff her and drag her kicking and screaming. Convince her to come in and tell her story. Pull in Wren and Ripper. Verify as much as you can. We don’t turn away the innocent here, but there’s a fuckton of evidence pointing to her guilt. If she needs our help, she’ll have it. But if she’s somehow conned you into believing a lie…you’re on desk duty for the next century.”
Do I thank him? Tell him I’ll do my best? I can’t give him my word. Not without talking to Zephyr first.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Get out of here,” Dax says. “You have work to do.”
* * *
Zephyr
Every instinct tells me to run, but my heart won’t let me. Ronan called and gave me the code word half an hour ago, then said he’d be back with takeout soon. Most importantly, he assured me Dax believed him enough we’ll be safe here tonight.
I wish I knew what that meant. Will the police storm the apartment first thing in the morning? I’m starting to get comfortable here.Toocomfortable.
My toothbrush sits in a cup with Ronan’s on the bathroom counter. I bought my own deodorant, shampoo, and conditioner today when we stopped at the mini-mart for my now-destroyed sunglasses.
This morning, I handed Ronan two hundred dollars, and he let me use his credit card to order a ten-pack of panties, two pairs of jeans, three bras, and a pair of shoes whose primary functionisn’ttraction or stealth.
I’m turning into someone who wants…more.And that’s a dangerous thing.
My laptop beeps from the coffee table. Perfect. I start the screen capture software and bring up the chat window.
Dante: You have been offline for twenty-four hours. I was starting to worry.
Zephyr: The bank was a dead end. But that’s not the worst thing to happen in the past day. Some asshole private investigator is after me. He’s the one who has my laptop, and he managed to get my fingerprint somehow to unlock it.
Dante: What does he have access to? Can he see this chatroom?
Zephyr: When have you ever known me to be that stupid? He knows I was trying to hack into the DMV and he probably found Martín’s alias, Michael Lawrence. But unless he can guess a sixteen-word passphrase in three tries or less, he’ll never see Martín’s photos on my encrypted cloud drive.
Dante: Who is he?
Zephyr: His name is Ronan Murphy. I lifted his wallet this morning. Can you use your General Intelligence and Security Service databases to get me his phone number? If I can run a trace on his mobile, I’ll be able to track his location. At least from cell tower to cell tower.
Dante: I will see what I can do. Give me a few hours. Keep your head down and do not get careless. You do not know how many people may be after you.
The connection drops, and I sink back against the cushions and blow out a long, slow breath. “You’re right about that one, asshole. For all I know, François brought the whole family to hunt me down.”
Turning the screen capture off, I wander to the living room window and stare out at the city through the privacy glass. It’s almost dusk, the trees casting long, leafless shadows across the sidewalks. A few snowflakes drift to the ground on a gentle breeze.
Will I see Christmas in Boston? Or…at all? Does Ronan celebrate? He’s Irish. He’s probably Catholic. Will he buy a tree? Fresh cut or fake? Egg nog? Candy canes?
“Stop it,” I mutter to my reflection in the glass. “None of this matters if you can’t find Martín and clear your name. Stop dreaming and get back to work.”
