And she would not become another victim whose warnings went unheeded until it was too late.
Chapter 19
The underground parkinggarage swallowed us in its concrete maw, the air heavy with the scent of motor oil and damp cement. Matt and I descended the ramp in silence, our footsteps echoing despite our efforts to move quietly. My eyes adjusted to the dimness, automatically mapping the space—flickering fluorescents creating alternating pools of harsh light and impenetrable shadow, concrete pillars offering cover at regular intervals, and most importantly, the three visible exit points. I counted six parked cars, all empty, their shapes hulking and still in the half-light. The garage felt both exposed and confining, a paradox that set my nerves on edge.
"Seven minutes early," Matt murmured beside me, checking his watch.
I nodded. Being with the FBI had ingrained certain habits—arrive before anyone else, secure the location, identify threats, establish control. Even as a fugitive, those instincts remained intact.
We positioned ourselves behind a concrete pillar near the east wall, selecting a spot that offered clear sightlines to all entrances while providing immediate cover if needed. The pillar was stained with decades of automotive fluids, dark streaks mapping a history ofneglect. I noticed Matt's subtle shift in posture as he distributed his weight evenly, compensating for his prosthetic leg without conscious thought.
"If this goes sideways—" I began. “If he shows up here with police….”
"Northwest stairwell, eight seconds to cover," he replied, completing my thought.
A water pipe dripped somewhere in the distance, the steady plink-plink marking time like a metronome. Each drop echoed off the concrete, creating an acoustic map of the space that my trained ear used to confirm we were still alone.
At precisely 7:00 a.m., headlights swept across the entrance ramp, cutting through the murk like searchlights. The distinctive purr of a well-maintained vintage engine announced Juan Ramirez's arrival before his car came into view. The Cadillac—1960s model, immaculately restored—glided into the garage with the stately presence of an ocean liner. Its polished black surface reflected the lights in distorted patterns as it circled once before parking twenty yards from our position.
The engine died, leaving only the settling sounds of cooling metal. I watched Juan through the windshield, noting how he sat motionless for seventeen seconds—counting, perhaps, or gathering thoughts. His silhouette remained perfectly still, betraying none of the nervous energy most people would display in such circumstances.
When he finally emerged, it was with the deliberate grace of someone who'd choreographed his own movements. His shoes—Italian leather, expensive but practical—made almost no sound on the concrete. He wore a charcoal suit that would have looked appropriate in any courthouse or high-end restaurant, the perfect camouflage for moving between worlds. Nothing about his appearance suggested a man meeting fugitives in a deserted parking garage at dawn.
Juan reached into his pocket, and I tensed. He withdrew only a pocket watch, checking it with methodical precision beforereturning it to his vest. The gesture seemed performative, almost theatrical, as if he were establishing a character rather than checking the time.
"You can come out now," he called, his voice neither raised nor particularly directed. He spoke as if addressing the garage itself, confident we would hear. "I came alone, as promised."
Matt and I exchanged glances. I gave a slight nod, and we stepped from behind the pillar in tandem, maintaining the defensive formation we'd silently agreed upon. Juan's eyes—sharp and assessing—tracked our movements without surprise. His gaze lingered on Matt's face for a moment before settling on mine.
"Eva Rae Thomas," he said, my name sounding like a case number in his mouth. "You look remarkably composed for someone the entire state is hunting."
"Cut the commentary, Ramirez," I replied, keeping my voice level despite the irritation flaring beneath my skin. "Matt says you can help us. I need to know if that's true before we waste any more time."
A smile flickered across his face—there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Direct as ever." He gestured toward his car. "I brought information. Shall we discuss it here in the open, or would you prefer the privacy of my vehicle?"
"Here is fine," I said immediately, unwilling to surrender any tactical advantage by confining ourselves in his car. "What do you know about Richard Collins?"
Juan's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Not even a 'thank you for coming' or 'how have you been since the department threw you under the bus'?" He checked his watch again, the action deliberate, almost taunting. "Interesting. Why would you begin with Collins specifically, rather than asking about the frame-up more broadly?"
My jaw tightened. This was exactly what Matt had warned me about—Juan's tendency to answer questions with questions, to probe for reactions rather than provide information freely. I could feel my patience fraying at the edges, threads of control threatening to unravel.
"I don't have time for games," I said. "Collins was placed in my trunk for a reason. I need to know why."
"Everyone has time for games, Agent Thomas," Juan replied, emphasizing my former title. "That's what this is, isn't it? Someone's elaborately constructed game, with you as the unwitting player." He took three measured steps forward, stopping at what he clearly calculated was the edge of my comfort zone. "The question isn't why Collins was in your trunk—it's why you specifically were chosen as the frame."
Matt shifted beside me, his posture subtly protective though he remained silent. I could feel his analytical gaze moving between Juan and me, assessing, calculating.
"We know I was chosen deliberately," I said, struggling to keep the edge from my voice. "What I need are facts, not philosophical observations about my situation."
"Facts." Juan let the word hang in the air between us. "Like the fact that Collins' death wasn't random? Or the fact that someone with intimate knowledge of forensic procedure used a murder weapon so similar to yours, it’s hard to explain away?" His eyes—dark and unnervingly perceptive—never left my face. "Or perhaps the fact that Victor Reeves has been following you since his release?"
My breath caught. We'd discovered Reeves' potential involvement on our own, but Juan's casual mention of it suggested he knew far more than he should. My mind raced, trying to determine how he'd acquired this information and what else he might know.
"How long have you been watching me?" I demanded, taking an involuntary step forward.
"Long enough to know you're running out of time and options," Juan replied, unperturbed by my advance. "The question is, Agent Thomas, are you ready to hear what I've found, or would you prefer to continue this verbal sparring until the next shift of security guards arrives in approximately forty-three minutes?"
The overhead light flickered, casting Juan's face in momentary shadow before illuminating it again. In that split second, I made my decision—not based on trust, which I couldn't afford, but on necessity, which I couldn't ignore.
