It’s a girl.
She crouches, half-hidden beside the piling near Slip C-17, trying very hard to make herself invisible. But I spot the unmistakable tension that radiates off her body.
Even from this distance, I see the stiffness in her shoulders, the shallow rise and fall of her breathing, the way her fingers clutch a tablet against her chest like it might somehow protect her from what she knows she’s walked into tonight.
I tap my phone, and the screen wakes with a dim light, not bright enough to draw attention.
After a few swipes through the folders, I finally find the one I’m looking for. I click on it, and different documents with images attached pop up in a vertical display.
I carefully sift through the profiles of Miami marina workers. Then I stop, my thumb hovering over the profile that matches the hiding girl.
“Interesting...”
Definitely not security, law enforcement, or a rival cartel. Just an ordinary working citizen.
Elena Clark: yacht charter manager, Miami Marina.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, turning my attention back to the manager.
The marina wind tears through her hair, strands flying wildly across her face as she glances toward the men on the yacht. She looks ready to bolt, yet she hasn’t moved.
Fear does that sometimes, rooting its prey in place, paralyzing it, silencing every logical thought that could save it.
My jaw tightens slightly as I study her, tracing her body through her baggy knitted sweater that slips off one shoulder, to the glimpse of bare legs underneath khaki shorts, and the sneakers unsuited for running, if she finally decides to.
She’s completely out of place here, which means she’s either very unlucky or very dangerous. She’s seen too muchand, where I come from, witnesses are a liability. The shipment matters too much. One leak or one stupid oversight will unravel months of planning, and we don’t want that happening with this much at stake.
Mikhail and Artem move across the deck, supervising the cargo transfer while I sort through my next course of action.
My first instinct is cold and efficient. There’s only ever one thing to do with people like Miss Clark, and that doesn’t include allowing them see the next dawn. She can’t walk away from this dock, at least not until I uncover what she’s really doing here.
She might be an average employee, but her timely visit here could be an attempt at surveillance. It’s up to me to figure out what her motives are.
The possibility of a spy settles into my thoughts.
For months before the execution of this operation on theMona, we received word about the police sniffing around, poking and prodding for the tiniest bit of information, any significant detail that would be sufficient to drag us into custody. They’ve got nothing. But they aren’t the only ones pushing for our downfall.
Vasili and his men keep close watch on our dealings, like guard dogs foaming at the mouth, as he waits for the perfect opportunity to strike. Now, here comes a young woman stumbling onto a sensitive drop at nearly midnight. She could be one of his minions.
The marina lights flicker across her again, and my gaze lowers before I can stop it.
I didn’t notice it before, but her soft curves are unashamedly accentuated by the perfect fit of the shorts, and I catch the faint rosy hue on her cheeks as she raises her head, taking another long look at theMona.
She’s young.Jesus.
Young enough that I notice it immediately, and dislike that I notice it at all.
She’s twenty-one, maybe twenty-two at most. I didn’t bother to crosscheck that detail on her profile, but it doesn’t change the fact she’s clearly two decades younger than me.
Far too young to be standing on my dock looking at things that could snuff out her life before she’s even gotten a chance to live it.
This would be the perfect opportunity to strike, catch her off guard, and have her kneeling before me before she’s even had a chance to blink. I should give the order now, but instead I keep watching her, observing things I shouldn’t care about.
Like how controlled she is in a situation that could get messy any minute now. Her fear isn’t hysterical, like some girls who’d be overreacting now, dialing numbers on their phones or dramatically screaming for help.
No, not this girl.
She stays put, undoubtedly terrified, but contained and quiet. And if I was in a complimentary mood, I’d think she was brave.
