Page 3 of Lethal Deceit (Hightower Security #2)

Samantha

The second I’m inside, I kick off my heels, toss my Walmart bags on the lumpy bed, and close the door to my two-star motel room.

It’s a significant comedown from the opulence of the Four Seasons, where Mona is staying, but laying low means slumming it. As much as I hate staying in places like this, it’s fitting for a gal from Thomasville, Georgia, hoping to make it as an actress.

For whatever reason, I’m exhausted. And it’s not just because of the trip to Walmart with the generous bartender to shop for my fictitious mother.

Thanks to being in the same state as Mick Weston, I can’t sleep.

Ridiculous, I think as I pull items out of the bags, most of which I’ll leave here, and sort through what I can take.

“Pack light,”

Juan said. Which is code fo.

“It’ll be tossed, and I’ll scuttle the boat if the Coast Guard stops us.”

Immediately my thoughts are back on him.

It would be just my luck if Mick Weston boarded us. Except I already know he’s in Tampa Bay. Even if he hadn’t told me, I’d have learned it thanks to the media frenzy surrounding Al-Jadi’s capture.

A plane crash. That’s how they reported it to begin with. Then as updates came in, it became apparent that it was so much bigger than an ordinary crash. As far as news cycles go, it doesn’t get bigger than a terror attack. Throw in a good-looking Coast Guardsman, an injured US Air Marshal, and a private security firm that refuses to be named, and the media is salivating for more information.

They don’t know the half of how Mick ended up on that plane.

I rip the tag off a hideous sweater and scowl at the warped mirror on the wall before heading into the bathroom. Careful not to wreck my nails, I pry the lid off the toilet and reach inside to pull out the Ziplock bag I left taped to the side. I shake it off, use the towel to dry it, and unzip the bag to haul out my bank card, phone, and passport.

Goodbye, Samantha Duke; hello, Sally Jones.

With a quick glance in the mirror, I wash my hands then remove all the makeup on my face, starting with the eyelashes I glued on this morning. The wig can stay on for now, but I tie it back with a band. After peeling the skintight dress off, I change into cheap, shapeless jeans and a T-shirt with the words Miami Vice emblazoned on them and pull out cheap sunglasses and a baseball cap.

I have three full hours before I need to be at the bay. Juan only ferries passengers at night, but I have one final stop before I can leave for Cuba by way of the Bahamas. I grab a bag of peanuts, swallow a motion sickness pill, and pop the tab of a can of warm Coke. I’m not about to venture out in a boat with an empty stomach, nor am I willing to risk eating anything Juan might have.

Hard to trust someone who’s just as likely to sell you for body parts as they are to get you safely to another country.

I jam the peanuts into my mouth, take a long, sickly sweet drink, and open the concealed bottom of my suitcase. I thumb through the cash, lacking the usual thrill I feel when handling this amount of money.

He’s to blame. The Coast Guardsman. He’s the reason I didn’t enjoy spending a single dollar of it. Fifty thousand dollars should have bought a lot of happiness, and I’m still at a loss as to why I haven’t been able to enjoy it.

I take out the ten thousand Juan wants then reattach the false bottom, packing lightweight cheap clothes, toiletries, and sneakers on top of it. He’ll look. I know he will. He’ll check for weapons. My only bargaining chip is his greed. If he gets me to Cuba safely, I’ll give him another ten thousand.

It’s double his usual price. But it’s the only way to be sure he doesn’t take the money by force then throw me into the water. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of being eaten by ravenous sharks.

Fear clutches at my entire body, and I have to slow my breathing to calm down.

“You can do this. You can do this,”

I say, repeating it as a mantra.

I close my eyes and picture myself walking through the streets of Old Havana, dressed in designer clothes, sleeping on fifteen-hundred-thread-count sheets, sipping on Dom, and completely and utterly at peace.

But my peace is destroyed when a familiar voice tickles at the back of my mind.

No one will care if you die.

“Yeah, yeah. What else is new?”

I say aloud.

I need a distraction. Anything to occupy my mind.

I grab the remote, switch on the TV, and return to packing, barely listening but glad for the noise so I don’t have to think too much.

Shorts, bra, hat, wig, glasses, cash…

Behind me, commercials blast into the room, then a newsreader breaks into my concentration.

Ugh. Who wants to hear about some junkie who’s washed up on South Beach? I reach for the remote and hit the mute button.

A picture flashes on screen, then a video runs. The junkie, who’s with a woman wearing a Disneyland T-shirt, accepts something from her then walks away. The location is obvious from the Miami Ferris Wheel in the background.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I hit the mute button again, catching the last snippet from the anchor.

“…police would like to speak to the woman. If you know her whereabouts, contact the Miami?—”

I change the channel, heart in my throat as I locate another news channel also playing the same footage.

“…wanted in connection with the death?—”

I switch again, and this time, I sink onto the bed in despair.

“…examination reveals the man sustained a bullet wound to the temple and can confirm he’s been missing for over a month. The police are appealing to the public for any information about the last hours of his life.”

I shut the TV off, hands trembling as I try to reason my way out of this.

I blow out a breath. Slowly.

They’re tying up loose ends.

And if I’m not careful, mine will be the next body they feature on the news.