Page 5 of Lethal Deceit (Hightower Security #2)

I close the door to my motel room, on edge, and feeling queasy even though the motion sickness meds should have started working. If they aren’t settling my stomach now, what hope do I have onboard a cruiser for four hours?

I breeze down the stairs, heading to the parking lot below. I’m not about to call attention to myself by leaving without checking out, so I go through the motions, ready to carry on pretending I’m here visiting my mother.

The clerk is behind the desk, eating a sandwich that stinks to high heaven. Behind him, the TV is on, reruns of Friends, and he’s swiveled his chair so he can watch.

I drop my suitcase with a thump, drawing his attention.

“Room 203, checking out,” I say.

He drops the sandwich and looks me over.

“Riiight. Key?”

I hand it over and idly watch the screen as he wipes his hands before punching my room number into the computer.

“You take anything from the minibar?” he asks.

“Nope.”

I didn’t need to. The door locks were so flimsy, I was able to clean out the minibar in the room next to me.

Again, his eyes trail over me, and I shift my weight.

“Something the matter?”

He squints.

“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

It takes all my patience not to roll my eyes.

“You checked me in three days ago.”

His mouth flops open, his eyes narrowing to slits.

“Yeah, yeah. That must be it. You looked different.”

I purse my lips and check my watch.

“Is that it? I have somewhere to be.”

He nods, the perplexed expression glued to his face.

“Sure. Yeah. Sure. You want a receipt?”

I grab my suitcase and turn my back on him.

“Enjoy your sandwich.”

“Sure,” he says.

Picking up my pace, I wheel my suitcase behind me and unlock my rental car. Unlike the motel, I have no choice but to abandon it somewhere, which will place a red flag on the name I used to rent it. Pity. I liked playing the role of the dutiful daughter, but thanks to my mistake in Tucson, it’s unavoidable.

I close the door, lock it in case of carjackers, and blast the air conditioning as I reverse out onto the Jimmy Buffett Highway. With the light traffic, I make it to my destination with plenty of time to access my storage locker and get to the marina.

Finding a parking space isn’t going to be an issue. I locate one, drive into it, then reach into the glove compartment for my Accessible Parking Space Permit and leave it on the dash. To really sell it, I slowly climb out of the car, as if each movement causes me pain. When I’m sure that no one is watching me, I pick up my pace and fast walk until I find my locker. I haven’t been here in over a year, so I check the lock hasn’t been tampered with before I remove the key from around my neck, push it into the lock, and open the roller door.

Inside is nothing but a refrigerator.

With a glance behind me, I open the freezer compartment, grab the ice tray, and flip it over. Stuck to the back is a memory card with enough information to call into question the integrity of the entire justice system. With this, I can buy my way out of almost any situation.

But not yet.

Not when I can still salvage my livelihood.

Feeling lighter now I have it back, I push it into my bra, put the tray back, and close the freezer door. I don’t bother to close the locker. There’s nothing of value in it now anyway, and the woman who rented it a year ago is about to disappear forever.

As I return to my car, my phone rings. Only two people have this number, and I don’t want to hear from either of them right now.

I climb into my car and remove the permit. Leaving it will draw too much attention. A missing woman is one thing; a missing disabled woman is another.

When I recognize the number on screen as one of Mona’s burner phones, I smile.

“Calling to wish me bon voyage?”

“You haven’t seen it,” she says.

I tug the seat belt across my body and click it into place.

“Seen what?”

“Where are you?”

I glance at the storage locker.

“On my way to the marina. What’s going on?”

“It’s him. Your Coast Guardsman. He’s… everywhere.”

I freeze, sure I misheard.

“What are you talking about? He can’t be everywhere.”

Her voice comes out shrill.

“Call me back when you’ve seen it.”

A blip sounds in my ear as she sends me a link, and I yank my phone away to see what’s gotten her so spooked. I click the link, and my breath catches in my chest.

Him. Filling the screen. Heat tracks over my cheeks and spreads to my entire body as I read the banner scrolling along the bottom.

NBC6 Exclusive: Coast Guard Rescue Swimmer Vows Revenge.

A voice-over begins, mixed with dramatic music.

“You’re about to hear a chilling story straight out of the mouth of a man who, by rights, should be dead.”

I swallow as he appears, gazing out over the water as if searching for someone to rescue.

“Meet Mick Weston. Helicopter Rescue Swimmer. He’s been touted as a hero by the president, but you won’t hear him call himself that. He says he’s a victim, a victim of a woman who may be a cold-blooded killer.”

The camera cuts to the reporter. She’s in her late forties, her hair styled in a chin-length bob. Her expression is serious, empathetic, as she speaks.

“Mick, you’ve shied away from telling your story. The question on everyone’s lips is ‘Why now?’”

“Because people deserve to know the truth,” he says.

“Mick, it’s been reported that you helped thwart a terror attack to rival 9/11. Are you saying that’s not true?”

He shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.

“The truth is that the threat is still out there.”

The reporter nods.

“And by ‘threat’—you’re talking about the female terrorist who lured you into a death trap?”

I curse under my breath.

“I am not a terrorist.”

Mick’s shoulders stiffen, and his jaw works.

“The public has a right to know she may still be in the US. But if there is any chance of catching her, we need everyone to be vigilant.”

On screen flashes an artist’s sketch of me so eerily close to how I look there is no doubt in my mind that Mick recalls every last detail of our brief encounter.

“She may look different now, wearing baggy clothing, maybe changed her hair or eye color,” he says.

My mouth runs dry.

“She’s ruthless, and she’s desperate. There’s every chance she murdered a man to cover her tracks.”

The reporter feigns shock.

“There’s evidence?”

His eyes shift to someone off camera before settling on the reporter.

“What we need are eyewitnesses to come forward. That’s the only way we can stop her before anyone else gets hurt.”

The reporter’s breathing increases.

“Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

His chin rises, a vein in his neck pulses, and his nostrils flare.

“Yeah. I’m going to direct this to the woman who made the mistake of messing with me.”

He leans forward and jabs his finger as though punctuating his words.

“Whoever you are, know this: I swear on my honor as a United States Coast Guardsman that I will find you and bring you in.”

He sits back, body rigid and his face set in hard lines.

My fingers curl around my phone as waves of nausea flow over me.

“You heard it here first. Mick Weston is a man on a mission. If you’ve seen this woman, contact…”

My stomach heaves, and I toss the phone on the passenger seat as a wave of dizziness hits me. There is no way Juan will take me to Cuba now Mick’s called on the Coast Guard to search for me. Mick Weston just painted a target on my back.

I’m as good as dead.