Page 7 of Lethal Deceit (Hightower Security #2)

I walk into the nail salon, holding a box, and remove my shades as my eyes adjust. The salon is open, and all the reclining chairs are full with women either in the process of a cheap pedicure or soaking with their fingertips wrapped in foil to remove shellac from their nails. Barely any spare me a glance as I breeze past, heading right to the back, announcing to any of Irina’s staff that she has a delivery.

They know better than to ask questions, and the generic uniform I keep in my suitcase with a vague logo, the fake pager, and the device that mimics the scanner couriers use ensures that no one else will ask why I’m here either.

The door is closed, so I rap my knuckles, once, twice, then four times, and hope she hasn’t changed it since we last spoke.

“Da?”

she calls out.

I try the door. Locked, as always.

“Delivery.”

The door opens, and she peers out at me, eyes heavily rimmed with black, a cigarette in her hand. Today, like most days, she’s dressed to look like what she wants people to think she is, a Russian immigrant, part gypsy, part businesswoman in her flowing dress and shawl.

Her eyes widen then instantly narrow as she looks over my shoulder.

“No deliveries today,” she says.

My heart rate quickens. Irina’s salon is a front for her more lucrative business of selling passports. She’s the best in Miami. Without her I stand no chance.

I hold up my hand to reveal a wad of rolled-up cash concealed in my palm. A thousand dollars just to gain entrance is a small price to pay.

She blinks rapidly, almost as if mentally counting the notes, before she beckons me inside. I barely have time to orient myself before a gun is jammed against my temple.

The empty box tumbles out of my hands, and Irina kicks it aside.

“Why are you bringing trouble to my door?”

I swallow and try not to flinch.

“I need another passport.”

Irina mutters under her breath in Russian.

“I’m an artist. You think I can pluck one out of the air?”

I try for a casual smile.

“You’re a magician. Everyone knows that.”

She laughs, and the cool metal leaves my temple.

“You look like crap, . Here, come, have a drink. Then we talk business.”

The last thing I feel like is vodka, but I’m hardly in a position to decline. I settle down on the velvet couch and watch as she pours two fingers of vodka.

My gaze locks on the glass as she hands it to me. I lift it to my lips and linger before I see her tip hers back. She may be my ticket out of here, but that doesn’t mean I trust her.

I swallow in one gulp, hoping that’ll lessen the hit my empty stomach will take.

“I need a Canadian passport.”

Irina frowns and takes a drag of her cigarette.

“And you need it?”

I tap my finger on the top of my index nail.

“Overnight.”

She throws her head back and laughs.

“She thinks I’m a miracle worker now!”

As much as I dislike being mocked, I laugh along with her.

“Can you do it?”

Irina’s mouth twists to one side, exaggerating her wrinkles. “No.”

My stomach drops to my toes. “No?”

“Nyet,”

she says, repeating it in Russian.

“I have the cash.”

“Da. But you are not worth the risk.”

I slowly rise to my feet.

“You took my money…”

The gun appears in her hand almost as if she were a magician.

“Proshchaniye.”

I raise my hands, backing up.

“I’ll pay double.”

She shakes her head and advances on me, shooing me out of her office.

“Triple,” I say.

Her eyes narrow.

“You’re not worth it.”

The familiar sting of rejection stabs into my chest as I straighten up, pull my shoulders back, and try to project confidence I no longer feel.

I step out into the bright sunshine, and my shoulders start to itch. Like someone is pointing a gun at my back, just waiting to pull the trigger. With practiced care, I tuck away my emotion, hold fast to the hope that I can still convince Juan to transport me, and walk toward where I parked my car.

I have less than twenty minutes to make a decision, and if I get it wrong, my next mistake could be my last.