Page 9 of Lethal Deceit (Hightower Security #2)

Anxiety and paranoia clutching at me, I leave my rental as far away from the marina as I can. No longer sure it’s such a good idea to bring my suitcase, I retrieve everything of value, including my gun, money, and a change of clothes and shoes. The memory card is encased in plastic and still lodged firmly inside my bra. If I do get wet, it should be fine.

With a pack on my back, my hair hidden under a pink bucket hat, aviator shades on my face, and the running shoes and baggy clothes I’m wearing, I look like any other tourist out for a stroll to see the expensive yachts before the sun sets. To add to the effect, I’m carrying a bag filled with souvenirs.

I walk unhurriedly, but to be really careful, I drag my left foot, which completely changes my gait. There is little to no chance anyone will recognize me; if anything, they’ll mistake me for a teenage boy, but every step I take is still excruciating.

As I reach the entrance, a man appears on the jetty with his dog.

Smothering a curse, I pull my phone out and press it to my ear.

“Hi, it’s me. Where’d you say the boat was again?”

He passes by, shoulders jutted back, mouth pressed down, probably thinking I’m the hired help for one of the other yachts.

He’s still in earshot, so I continue in case he questions me.

“Okay, yeah, sure. Right at the end, thanks. No, no. I can find my way there. But the uniform is provided, right?”

His footsteps recede, and I angle my phone so I can check to see if he’s really gone.

On a whim, I call Mona. I’m not even sure why. Maybe to say goodbye. Maybe to say I’ll call when I reach Cuba.

Maybe to hear her voice before I embark on what could be my final voyage.

A soft breeze rustles my plastic bag as I wait for her to answer. But it’s not her voice that echoes in my ear. It’s a mechanical female one I shouldn’t be hearing.

The number you have tried is no longer in service.

I glance at my screen to confirm I called the correct number before trying again. Again, the disconnected phone number message bleats in my ear. In a daze, I push the phone into my jacket pocket and continue down the jetty toward the slip where Juan’s yacht is moored.

The sun is starting to disappear, and along with it, my courage. First Irina. Now Mona.

At least Irina told me to my face.

But Mona cutting me out of her life… It stings more than if she’d slapped me. Hot tears are brewing in my eyes for the first time since I was a kid. Furious with myself for caring, I blink them away and allow my anger to propel me forward.

I’m stupid. So stupid to think she’d care.

Why would she? I’m worthless to her now.

My eyes fix on the slip number, and I freeze. Juan is on the jetty, but it’s the two cops beside him that make me suck in a breath.

Momentarily caught in indecision, my feet angle to the exit, my shoulders already turning when my brain snags on details. I slide my glasses down a fraction to let in more light, confirming this may be about Juan and not me.

The uniforms are standard blue, but the arm insignia isn’t a yellow Miami PD emblem. For whatever reason, out-of-state cops are talking to Juan. It's weird, but it's not something I can think about now. I turn on my heel and take two faltering steps before I realize there’s someone else heading this way.

The light is fading fast, and the only illumination comes from the lights inside the yachts. I squint, my sunglasses making it even harder to make out the details. He’s moving with purpose, his eyes shifting from a piece of paper in his hand to slip number after slip number, as though he’s checking them.

Nothing about him screams cop, but something about how he carries himself commands my attention. Physically, he’s strong. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Maybe a dock assistant?

I pick up my pace, crossing my fingers Juan doesn’t do anything stupid to draw attention to me. I don’t want to explain the amount of cash I’m carrying, but he’s hardly likely to do that when he’s already under scrutiny.

Distracted and tired, I abandon my slower walk to get out of here quicker. Ahead of me, the man looks up and seems to do a double take. Probably looking at the cops behind me.

Still… better to be cautious. I take my glasses off and keep walking. With any luck, he’ll be too focused on what he’s doing to notice me.

But he has noticed me. His body has gone rigid, and his methodical search for slip numbers has been abandoned. His pace increases. As he passes a brightly lit yacht, I catch a flash of determination, set jaw, lips compressed, and eyes locked on me like I’m a target.

I suck in a breath as recognition slams into me so hard it knocks me back a step.

Him.

He’s here.

Panic gripping me, I frantically run through my options. Behind me is my way out. But even if I can talk my way past the cops, he’ll be hot on my heels. My breathing starts to speed up, and I take short, shallow breaths, which only leads to hyperventilation.

I search alongside the jetty for exits and find none other than the inky water. There’s barely enough space between to slip into it, and I stand no chance against a Coast Guard rescue swimmer.

Heavy footsteps come from behind me, making me spin around. The cops are running, and one appears to be reaching for his weapon.

“Get down!”

someone yells.

I have no time to think about why when a shot is fired. I duck, screaming as I search for cover. With nowhere to go and no hope, I leap for the closest yacht. I miss by an inch—my head slams against the yacht’s hull, and I plunge into the water, my scream cut off as I gulp in a mouthful of salt and panic.

Pain screams through my skull, sharp and blinding, but I fight against it—holding my breath, straining to spot the boat’s ladder as my clothes drag like chains around my limbs. My head breaks the surface, and I’m mortified to see the current has pulled me away from the lights of the jetty.

Stupid. So stupid.

I suck in a breath, salt stinging my throat, only to plunge under again. Panic flares. I thrash upward, hands clawing through the freezing dark. Gasping, I break the surface—just long enough for my palms to slap uselessly against the waves.

Pressure builds in my chest, lungs screaming. A voice—familiar, cruel—rises from the pit of memory and sinks its teeth in like a ravenous dog.

You deserve to die. You’re worthless. No one cares. You’re pathetic.

A wave crashes over me. Water floods my mouth, and I choke, spluttering as I try to breathe. My head slips under again. Panic takes over, and I inhale—deeply this time. Saltwater scorches its way into my lungs. I convulse, limbs turning to lead.

The voice gives one last command.

Give up.

And I do.

With no hope and nothing left to fight for, I let myself go. The black swallows me whole.

The cold wraps around me, soft and smothering. The marina’s depths close in, and for a moment—just a moment—it almost feels like a mother’s embrace.