The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Michael

I tossed the red solo cup with the dregs of my cranberry margarita in the trash before jogging down the stairs from the rooftop. The sounds of everyone enjoying the Smith Agency holiday party faded as the door behind me slammed closed.

The office’s nighttime security lights dimly illuminated the empty first floor. Everyone had moved upstairs around the fire pit on the roof. I moved past the cubicles and dark computer screens in the shadowy room that I knew as well as my home.

I paused at the reception desk and pulled out the big silver mag lite we kept in the middle drawer. What dumbass teenager thought it was a good idea to swim in the Miami River at night and then try and spray paint our building? There had to be dozens of others that were easier to access than ours. Stupid kid.

This place was a fortress.

I pushed open the front door and walked around to the back of the building whistling Jingle Bells as I enjoyed the beautiful December weather—cool but not cold. A nice breeze and not a cloud in the dark sky. Ah, Florida. Ahead of me was the ten-foot-wide sliver of pavement between the rear of the building and the seawall. I typed in the combination to open the gate in the razor-wire-topped fence that walled that area off from the rest of the Smith Agency property.

From up on the roof, I’d spotted the kid. He’d managed the impressive feat of climbing up the seawall, but now he was marooned with nowhere to go but back in the water. Based on how he’d sprawled on the ground, it looked like the river had already kicked his ass. Now it was my turn.

The smile on my face probably looked like the Grinch before stealing all the presents down in Whoville. I twirled the mag lite like a baton, then flipped it on. Nothing I liked better than scaring a kid straight. It was a civil service, a good deed.

The chain-link gate opened with an impressive clatter. Loud enough it should scare the little shit. An intervention like this was all about drama.

“Yo, asshole. You think you’re Santa Claus or something?” I dropped as much threat into my voice as possible and played the beam from the powerful flashlight over the narrow area between the back of the building and the seawall’s edge.

I was sure everyone still at the party was leaning over the side of the roof, watching the scene play out. Better make it entertaining. My light found the kid, a drowned rat, in a growing puddle of water. He turned on his side, coughing. In the glare of the flashlight, his long dark hair glistened.

The rational part of my brain was still assembling the facts that a more primitive part already understood—the long hair, the delicate cough, the slight build and her small bare feet.

It was a woman.

I was on my knees at her side in a split second. I cupped her shoulder, wishing I’d not tried to scare anyone straight. Her icy wet clothing clung to her shivering body, revealing a form that was definitely female. She coughed and turned her head to look at me. I angled the flashlight so it wasn’t blinding either of us. Her wild eyes were liquid green and darted from my face to the surroundings.

“Are you okay?” Obviously, she wasn’t, but it was the only phrase that I managed to put together. I slid a few strands of hair back from her pale face. She wasn’t a kid, far from it. The fine web of wrinkles by her eyes put her around my own forty-three years. The curve of her cheek and the sharp upturn in her nose gave her a beautiful elfin look. Fragile. Elegant.

She shook her head and coughed again, curling up in the fetal position on the hard ground and spitting out water. I winced, the wet rasping noise cutting into me like a knife. She needed to get warm and dry.

“Let me help you.”

After a beat to consider me and my offer, she nodded slowly.

I threaded my arms behind her shoulders and knees to pick her up. She weighed nothing. She was tiny—maybe five feet tall. I cuddled her against my chest like she’d been in my arms a million times. It felt right.

“I need to talk to Smith. Only Smith. No cops.” She grabbed a fist full of my black shirt, bunching up the fabric and pulling surprisingly hard for someone as petite and exhausted as she was.

“You’re in the right place. Let’s get inside.”

She released her grasp on my shirt and melted into my arms. All the fear and fight that had gotten her here ebbed away. I tucked her against my chest and walked as fast as I could back toward the front entrance to the office. She wasn’t shivering any longer, but the limp way she rested in my arms had me concerned. Exhaustion and injury were foremost in my mind.

I was sobering fast. Any holiday cheer I’d enjoyed courtesy of the tequila in the cranberry margaritas I’d drunk tonight was a distant memory as my thoughts turned to the questions presented by the beautiful woman in my arms.

Like any urban waterway, the Miami River was disgusting, not to mention dangerous at night. And the climb up the seawall hadn’t been easy. If she wanted to see Smith, all she had to do was knock on the front door.

On our left, a pair of Miami PD cruisers sat in the middle of the parking lot. They belonged to the off-duty officers we’d contracted to monitor security feeds for Smith Agency clients while the regular staff relaxed and enjoyed the party tonight. The handpicked officers were ones we’d worked with in the past. Had the cruisers been enough to drive her into the river? She’d said no cops. But damn, that was some serious paranoia. This woman was all questions with no answers… so far.

Arthur Leck pushed open the front door, holding it for us to enter. I strode inside, the woman held against me, her wet clothes soaking me to the skin.

“They are all in the break room waiting for you two,” Leck said.

At his words, she stiffened.

Someone had turned on the lights in the main office. She turned, her gaze darting around the room. I took in the space for a moment, wondering what she thought. Our building was an open concept office with high ceilings and an industrial vibe. Nothing remarkable.

“All?” She wiggled like she wanted to escape my arms, her hands pushing ineffectually against my chest.

“You crashed our office holiday party,” I explained.

“Only Smith, that’s what Lewis said. I can’t trust anyone else.” This time she squirmed in earnest, and rather than risk dropping her, I set her on her feet. But I kept ahold of her upper arm until she was steady. She looked and sounded like a woman on the verge of panic. Whatever had driven her into the river still terrified her.

“Let me help?” I held out my hands like I might to a skittish animal.

To be honest, I wasn’t the guy you sent on a delicate mission like this. I was the Smith Agency’s muscle. At six foot five, 255 pounds, with a thick beard and tattoos down both forearms, I looked like a blunt instrument of force. And that was my main role at the company: close personal protection; security; and, on rare occasions, inflicting bodily harm. We all had a niche.

“You two stay. I’ll get Smith.” Leck looked between me and the soaking wet, terrified woman. I nodded, and he took off at a jog.

“We need to get you out of those wet clothes.”

She looked down at her wet black tee shirt and jeans, like she was only now realizing that she was soaked to the skin. When she crossed her arms protectively over her middle, I noticed her ink. A beautifully rendered purple shallot with a vibrant green stem that started on the inside of her wrist and ended just below her elbow. Small white scars on her knuckles and an old burn on her opposite forearm marked her as a chef or a cook. It was a minor detail, but it was the first piece of the puzzle, and I collected it like a miser hoarding a gold coin.

“I’m Michael Steel.” Smiling, I extended my hand and tried to look non-threatening.

After a slight hesitation, she unwound one hand to shake mine with a firm but icy grip.

“Thanks, Michael.” She didn’t offer her name. The sign of distrust needled an old wound.

Any woman in a bad situation always hit a raw nerve. If I had the power, I’d wave a magic wand and fix everything for this woman. Forget learning her story. I only wanted to fix the problem. It was like a compulsion, hard-wired into my DNA. I didn’t question it; instead, I leaned into it. She was now my responsibility, and Smith would have to accept that.

Kira was the first to reach us, breaking the strange staring contest the woman and I were locked in. Smith followed behind his wife; his cold eyes swept over the woman. I fought the urge to step between them and shield her from his cynical appraisal. She might think Smith was who she needed to help her, but the man was lethal and didn’t care about collateral damage. I’d worked for him long enough to know the good, the bad, and the ugly of John Smith. The higher the stakes, the more deadly a game he would play.

“Oh no, look at you. Come with me. Let’s get you warm and dry. Then you can tell us everything. I’m Kira Smith, John’s wife.” Kira wrapped an arm around the mystery woman and pulled her toward the stairs like a mother hen with a wayward chick.

“I’m Sabrina Dalton.” The woman answered softly. Her voice was hardly loud enough for me to hear. Her name meant nothing to me, but I tucked it away.

“Steel, get changed and come on up. I know better than to try to keep you out of this.” Smith shook his head like I was the problem, not the half-drowned woman his wife was taking into his home.