The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sabrina

I pulled the sleeves of the soft gray sweater Kira Smith lent me over my cold hands. Despite a hot shower and half a cup of tea, a chill still lingered in my bones. I sat in a large cushy chair, the kind that swallowed a person whole. The four of us were in what I assumed was the Smiths’ residence. Kira had draped a thick blanket over my lap before she took her seat next to her husband on the sofa across the coffee table from me. They had expectant looks on their faces. I couldn’t stall any longer. Time to tell my tale.

I twisted the sweater’s cuff between my fingers, not sure where or how to begin… or if I even should. The image of Lewis slumped on the grimy diner floor, his face twisted in pain, flashed before my mind’s eye.

It had taken me all day to make my way from the Oceanfront Diner to downtown Miami. Every moment it felt like Sandoval’s hired killers were only a step behind me. Now I was about to pull these strangers into my waking nightmare.

I turned to look at Michael Steel leaning against a wall to my left, trying to blend into the linen wallpaper. Looking like he did, Steel was fighting a losing battle to be invisible, especially in such an elegant setting. His shaggy hair, beard, and tattoos stuck out like a sore thumb in the Smiths’ chic apartment. The space looked like something out of Architectural Digest: the cozy Miami edition. And Steel looked like a biker ready to hop on his Harley.

Strangely, Steel’s silent presence made me feel better. The Smiths were a team, and I longed for someone on my side, even if it was an illusion. All day I’d been alone—isolation feeding my fears. The big burly giant that had carried me from the river was the only ally I’d had since this morning. The few moments I’d spent cradled in his massive arms as he carried me inside the Smith Agency building had done more to put me back in a sane state of mind than the hot shower or the tea.

I’d been unraveling since I bolted from the Oceanfront Diner that morning. My goal: get to Smith. Now that I’d made it, I floundered, unsure how to proceed. Asking for help wasn’t a normal part of my life. My middle name should have been self-reliant.

And there it was: the guilt. I never wanted to put another person in the position that I’d put Lewis in. Sadly, going it alone wasn’t an option I thought had much chance of success.

I sucked in a breath, ready to tell my tale. I was too uncomfortable to make eye contact, so I spoke to the mug in my hands. “FBI Special Agent Lewis Wright sent me to you. He said I could trust you.”

I took another sip of tea, hoping to steady my voice. In restaurant kitchens, I had learned to sound big and bold, brave and in control, no matter the shit storm that might have landed us in the weeds during service. But tonight, my bravado failed me.

“Agent Wright is a good man,” Smith answered.

I nodded and swallowed hard, clenching my jaw against the blubbering sob lodged in my chest. I fiddled with the yarn of the sweater, trying to find the ability to power through the next few minutes.

Where to start—the diner or the boat?

The touch of Michael Steel’s hand on my shoulder made me jump. He cupped my shoulder and squeezed. His expression radiated compassion. I leaned into the connection; warmth seeped through me from his palm. My hunched shoulders relaxed a bit, and I breathed a little easier. It was odd that a man that looked so scary was the one thing affording me comfort.

I sniffed, preparing myself. At last, I lifted my head to look at the Smiths. My resolve was a fragile thing. Michael stroked a circle on my shoulder with his thumb, the subtle encouragement exactly what I needed.

“This morning, Agent Wright and I were at the Oceanfront Diner waiting for witness protection to come get me when—” I broke off. How did I explain what happened at the diner? I hadn’t even seen it go down. I’d been hiding in the cooler.

“Masked gunmen shot up the diner,” Smith stated succinctly in a voice devoid of inflection. He might as well have been reading a grocery list.

I nodded, and Michael gave my shoulder another encouraging squeeze. “They shot Lewis twice.”

“The story has been all over the news. But we did not know Agent Wright was involved.” Kira's voice was flavored with both a slight Slavic accent and compassion. “When you finish telling us your tale, we will find out his condition.”

“Thank you. It’s my fault Lewis was hurt. I’d like to know if he is going to be okay. He said they were after me. He said only trust you. That you’d help me.” I studied Smith. He was an astonishingly average man in his mid-fifties, but for the burning calculation in his gray eyes. Being caught in his stare was unnerving.

Nothing about Smith made me think he would be the superhero that I desperately needed to rescue me.

I tipped my chin up, looking at Michael Steel standing next to my chair. Maybe he was my superman. Lord knows I needed someone to save me because at this point, I wasn’t sure how to save myself. Still, the risk to all of them made me reconsider.

“What are you involved in?” Smith leaned closer like a moth to a flame; he seemed attracted to danger.

They should turn me out. I’d already gotten one good man shot. And this place seemed too normal. I needed commandos or super soldiers. Not a workplace that had holiday parties. I let my gaze wander around the Smiths’ home. It bounced from a Christmas tree with handmade popsicle stick and painted dried pasta ornaments to a school photo of a boy about ten years old pinned to the fridge.

I shouldn’t be here. The fear that had kept me company all day took hold. It was time to leave.

“I’m not sure I should get anyone else involved.” I started to stand, but Michael’s hand on my shoulder stayed my progress.

“Wright wouldn’t have sent you here without reason. Tell us what’s going on. We can help. It’s what we do.” These were the first words Steel had spoken since he’d joined me and his bosses in the apartment. He coupled his words with another gentle squeeze of my shoulder before removing his hand. I missed the grounding connection instantly.

Resettling in the chair, I dug deep, looking for my last shred of bravery. I recalled the careful way Michael had carried me and the calm that seeped into me while in his embrace. On some elemental level, I trusted him and had from the first. He said they’d help. I needed to believe.

Fuck, he’d better be right.

More than anything, I wanted these people to help me get my life back.

For the first time since fleeing the Oceanfront, I let myself think about my restaurant. My dream. The promise I’d made on my daughter’s deathbed to succeed. I had to trust that the Smith Agency could resurrect my dreams or else I was as good as dead.

My gaze unwavering, I dropped my secret into John Smith’s lap.

“I saw a woman murdered by Rafa Sandoval.”

Kira’s sharp inhale was enough for me to know they were fully aware of who Sandoval was. He wasn’t the kind of man to get profiles on TV crime shows, but he was a big player in the underworld making a name for himself with a web of criminals on both sides of the law. Or so Lewis told me when I called him.

“How?” Smith’s one word cut through my thoughts. His unnerving gaze pinned me to the chair, chasing my next sentence out of my head.

Kira put her hand on his leg, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his thigh as she leaned over and hissed something in his ear. Smith’s jaw clenched. But he freed me from his laser-like stare. I sagged back into the chair like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

I collected my scattered thoughts and readied myself to tell the story of that day one more time. When Michael’s hand returned to my shoulder, I welcomed his support with a glance in his direction and a sad smile. Time for my superman to earn his cape.

“I’m a chef, and among other things, I have a catering business. About ten days ago, I was hired to do a small brunch on a yacht off the coast. It was apparent it was a business meeting from the moment I arrived on board. Six men, all speaking Spanish, gathered around a table in the main salon. I worked cooking in the galley and serving in the salon.” I paused and took a fortifying sip of the tea, regretting I’d only asked for honey and not a shot of whiskey to be added to my cup.

“The job was nothing interesting. Just a paycheck. Until I was clearing the last of the dishes from the meal. A crying woman wrapped in a bedsheet crashed into the salon. Her makeup was smeared and her hair a mess, but she was beautiful. I thought she might be on drugs or something. She was so distraught. She was screaming at Sandoval, trying to attack him. Over and over she kept repeating: ‘Rafa Sandoval, you will burn in hell.’”

“And you know who she was calling Rafa Sandoval? You can identify him?” Smith interrupted.

“Absolutely.” The man’s cold expression had been tattooed into my memory.

The wisp of a smile that curved Smith’s lips at my assurance made my skin crawl and my tongue stick to the roof of my suddenly dry mouth. He motioned for me to keep talking. I took a small sip of tea.

“An armed security guy grabbed her in a bearhug and carried her out of the room. It was like no big deal to the men. They shared a laugh at her expense, even as she kept screaming in the hallway. I kept my head down, clearing the table as fast as I could. My Spanish isn’t great, but good enough to know Sandoval made a joke about if she only knew how bad he really was, she’d understand he and the devil were already friends. I chalked it up to one more crazy story to tell people about catering in Miami.” I trailed off.

“But?” Kira prompted me. She could probably tell I was stalling. Wanting to go off on a tangent to avoid retelling the part of the day I saw in my nightmares.

“So, yeah. I went back to the galley to finish cleaning up. The kitchen was in the rear of the boat, and I had a partial view of the back deck where you stand to fish. I’d opened the porthole to get rid of the smell of the bacon I’d cooked. Is it even called a porthole on a mega yacht?” I shrugged and wrapped my arms around my middle, the images I didn’t want to describe replaying in my mind. Michael traced soothing circles over my back. I took a deep breath and forced myself to keep talking.

“Sandoval and the woman were outside yelling. I turned in time to see him slap her hard. She fell. The yelling stopped. They had moved out of my line of sight. I tried to relax and get back to work, but I kept watching the sliver of back deck out the open porthole. A few moments later, a blood-stained sheet blew out into the water. I, ah, only saw Sandoval leave the back deck.” I covered my mouth, trying to hold in the sob.

The shaky breath I sucked in did nothing to ease the knot in my chest. Michael squeezed my shoulder. My gaze lingered on Kira. Talking to another woman made it harder and easier. I’d failed one of the sisterhood.

“I keep telling myself she was already dead, that I couldn’t have saved her. God, I hope she was.” A few tears raced down my cheeks. “He must have tossed her overboard. I wasn’t sure then, but three days later I saw her picture on TV. Her naked body had washed ashore in Key Biscayne. Her name was Gabriela Cantoral. She was a TV actress in Mexico.” The publicity picture of her the news had shown had haunted me since.

Kira closed her eyes and swallowed visibly; this time it was Smith who rested a hand on his spouse’s leg.

“I think I couldn’t let myself believe that he’d done something so horrible while I was still on the boat. I was totally at their mercy. My only way back to Miami was the tender that brought me and most of the businessmen aboard.”

I recalled how panicked I’d been, stuck on that yacht. The memory brought fresh tears streaming down my face.

“I don’t know how I did it, but I finished cleaning up and ten minutes later kept it together to shake Sandoval’s hand before I boarded the small speed boat that took me and the others back to shore.” I wiped my right palm on my leg like I still had residue from his touch on my skin.

“None of what happened was your fault,” Kira said, and the men both murmured in agreement. Her words and their sympathy didn’t magically lift the ton of guilt resting on my soul. Nothing would anytime soon.

They didn’t understand. The worst part. The burning shame.

“It’s not knowing if she was dead that’s haunting me. What if she was alive when he threw her off the boat? Drifting in the ocean until, until—”

Michael squatted to put an arm around me. I turned into him, half crawling out of the chair to do it. My breath came in short, hard pants, and guilt crashed over me in a wave. I pressed into his broad chest, looking for a way to keep it together but fearing it was already lost.

“I waited to call Lewis until I saw her photo on TV. It was three days. What if it’s my fault she died treading water, and no one was looking for her?” I whispered my words into Michael’s chest. It was the first time I’d dared to say it out loud. Could someone have saved her if I’d acted sooner?

Michael wrapped his other arm around me, and I let go. I cried. Big wracking sobs. For the dead Mexican soap opera actress. For the cook at the diner. For Lewis Wright. For my restaurant.

And for myself.