The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Sabrina

“ W as this necessary?” I looked from Kira to my mother, to my reflection in the mirror. I was a blonde. My hair cut in a stylish bob. “Yesterday, Michael said I wasn’t leaving the building anytime soon.”

“John asked I change your appearance since your picture was on the news. It’s a precaution. You don’t want to do something like this in a rush.” Kira smoothed her handiwork with a round brush and set the blow dryer down on the marble countertop. “I think I like you blonde. It’s a good look.”

“I miss the red already.” I fingered the honey-colored locks, trying to understand exactly how this happened. One minute I was sipping my morning coffee with Mom, planning on making the Smith Agency crew breakfast sandwiches; the next, Mom and I were swept upstairs by Kira to her luxury bathroom for breakfast and an unexpected makeover. I had no say in the outcome, either. Blonde hair. Bold makeup. It was all John’s orders.

“Oh, honey, it’s just hair. When this is over, dye it back or keep it. Decide then. Although the cut is spectacular.” My mother met my gaze in the mirror and smiled at me.

Back in the day, Mom had sported every conceivable hair style and color from platinum to pitch black using dye and wigs to change her look. As a kid, I never knew if a brunette or redhead would pick me up from school. She loved change for the sake of change. Me, not so much.

“Thank you. It’s been quite a while since I’ve cut anyone’s hair.” A wistful expression softened Kira's face. “A very long time ago I was in the beauty industry.”

“A model?” The woman’s cheekbones could cut glass.

She shrugged and raised her elegantly arched eyebrows, neither confirming nor denying my guess.

Kira’s cell phone chirped, and she pulled it from the pocket of her silk slacks. “We should head down. John needs to talk to you.”

I ran a hand through my short golden hair and watched the stranger in the mirror. How could some hair dye and a little makeup change my appearance so much?

Kira and Mom led the way back down to the ground floor. Mom, ever the mother hen, begged off as soon as she heard Captain Morgan squawking from his cage in the guest quarters.

I followed Kira into the conference room, scanning the people inside. With a twinge of disappointment, I realized Michael wasn’t milling around the long table with the others. He’d been absent since yesterday afternoon when he’d given me an update on Lewis’s health. Across the broad table, I sent Sydney a shy smile and started toward her.

“Whoa, what happened to you?” Michael’s question came from my left, and I spun back toward the man in the gray three-piece suit that I’d barely glanced at a moment ago.

“Oh, shit.” I pressed a hand over my open mouth.

We both giggled. There was no other word for our shared reaction. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one to get a makeover. Michael’s hair had been buzzed short, and his beard was gone. The shave revealed a granite-hard jaw marred by a thin white scar on one cheek. His short, dark hair had flecks of silver that edged him toward distinguished.

Wow. The man could wear the hell out of a suit. The hint of his tattoos, barely visible in the V of the open shirt collar, made me want to pop open a few more buttons. He was GQ cover model worthy. His biceps bulged against the jacket as he spun an office chair toward me.

“Let me see you both.” Smith walked into the room and used his cell phone to point at us.

We turned.

“Good. Steel, no one will know you were her driver in Palm Beach Gardens. And once we get Sabrina some of Gigi’s clothes, she’ll be all set. Quinn is working on that now. Everyone take a seat.” John sat at the head of the table.

Sydney and Noah took chairs on the left side of the table. Kira, after kissing John’s cheek, sat on his right.

“What is he talking about?” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth to Michael.

“Have no idea. I was told to get a shave and a haircut and put on a suit.” Michael tugged at his open shirt collar like it might give him hives.

My mind whirled with possible explanations for our double makeover. I wished I could signal for a time-out so I could mentally catch up before John started talking. But wanting and getting are two very different things.

“I have an old friend that has taken an interest in Sabrina’s situation. He wants to help,” John announced to the table, rapping his knuckles on the wood three times like he was warding off bad luck.

Michael groaned and rubbed a hand down his face in slow motion. My mouth went dry, and a flush raced over my skin. It was like watching one of those luxury brand cologne ads in real life as his crisp white shirt strained over his muscles. I could practically hear his palm catching on the barely visible scruff on his cheeks. The only thing missing was a soundtrack with a sexy, throbbing baseline and some mood lighting.

Woah. I exhaled and closed my eyes to block out Mr. Suit Porn. Not the time or the place. He was my protector. These warm fuzzy feelings were nothing more than displaced gratitude.

“Another spy?” Michael asked John as he took his seat.

My eyes flew open and focused on John. Spies—like more than one. My thoughts of heaving man chest and sexy beard scruff fled so fast I got mental whiplash.

“A spy wants to help me. Why?” I sank into the chair next to Michael and gripped the arms to keep from melting onto the floor. Curling up in the fetal position under the conference table held massive appeal.

“Sandoval isn’t only an American problem. Other countries and organizations are interested in containing his group. My friend is offering protection and assistance but not inside the USA.”

“And it won’t be free.” Michael’s cynical tone made it apparent he didn’t approve of John’s friends.

“Yes, there are conditions. As you can see, they need her to identify Sandoval so they can proceed.” Smith tossed a few 8 by 10 photos on the table.

I leaned forward to study one. A grainy image of a man in a Panama hat and aviator sunglasses filled the page. The intense zoom lens used had pixelated the figure to such a degree that it could be any of a thousand men. Smith braced his elbows on the tabletop and steepled his hands, waiting until I’d looked my fill. He pinned me with his icy gaze, taking my measure across the expanse of table. I shoved the useless photos away.

“Your ‘friend’ knows where Sandoval is but can’t ID him? Shit, this sounds like a bunch of amateurs. Sabrina is safe here. It’s not worth the risk.” Michael eased closer to my chair as he spoke.

The others in the room swiveled their heads between Michael and John like they were watching a tennis match.

“This isn’t exactly an Interpol operation, but the group is skilled and well-connected, and they have the stomach for going after Sandoval. No one has decent intelligence on him. The few photos we have are useless. My friend’s group has intel on a location. And Sabrina can supply the identification. Then the problem can be handled.” Smith’s eyes didn’t leave my face. His stare was as unnerving as it had been the first night when he’d questioned me.

It seemed like he could read my mind and saw all the fear and uncertainty that threatened to send me running for my mom. I looked around the table. No one wanted to be in my position. Their sympathy washed over me. It didn’t make me feel better.

“Tell me more?” I sounded confused and hesitant.

“Sandoval will attend a conference in Havana. The event is a cover for him to meet face to face with an array of international criminals and extend his reach. We need your identification to bring him down. I have promises of support from some US agencies, but none can operate in Cuba.”

“For good reason. Americans don’t belong in Cuba.” Michael had placed a protective hand on the arm of my chair. I focused on his hand. It was so much bigger than mine—capable and strong.

“What happens if I don’t go? Will you all still protect me? And my mom?”

“Of course we will,” Michael answered before Smith.

Michael’s reassurance did little. John Smith’s name was on the front door of this place, not his. I swallowed down the urge to press the point with Smith and tried a new tack.

“Can’t we do the sketch artist thing like in the movies? Make a drawing for your friend to use.” I was grasping at straws, but come on—Cuba. No one went to Cuba. Well, almost no one.

Smith shook his head and sighed in exasperation; the disappointment rolled off him in waves. “Do this and get your life back. Or hide in my building until—” Smith shrugged and trailed off, unwilling to predict the future.

I looked at Kira, wanting something from her that her husband would never give—compassion. She closed her eyes, unable to meet my gaze. Her silence spoke volumes about my chances if I passed on Cuba. It was the best plan to save my ass.

Michael spun his chair and mine, so we faced each other.

“You don’t have to do this. We can find another way.” He took my hands, and our knees bumped. His expression held all the compassion that was lacking in Smith’s. He squeezed my fingers and ran one calloused thumb over my knuckles.

I glanced at John.

“Cuba is the only way you have a chance of opening your restaurant on schedule.” John’s words were half temptation and half painful reminder of everything that my decision would affect.

“Will you come with me?” I asked Michael.

He was my superhero, my guardian angel. I trusted him to protect me and had since he’d found me wet and shivering on the seawall. I didn’t rationally understand it, but now wasn’t the time to dissect my feelings.

“Of course.” Again, he answered without Smith’s approval, but this promise Michael could make and keep with or without Smith.

I pulled my hands away from Michael and rubbed my throbbing temples. “I need time.”

Thoughts bombarded me from all sides. The good. The bad and the ugly.

I’d promised Hailey I would make my restaurant a reality. When I mortgaged the house and liquidated my small retirement account to pay for Viande, I hadn’t hesitated. Did I stop taking risks now? Fear wasn’t my style any more than asking for help was. But this decision was different. A bankruptcy filing wasn’t deadly.

I could hardly breathe.

“Bad news.” Quinn rushed in. We all turned to her. “FBI is here with a material witness warrant for Sabrina.”

“Shit.” Sydney jumped from her chair. She snatched her small notebook and gold pen off the table. “I’ll do what I can to stall. John, if you plan on getting her out of here, do it now. And do it quietly.” She didn’t even glance in my direction as she hustled from the room.

“Can a lawyer do that? Help me avoid a warrant?” No one answered my stupid question.

“These are for you. Get changed.” Quinn shoved an armful of clothing at me. It smelled like an expensive perfume. The cloying, sickly sweetness invaded my lungs and made me want to retch.

Indecision paralyzed me and everyone waited for me to thaw. The weight of expectation in their gazes sent my heart racing.

“You have about three minutes to decide. If you stay, the FBI will take you in. Sydney will meet you at the bureau’s field office. But—” Smith for once seemed to be trying to soften the blow. Choosing his words with a care for my damaged sensibilities. “I can almost guarantee that you’d be killed in some kind of jailhouse incident sooner rather than later. Sandoval’s organization is good at those.”

How wrong I was. He’d been looking for the best turn of phrase to get me motivated or terrified.

“Boss, don’t freak her out,” Noah said in a quiet aside.

A choked sob that was half laugh escaped from my constricted throat. I looked at the clothes in my lap, the bold tropical print swam before my unfocused eyes. My pool of choices was getting smaller every moment, and it was infested with great white sharks. Cuba or FBI.

It really wasn’t a choice. Smith had only let me think I had a choice. The makeover suddenly made sense; he’d seen this coming. I needed to get out of Maimi.

“Think I’ll be home for Christmas?” It was less than two weeks until the holiday. I looked around the room, cataloging the range of expressions displayed on everyone’s faces. Kira and Noah looked relieved. Smith determined. And Michael resigned.

“You? Try us. I told you; I’m going with.” Michael said.

“Yes, you two should be home for the holiday.” Smith gave a small nod and wove his fingers together like the evil mastermind of a nefarious plan in a B movie.

Shit. I was going to Cuba.