The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Michael

T he lobby of the Hotel Internacional sparkled that evening. Guests of the hotel were decked out in high end fashion. The women glistened, adorned with expensive jewels, and the men wore bespoke suits that made me glad I had packed my Prada three button. A bodyguard needed to look the part, and when I guarded a high-profile celebrity, some crap from Men’s Wearhouse wouldn’t cut it. The lobby buzzed with activity as tourists and fashionable locals moved between the bars and restaurants of the hotel.

I leaned against the teak bar, sipping my mojito and taking in the spectacle. According to my watch, I had five more minutes. Gunter and Sabrina were already inside the reception, hard at work. Her a server. Him a bartender.

I still hated the plan. Too many variables.

I sighed and stirred the ice in my drink with the stalk of sugar cane so hard a cube plopped onto the bar top. A moment later, the bartender swept it up with a crisp white cloth and a reproachful glare.

If only all my mistakes could be cleaned up that simply. I winced.

Sleeping with Sabrina wasn’t a mistake. Unprofessional? Probably. But not a mistake.

Burning up the sheets with her for the last twenty-something hours was like setting an explosive charge and not keeping track of how much time you had to get the hell outta the blast range. I knew the explosion was coming but had no fucking clue when.

So far it had been all honeymoon bliss, but no way that lasted, even if we’d proven to be utterly compatible in and out of bed. And the shower. And twice on the sofa. The stress of the Sandoval situation would ensure she and I had an expiration date.

I tipped back my drink and sucked it dry. I was getting ahead of myself. Until we dealt with Sandoval, there was nothing else to worry about.

Adding sex to this already stressful situation hadn’t helped me compartmentalize. I slammed my empty glass down, drawing another glare from the bartender who’d already cleaned up my wayward ice cubes once. With a crisp, military-style salute, I spun away from the man’s disapproving glower.

I wove my way across the lobby to where a discreet sign welcomed the members of the Caribbean Hospitality Conference to the opening night party. In front of the ballroom door, a long black-skirted table was staffed by a man and woman in evening wear. Both had conference organizer lanyards around their necks.

“May I help you, sir?” An elegant black woman gestured me forward when she finished helping another guest. Her words were heavily accented with the same French Creole as the Haitian guy that cut my hair before we left Miami.

“Michael Dumas, checking in.” I offered my best James Bond smile. It was the suit; it had that effect on me.

Her maroon-red fingernail scrolled down a typed page, searching for my fake name.

“Mr. Dumas from Monaco? My, you have come very far.” Her eyebrow arched high in disbelief as she checked off my name on the list.

“My hotel group is looking to expand. The Caribbean has much to offer. Good weather, beautiful beaches, and relaxed gaming laws.” I’d switched to French. There was something about speaking the language that made everything extra classy, even a lie.

She smiled in understanding, her teeth a flash of white behind her ruby red shellacked lips. Money made the world go round.

“Ah, you will not want to miss the casino redevelopment and growth strategy session on Sunday. Shall I put you on the attendee list?” She had queued up a booking program on an electronic tablet and was poised to add my name.

“Of course.” I nodded. If everything went to plan, I’d be on my way back to Miami with Sabrina long before that and Sandoval would be locked in a Cuban jail. Yeah, fingers crossed.

“No problem. Here are your credentials for the weekend. Your badge and wristband will give you access to all the conference events.” She passed me a manila envelope.

“Merci.” I reached in and retrieved the lanyard and badge with my fake name. I looped them over my head as I left the check-in table thinking about Alison Fairfax, the girl I had so wanted to sit next to that I’d signed up for my first French class. She’d been a redhead too. Just like Sabrina before the cut and dye job.

Even back in middle school, I had a type: petite, spicy redheads. Ugh. Why couldn’t Sabrina and I have met a year ago, or a year from now? I might have been a regular at her old food truck or new restaurant. Meeting like that would have been nice and normal and not fraught with fucking danger.

The wristband in my breast pocket, I crumpled up the empty envelope in my fist and chucked it in a discreetly placed brass waste bin.

An attendant in a hotel staff uniform opened the ballroom door for me. The soft strains of a string quartet and the murmur of voices poured out of the dimly lit space. Huge, live palm trees in oriental pots bigger than Volkswagen Beetles arched overhead. Clusters of sofas, tables, and wingback chairs were arranged in conversation groups beneath the tropical canopy. The candlelit space reminded me of a never-ending living room. It was nothing like the eight-person round tables with banquet chairs I’d anticipated.

The beautiful room was an operational nightmare. It had more shadows and hidden nooks than were logical for an event like this. I swept the softly lit room, my eyes lingering on every Latino man over thirty and under sixty, wondering if one was Sandoval. The grainy pictures Smith had shared and the description Sabrina gave were both of little help. Almost every man of average build with dark hair and a nice suit fit the shitty description.

I cursed under my breath. Time to find Sabrina and Gunter.

The main bar was dead center in the room under a five-tiered crystal chandelier. The best lighting in the whole cavernous room. Not helpful other than for finding Gunter.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

Obviously at home behind a bar, Gunter spun a silver shaker in his palm twice before cracking it open on the edge of the bar top and pouring two martinis into icy glasses. He added the olives and lemon twists with an artful flick of his wrist and slid the finished drinks to a waiting couple.

“Slinging drinks and making friends. What can I get you?” Gunter paused and dried his hands on a bar rag draped over his shoulder.

“Mojito.”

Gunter wrinkled his nose. “Tourist. Rum, good rum should be savored, allowed to shine, not covered up with sugar and mint.”

He took a cut crystal rocks glass from the back bar and, standing on his tiptoes, plucked a tall smooth stoppered bottle of golden-brown liquor from a top shelf with a flourish. “This is Havana Club Máximo, one the finest rums in the world.” He presented the bottle like a waiter would a fine vintage wine. “Only a thousand bottles a year are produced. Your only choice, Mr. Dumas, is neat or on the rocks?”

With great restraint, I stopped myself from rolling my eyes or choking him while I demanded to know where Sabrina was. I had a role to play. “Neat.”

“Excellent.” Gunter popped the stopper and poured me a healthy shot of the expensive rum. The scents of dark chocolate and vanilla wafted from the glass with an undercurrent of nitromethane strength alcohol.

As I took the heavy glass from the bar, Gunter cast a meaningful look over my shoulder and I turned, hoping I’d find Sabrina.

“An American with good taste in rum. Interesting,” said a middle-aged man in heavily accented English. He and a younger man had joined me at the main bar. Both wore cheap, ill-fitting suits and had the air of a bureaucrat about them.

They had to be the two Policía Nacional Revolucionaria officers Gunter had promised would help us take down Sandoval. I figured the expensive rum was their signal to introduce themselves to me. Classic spy games.

I held out my hand. “I’m Michael Dumas.”

As I shook hands with the men, I took their measure. Firm grips and hard eyes. These guys had seen some shit. I rated the older man, Agent Acosta, a seven out of ten on the trustworthy scale. He had intelligent eyes that scanned the room, not missing a thing. The younger guy, Mora, didn’t give me a good feeling. After working security of all kinds for so many years, I’d learned to trust my gut when it came to people. And something about his eager, rat-like face set me on edge.

Meeting the two agents who would be my backup didn’t change my opinion of the plan. It still sucked.

I’d never missed Derek Sawyer and Noah Kennedy so much in my life. The team at the Smith Agency worked in perfect harmony. No way this ad hoc partnership would go as well.

“Do you prefer English or Spanish?” I asked. It was apparent the PNR agents weren’t fluent in English, and living in Miami, I used my Spanish almost daily.

“Espa?ol por favor,” Acosta answered with a grateful smile. “My English is still a work in progress.”

“Not a problem.”

“How do you like Cuba?” Mora asked.

“Sadly, I’ve hardly left the hotel.”

“That is a shame. Cuba is a beautiful place. She is enjoying a renaissance. Tourism and economic growth are both at all-time highs. Our nation is reclaiming her place in the world.” Mora’s eyes glittered with the righteous fire of a patriotic zealot.

“Don’t get carried away, Mora.” Acosta paired his cynical chuckle with a pat on the younger man’s back. I had fifty bucks that said any nationalistic fervor Acosta had for his country died before the first Castro. “But my partner is right about the rising tourism. It is the reason this problem needs to be handled carefully and quickly.”

“Understandable.” I nodded and took my turn scanning the room as Mora continued to explain the changes coming to Cuba and list the most important of the tourist spots I should try to visit. I didn’t think Mora would have been writing my trip’s itinerary if he knew I was in Cuba illegally.

I focused on the waitstaff, my gaze bouncing from one uniformed person to the next faster than a pinball in an arcade game. A young man pouring a bottle of wine. No. An older woman carrying a tray of drinks. No. I turned left, then right, and still didn’t see Sabrina. Tension stiffened my spine, and I clutched my crystal glass so tight it cut into my hand. I longed for the Smith Agency’s resources. Simon’s high tech surveillance gadgets and the cool, calm voice of Quinn running coms in my ear.

Mora paused in his praise of Cuba’s economic redevelopment and the two PNR agents looked at me expectantly. Shit. I’d not been paying attention. Way to piss off my only allies. I nodded, smiled, and took a careful sip of the rum to cover my gaff.

A blur of movement from in the darkest corner of the ballroom caught my eye. At last, I’d found Sabrina. Tray held high, she sailed across the room, bobbing and weaving from one tangle of party guests to the next. She stopped and offered the food to a group of men in dark suits. My breath caught when she lingered, leaning close to a man in a navy jacket. A second later, her shoulders drooped, and she turned away from the men.

Like she could sense my eyes on her, she spun around, and our gazes collided. The sip of rum I’d taken burned fire down my throat as I watched her approach. Sabrina, like the strong booze, was intoxicating. Images of her naked, soft and yielding in my arms, flashed in my memory. Once more, I had to squash the urge to grab her and whisk her far away from this place. My head was a mess tonight, and I needed to get it on straight. Sex or no sex. I had a job to do for her and Smith.

The two PNR agents turned to see what had caught my attention.

“The witness?” asked Acosta in a near whisper.

I nodded.

Gunter had briefed the PNR agents on tonight’s plan to have Sabrina roam the party as a server until she either identified Sandoval or the party ended. Once she made an ID, it would be my turn to play my part.

“Gentleman, can I offer you some shrimp with guava cocktail sauce?” Sabrina proffered her tray to the PNR agents, who each took something. Her attention turned to me, waiting for me to select a morsel from the tray.

“These are Gunter’s friends,” I told her.

She glanced from Mora to Acosta, her expression unreadable.

I leaned close, like I was inspecting the food on her tray. She smelled like the shampoo in our hotel bathroom, coconuts and island breezes. “Have you seen him yet?”

She sighed. “No. But it’s so dark and busy in this room. It’s impossible to be methodical but—” She shrugged as best she could without upsetting the tray.

“I’m here when and if you need me.” I took a shrimp I didn’t want.

She hesitated for a moment, her head cocked, then bit her lip and shook her head. I’d have paid ten thousand dollars to know what she didn’t say. I hated to think she was scared or frustrated, and I was helpless. Even a simple touch on her arm might tip someone off that she was more than just a waitress and get them to take a second look. Her blonde hair and heavy makeup was a good disguise, but we shouldn’t press our luck.

The room crawled with people. Most were here for the hospitality conference. But Gunter had warned us that many others were criminals using the event to hold high-level talks on neutral ground. The meetings were the only reason that Sandoval had agreed to get off his boat—or so Gunter’s informant promised.

“Thank you.” She pasted on a brittle smile before turning and heading for the next group of partygoers.

“Brave woman,” Acosta said, his appreciative gaze following her across the room.

Mora grunted in what might have been agreement, and my trust in him fell even further.