The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Michael

I knew the moment Sabrina found Sandoval. She’d gone rigid and vibrated like a bowstring pulled too tight, ready to snap. The unnatural stillness only lasted a moment, but I’d seen it. She’d stooped to offer a man seated in an armchair something from her tray. The same movement she’d executed all evening, smooth as silk. Until she came face to face with him—Sandoval. And froze.

God, I hated this plan. And tomorrow wouldn’t be any easier.

Every fiber of my being screamed to go get her. Pull her back from the danger of breathing the same air as Sandoval. I eased closer, peering into the shadowed corner of the room, wishing for more light. In my head, I was screaming at her to get the hell out of there. She didn’t hear my unspoken command. Instead, cool as a cucumber, Sabrina turned and offered her tray to the other men in the group.

I gritted my jaw. This bullshit was going to give me gray hair by the time we left Havana. I watched Sabrina, unable to take my eyes off her while she was within Sandoval’s reach. Letting her do this had been insanity. Asking her to be bait in the trap we laid for Sandoval tomorrow was worse.

I clenched my phone in my pocket to keep from putting my fist through a wall. I could pull it out and snap a few photos. Broadcasting Rafa Sandoval’s face to every law enforcement agency in the world had an undeniable appeal. Let him know what it was like to be hunted. As soon as I thought of it, I discarded the idea. I couldn’t risk ruining the plan to take a picture of a man destined for the deepest, darkest prison cell in Cuba.

Sabrina, done feeding Sandoval’s crew, racewalked to Gunter at the main bar to deliver the news and point out where Sandoval sat. I followed her to the bar slowly, easing into my persona for tonight’s mission. I was Michael Dumas. A run-of-the-mill American scumbag looking to step up in the criminal world. I cracked my neck and shot my cuffs.

By the time I reached the bar, Sabrina had bolted from the ballroom. In ten minutes or less she would be safe in our room. And my anxiety would ease a notch.

I glanced at Gunter, and he nodded. No words needed. We both knew the next step in the plan.

Michael Dumas was a grasping and arrogant guy. The kind that sees what he wants and takes it. Caution is for other people. He’s brave, stupidly so. Yeah, I knew the type; I could play the role in my sleep. A hustler looking for the easy way to the top. I warmed to the role, mentally filling in Dumas’s history with a twisted-up version of my own.

“Ready to make a new friend?” Gunter came out from behind the bar. He held a small silver tray with two glasses and the bottle of Havana Club Máximo rum on it.

“No. But I’m doing it, anyway.”

“This is the best plan we have.” Gunter shrugged. The tray didn’t wobble. His hands were as steady as a sniper’s. Unlike mine, which were clenched into tight vibrating fists shoved deep into my pockets.

“More like the only one.”

“Think positive.”

I resisted the urge to punch him.

“I lost track of Acosta and Mora. Where are they?” The last thing we needed was them fucking this up.

“Acosta is holding up the end of my bar.” Gunter jutted his chin toward the far end of the enormous bar where the agent relaxed. “Mora has taken up position in the lobby where the light is better. He wants to take a photo of the illusive Rafa Sandoval when he leaves… just in case. It’s silly, you know, to think a photo makes any difference. Sandoval’s power doesn’t grow from his anonymity. His picture could be plastered on a Times Square billboard, and it wouldn’t slow him down. Exposure would only encourage him to grow his empire. Build up the layers of protection between him and the world.”

“You’re probably not wrong. But I can’t blame Mora. I was tempted to snap a picture.”

“When you rarely leave your yacht, you don’t care if all the law enforcement agencies in the world know what you look like. No one will arrest you in the middle of the fucking ocean.” Gunter spun on his heel and started walking toward Sandoval’s group.

I trailed behind him and shoved all thoughts of Sabrina and photos of Sandoval from my head. I was Michael Dumas, going to suck up to the biggest criminal in Miami. For the next few minutes, I had to be wholly in my role. If Sandoval didn’t buy what I was selling, the entire plan would fail, and Fiji wouldn’t be far enough away to keep Sabrina safe from the fallout.

Gunter and I reached the perimeter of Sandoval’s circle, and two of his henchmen blocked our path. There was a Mexican gang tat on the big guy’s neck, and his buddy had some ugly American jailhouse ink on his forearms. Nothing says criminal lowlife like a person willing to deface their body with substandard art.

“I brought a bottle of the good stuff and a tempting offer for El Jefe.” I twisted my neck, cracking it audibly. My clenched fists and wide smile said I was ready to talk or fight in equal measure. It was a nice ego boost to be half a head taller and about twenty pounds of muscle heavier than either of them.

“Se?or Sandoval isn’t the kind of man that likes strangers,” the American ex-con said.

“That’s too bad. They only make a thousand bottles of this stuff a year.” I point to the tray in Gunter’s hand.

The bodyguards were unmoved.

“I also have information on the kitchen rat he’s been hunting in Miami.” I raised one eyebrow meaningfully.

The Mexican stepped close, taking a fistful of my lapel, and hissed in my ear, “The woman chef?”

I looked down slowly at the offending hand wrinkling my Prada jacket and back up to the man’s acne-scarred face. I waited. He let go and stepped back, hands up in a gesture of apology. That’s what I thought, asshole.

I took my time smoothing the fabric before I answered. “Yes.”

“Wait here.” The bodyguard scurried off to talk to Sandoval.

Gunter and I cooled our heels with the American guard. He wasn’t the kind of guy you’d chit-chat with. So, I ignored him. Gunter, playing the bored waiter, looked at the carpet and shifted his weight from foot to foot with a sigh that might have been heard in Istanbul.

“Se?or Sandoval is intrigued. Please come and share a drink with him. Mister…” The guard trailed off, waiting for me to fill in my name.

“For now, Mr. Dumas works, you know, like the author of the Count of Monte Cristo.” I gave the henchman a smile that promised Dumas wasn’t my real name.

“Mr. Dumas.” The guard led me across the circle to where Sandoval held court. A balding, middle-aged man in a beautifully embroidered guayabera shirt hopped up from the chair next to Sandoval and offered the seat to me. He backed out of the circle, all but bowing in deference.

I finally got my first good look at Rafa Sandoval. He was average. Middle height, middle build. Thick dark curls shot through with streaks of silver. He looked to be over forty-five, but under sixty. Hard to tell more in the “mood” lighting of the ballroom. The only feature that made me pause was his eyes. Their obsidian depths were like a pair of black holes that sucked in the light and reflected nothing back. A darker and more sinister version of John Smith’s perceptive gray stare.

The bodyguard made a formal introduction, telling my fake name to Sandoval with a raised eyebrow and a mention of Count of Monte Cristo. Neither of us made a move to shake hands.

“I’ve always enjoyed that book.” Sandoval didn’t bother to stand but flicked his wrist to show I should sit beside him.

Gunter, ever the attentive server, poured us each a finger of rum and placed the bottle on a nearby table before leaving us to talk.

“Thank you for your time.” I took the seat, crossing one ankle over my knee in an arrogant imitation of relaxation.

“Mr. Dumas, few people surprise me and live to talk about it.”

I ignored his warning and smiled the oily smile of a used car salesman as I lifted my glass in the air. “To profitable business. And an end to your kitchen rat problem.”

After a slight hesitation, Sandoval clinked his glass into mine, and we each took a sip.

“Why are you here, Mr. Dumas?”

I was astonished that he’d asked about me and not Sabrina. I mentally fumbled for a moment. The vague idea of a backstory I cobbled together would have to take center stage. It wasn’t how I expected the meeting to go.

“I’d like to work with you.”

“You and half of Miami. What business are you in?”

“My MC is into a little bit of everything: guns, drugs, girls. Mostly local stuff, but the club wants to branch out. And we understand you are the man to talk to about growth opportunities in South Florida.”

“Your MC?” He asked like he was unfamiliar with the acronym. I found that disingenuous but played along.

“Motorcycle club. I’m here on their behalf.”

“You are the president?”

“No. The money man.”

“So not the one in command. Why isn’t your president here?”

“Coyote isn’t a man you send on a delicate mission in a fraught country like Cuba. He’s a loose cannon and wouldn’t know subtle if it hit him in the back of the head with a tire iron.” As soon as I dropped the name Coyote, I wished I hadn’t. Wrapping a real person into my fiction was a bad fucking idea.

“They sent the money man that looks like a linebacker and uses the name of a famous author to court me. Interesting. Well, money man, what gifts did you bring?” He tapped his fingernail against the crystal glass while taking my measure with his soulless eyes.

“I have the witness you’re looking all over Miami for—the caterer.” I knew this was an act and that I’d never turn Sabrina over to Sandoval, but it still made my skin crawl to say the words. Fuck, I hated this plan down to the marrow of my bones.

“She’s been a pest. Her story drew attention from the Feds in DC to my organization and our connections in Miami. The woman is a worthy gift.” He nodded once.

“I know better than to ask for a meeting with a man like you and arrive empty-handed.” I nodded toward the expensive bottle of rum, another of my gifts.

“Perhaps I’m starting to understand why you were sent in place of your president, Mr. Dumas. I will need to verify her identity before this goes any farther. I have people in Miami that can meet with your club and—”

“No need. I brought her with me.”

Sandoval’s startled chuckle drew stares from the men around the circle. He pointed at me with his crystal tumbler; the rum glinted like liquid fire in the candlelight. “You have cojones. I like that.”

“Thank you.” I bowed my head for a moment to accept his praise. My offer to arrange our next meeting at a place that was a carefully organized trap laid by the PNR was on the tip of my tongue.

“Tomorrow, we will talk more. Come to my boat, the Jabberwocky, at eleven. It’s docked in the hotel marina.” He clapped me on the back like I was an old friend.

“To the future.” I raised my glass and forced a smile. Shit.

The fucking boat hadn’t been part of the plan. The PNR agents had arranged for us to meet at an abandoned rum distillery on a dead-end road. His boat was way more public and very complicated. I considered arguing for a change of venue. But Sandoval wasn’t a man that changed his mind. We’d have to make the boat work.

“And you will bring the woman.” He hesitated, his glass an inch from mine. It wasn’t a question.

I nodded. “Wait and hope.”

Our glasses clinked.

My backhanded reference to the closing line of the Count of Monte Cristo wasn’t lost on Sandoval. He chuckled and nodded in approval, as I thought he might. I tossed back the rest of my rum like it was a cheap shot and stood. The expensive liquor burned a trail down my throat and hit my stomach like lit kerosene.

Our meeting was over. The American ex-con waited to escort me from the circle. Sandoval’s penetrating gaze dug into my back as I walked away. I had to ignore the urge to turn back for a last look.

At the main bar, I found Acosta. “We all need to go talk somewhere. Sandoval wants to meet on his damned boat.”

Acosta cursed. “This is not good, my friend. The government will not be happy if we bring violence to the Hotel Internacional.”

“Keeping your government happy comes in second to keeping my—” I stumbled over the phrasing, trying to decide on the title that described Sabrina, “client alive.”

Client didn’t feel like a big enough word to describe Sabrina.

God, I hated this plan.