Chapter 6

"Please tell me you didn't do the one thing I always warned you not to do," Stella, my friend-slash-part-time-enemy said in my ear as I made my way outside of Miami terminal.

Why did it always have to be hotter than Satan's breath in Florida? No, it was Arizona that was hotter than Satan's breath. Florida was stickier than a working girl after an eight-hour shift in the red light district. Any RLD, country be damned.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I lied.

"Hmm," Stella hummed. "Want to catch up and have dinner tonight?"

"I can't. I'm hoping to meet up with Walter, grab my cover, and jam."

There was a beat of silence which was good since I wouldn't have heard her over the blaring horn of a truck trying to wedge its way to the curb while a Kia wasn't looking where it was going and almost backed into the pickup.

Why were people so damn impatient?

And rude.

No one liked to be stuck in airport traffic.

"Promise when you get back you'll make time for me."

This was highly unusual. Stella had never asked me to promise her anything. The same way I'd never asked her to make me a promise. Like me, Stella wasn't prone to keeping her word. Not unless you were someone she'd pledged her allegiance to—then I could see her making vows and keeping them. But as far as I knew, Stella's only loyalty was to herself. Not that I blamed her; she'd been burned and hung out to dry by the very organization she'd once committed her loyalty to.

"What's happening right now?" I asked suspiciously.

"Always so distrusting," she murmured.

"I'm sorry, are you not the woman who got me drunk on my favorite pinot and waited until I was three sheets past shit-faced before you asked me about a certain prince, then used what I told you to seduce him and share a weekend in Monaco."

Yes. Friend-sometimes-underhanded-enemy.

Frenemy.

"Ah, yes, Prince Chester the kitty killer. Too bad he was such an asshole. The man had skills in the bedroom that were mind-bending."

I wouldn't know anything about mind-bending bedroom skills. The only thing I used my bedroom for was sleeping. And the few times I'd used it for other things the sex was total crap. I couldn't understand what the big deal was about.

I guess sex was like chocolate-covered cherries—the appeal was subjective.

"If I wasn't happy to see his demise I would've been pissed."

"Listen, I did you a favor. I knew you wanted to tell me about the twat but couldn't. And don't bullshit me and tell me you didn't want to see him put down. So I bought you your favorite wine and gave you something to blame your loose lips on. It was a win-win. You're welcome. Now promise me you'll make time for me."

It had been a win-win; again, that's why I wasn't angry at her. She'd used what I told her to stop Prince Chester from poaching large cats. The asshole had twenty-five mounts of different varieties of cats, most of them on the verge of extinction, in his monstrosity of a home that was too small to be called a castle, too big to be called a mansion, and nowhere near just the right size.

There was something off in Stella's tone. Either that or my ears were still clogged from the flight and now filling with sweat from the soupy air.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"I feel like you're lying."

"Seeing as I lie seventy-five percent of the time I understand that. But you're not a job, and I try my very best not to lie to my friends."

"So we're friends today."

"I'm wounded."

That was a lie.

It would take more than a few words to offend or wound Stella.

Where the hell was my Uber? I hadn't been outside for more than five minutes and already my bra was saturated in sweat.

"Cut the crap, Stel, and tell me the truth. Are you in trouble?" I paused before I changed my question. "Let me rephrase, since trouble is relative. Are you in danger?"

"Nope. Just want some face time so I can slap some sense into you until your head is screwed back on straight."

My neck tightened at her threat of bodily harm. With Stella one never knew if she was joking or if she was serious.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Another lie, I had a pretty good idea. "And if you think I'm going to promise to make time to be on the receiving end of a bitch slap, you think wrong."

"I don't bitch slap. That's for prissy girls. I slap-slap."

"Was that a Missy Elliot quote?" I asked as a white Honda Accord muscled its way to the curb. I checked my app and sure enough that was my Uber.

Perfect timing.

"What?"

"Never mind. My ride's here. I have to go."

"You need to be careful, Nebraska. You're playing with fire, and trust me sister, once that fire is lit it will burn out of control."

"I don't—"

"Zane. Lewis," she enunciated slowly. "Everyone knows to stay away from him and you waltzed your happy ass into his office today. Not that I wouldn't have followed Easton Spears into an Afghan cave if he promised some happy-ending fun before we met certain death. But, Zane? No, boo, you fucked up with that. Now you have Kira Winters or Cain or whatever her last name is now digging places you don't want her to dig."

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

"Everything's fine and did you just call me ‘boo'?"

Big fat lie. Nothing was fine.

I knew going to Zane would be more trouble than it was worth. But I needed Maddon to believe I was willing to do anything he asked.

"I don't know how you think that when we're talking Kira here. Garrett, and I'm not throwing shade, he's got it going on, and can find ninety-nine percent of shit you don't want him to find. But Kira, that woman has a god-given talent to find that one percent Garrett can't. And that one percent is always what fucks you."

I knew this.

It was always the smallest detail you couldn't hide that screwed you in the end.

"Are they still watching me?"

"Yes."

Thought so.

The Uber driver had exited the Honda and was staring at me over the roof of the car.

"I don't have any bags," I told the gentleman. "Sorry, I'm speaking to my grandma, she's very ill. I'll be off the phone in just a second."

"Lies," I heard Stella mutter.

"I have to go but never call me boo again. You're closer to fifty than you are fifteen; it doesn't work for you."

"What about nob? Does that work? Or how about, flange?"

"If you were hot and British I'd say yes, but you're American and I don't have time for you to break out into your fake British accent to sell the lie you're from some small village in the West County of England. My Uber driver looks pissed and I have to go."

Stella being Stella—in other words completely ignoring my time restraint—continued to berate me. Also Stella being Stella—in other words, thinking she was hilariously entertaining (which was the truth most of the time, just not when I needed to get into an Uber idling at the curb at a busy airport or when she was getting me drunk to pry secrets out of me) —did this in a proper British accent.

"I warned you, never to get on Zane's radar. Whatever happened today, landed a red bullseye on your forehead."

Shit. This was really not good.

"Listen to you sounding all classy and cultured."

She switched back to irritated-American, "Nebraska—"

"I get it. Thank you for caring. We'll talk later and I'll fill you in, but right now I have to go."

Suddenly the line went dead.

This was Stella's typical send off—she hung up instead of offering a farewell.

I got into the backseat of the Honda, muttered my apology, then confirmed for the driver the hotel I was staying at.

I had numerous calls to make checking on my plans for the evening. But those would have to wait. Paying attention to the route the unknown driver was taking was more important.

Always pay attention to your surroundings, Nebraska. Never allow yourself to get distracted. Always know where you are and know when your route is being diverted.

One of the many lessons Charlie had pressed upon me played in my mind. The Honda merged into the left lane exit headed to Miami Beach.

So far so good.

All I needed was to meet up with Walter then I'd be headed back to the airport to catch a flight out of the country.

That was if Walter felt like being on time. If not I'd sleep at the hotel and leave tomorrow.

Knowing Walter would likely be his normal hour behind schedule, I booked a suite with a kickass tub. Later I'd order a bottle of red wine and take a soak.

It would do nothing to ease my stress but it would be the last bath I'd have for the foreseeable future so I was determined to enjoy it.

Three hours later I found I was correct when Walter moseyed into the bar forty-five minutes late—fifteen minutes shy of my estimation—looking like he'd been on a four-day bender.

"Miami looks like it's agreeing with you," I fibbed.

Walter's clear, bright eyes locked with mine belying his haggard appearance.

"Nice to see you too, Dove."

I took in his appearance. The man looked more like a drunken beach bum—five months overdue for a haircut, same with a beard trim, clothes clean but well-worn—instead of the seasoned spy I knew him to be. Though he'd never worked for the CIA, he was still a spy in every sense of the meaning. If you didn't want people to know your business you took great pains to not know Walter. The problem was, Walter made it his business to know everyone. If you didn't want him selling what he knew about you to your enemies, you bought his silence. If you needed a cover and had the money, you went to Walter.

The guy was a master at blending in.

"Going native," I mumbled.

With a nonchalant shrug of confirmation he handed me the thick manilla envelope he'd brought with him.

"I heard you met with Viper earlier," he started with a frown. "Not smart, baby girl. You know better than to show yourself to the enemy."

I let the baby girl comment slide.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend?" I queried as a brush off to his censure.

"There is no enemy worth getting yourself tangled with Viper over unless you're ready for a rectal exam. Word is he's not gentle and has yet to discover that lube makes the process less painful."

I felt my mouth twist in disgust.

"Thanks for the imagery. What's next? Are you going to start humming My Humps and get that stuck in my head, too?"

Walter's confusion at my song choice stated plain he wasn't familiar with the Black Eyed Peas and it would take more time than I was willing to expend to explain who Fergie and will.i.am were.

(By the way, you're welcome… My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump. My lovely lady lumps my lovely lady lumps.)

"Never mind," I muttered and waved the envelope. "Thanks for coming through."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

That was the second time in the last few hours two people had essentially said the same thing. The truth was I knew exactly what I was doing, it just wasn't a very good idea. Sooner or later my meeting with Zane was going to catch up with me. My only hope was by the time that happened my mission would be complete. Then I could do the very thing I'd always said I'd never do—beg for forgiveness.

I was absolutely sure pleading with Zane Lewis for mercy would taste like shit.

But what was a girl to do? I needed Maddon to believe I was onboard with his idiocy even if it meant Zane Lewis performed an outpatient colonoscopy on me.

"Don't I always?" I replied with more bravado than confidence.

"Either you have the largest lady-balls I've ever seen or you've made what could be a fatal error in judgment. I guess time will tell." Walter dipped his scruffy chin in farewell but stopped and looked back at me. "What does the fox say?"

I scanned my memory banks for some coded message I was supposed to know but came up with nothing.

"Huh?"

"Ring-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding! Gering-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding!" he sang as he walked away.

Bastard.

Ten minutes later my head was bobbing to the beat of what was quite possibly the most annoying song ever released.

An hour later, sitting in a luxurious bath full of bubbles with a glass of red wine balancing on the edge of the tub, I was still humming. Ring-ding-ding-dammit.

Ass. Hole.

So much for relaxing when I couldn't stop the refrain of nonsensical sounds from invading my mind.