Page 2 of Fugitive Flirtation

Cobra raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I mean, her Ivy League education made her fucking good at cooking the books, but I doubt it gave her the basic skills for a life on the run.”

“The white collars always get caught,” Dagger agrees from the other side of the table.

For a few minutes, we remain silent. The only sound in the room is the painful squeak of Edge’s chair as he balances himself precariously.

Ghost growls and the noise stops until Blaze announces that he’s gonna need help for his.

“What’s the matter,” Ghost teases. “Can’t take down a girl?”

Dagger leans over Blaze’s shoulder to look inside his folder and whistles.

“Wow, she can’t weigh more than 110 pounds, but let me tell you, that’s not just a girl, that’s a ….” Blaze can’t seem to find the right words.

“That’s a what?” Dagger barks. Patience has never been his strong suit.

“A stick of dynamite?” Blaze suggests. “She’s last year’s featherweight MMA champion!”

That’s the thing about bounty hunting—there’s never a dull day, that’s for sure.

2

The rumble of the train has rocked my neighbor to sleep. She’s wearing a hospital uniform. I’m guessing she’s on her way back home after a night shift. At this time of day, the north trains aren’t crowded. Most people go south to Miami. Me? I’m not commuting. I’m running away from the city and have no idea where I’m going to end up.

Thanks to all those spy movies I watched with my dad, the beginning of my plan was easy enough to come up with. I know cash is king, so I’ve emptied my bank account. I got a bunch of prepaid credit cards and a dozen cheap burner phones. I moved all the data from my regular phone to a very old tablet with no Wi-Fi connection. I parked my car by the Greyhound station, and in the ladies’ room, I managed to ditch my phone. It’s fully charged, hidden in the huge backpack of a Canadian girl on her way back to Montréal. That’s a 60-hour ride with four stops… She’s braver than I’ve ever been!

If anyone is trying to find me through my phone, they’ll waste a day or two. Unless it’s someone who knows me. Yeah, the idea of me moving to Quebec is absurd. I’m a Florida girl. I hate the cold. There’s no way I would ever consider moving that far north. Not in a million years, and let’s face it—if I’m going to do time, I wanna do it in a Florida jail.

But I’m not going to do time. I’m going to figure out a way to prove that I was framed. I don’t want to think about myself this way, but the truth is, I’m a victim. Well, I initially was one. And yes, now that I have indeed stolen the money, explaining I didn’t start this whole process is going to be a hard sale. Still, there’s got to be a way to do it. And, if worse comes to worst, I’ll move the money to a Caribbean island bank and find my way there. Starting over can’t be so hard when you have over a million dollars to burn.

“Tickets, please.”

I almost jump out of my skin. Next to me, the woman pulls her ticket out from her bra without opening her eyes. The controller leans over to take a look at it while I try to catch my breath. I need to chill. I smile at the controller and hand her my ticket. She nods and gives it back to me before moving to the next row. From where I sit, I can see that she’s serious about protection. Next to the train company-issued gun, she’s got pepper spray. It’s nice to know she’d rather temporarily blind an aggressive passenger than shoot holes into him. I’m not sure I would take that chance. I’m not a violent person per se, but I do have a good sense of preservation.

The armed woman walks away, and I look out the window. Point Lookout is two stops away. From there, I’ll take a bus to the seasonal rental I booked for a month. I force myself to breathe. I can stay locked up in an apartment for one month if it means I can be free for the rest of my life. A month should be enough for me to clear my name… or not.

On paper, I look really bad. It looks like I moved the money from the corporation’s account to a bank I had never heard about.

Lucky for me, I saw the name in the file of the DA who was interrogating me. Yeah, reading upside down is one of my many talents.

Anyway, the second I got released on bail, I ran to the bank, showed some ID, and lo and behold, they humored me when I asked if I could open five new accounts, into which I moved most of the money.

That move is like a double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s damning since it demonstrates I had knowledge of the first account, the one I swore I had never heard about. But on the other hand, it’s sweet revenge. I just screwed the person who tried to frame me. He or she no longer has access to the money.

That asshole isn’t very bright anyway. Or too self-confident. Had I taken the money to begin with, I would never have left it in the account where I first moved it. That was too easily traceable. Nope, I would have moved it around so much it would have been impossible to track. That’s actually what I’m going to do as soon as I’m settled.

When the train stops in West Palm Beach—there’s no station in Point Lookout—I hoist my huge backpack on my shoulders and follow the crowd out of the station. The taxi looks real tempting, but I know better. On the bus, no one will notice me; I’ll just be one of those seasonal tourists traipsing around South Florida with way too much luggage. Seriously, if you’re here for the season, what you really need is a pair of flip-flops, a handful of tee-shirts and shorts, a couple of bathing suits, and a sweater for the cooler evenings.

Why do I have more? Because I’m not sure I’m ever going back home, and there’s stuff I didn’t want to leave behind. It took me a while to figure out what I absolutely needed to take with me. Some of the stuff was obvious, mementos like my mother’s engagement ring and my father’s watch. I doubt they have any actual value, but they’re precious for me. Same with my childhood photo albums. Those are heavy. I’ve always wanted to get everything digitized but never got around to it. I didn’t bother with diplomas or W2s and stuff like that since there are only two options. Option1, I clear my name and I go home where everything is. Option2, I can’t clear my name and I need to start fresh: I’ll get a new name and no one will know about my past.

The bus ride is short enough: twenty minutes to a stop across the street from my rental. As promised, there’s a keypad. I press the combination and the door opens. I inspect my new home and am happy to see that it actually looks better than in the pictures.

The furniture has seen better days but is still serviceable and enough for my needs: an open kitchen with two stools next to the island, a two-seater sofa that doesn’t face the balcony with its side ocean view, a huge television mounted on the wall, and a mini coffee machine. In the adjacent room, two twin beds pushed together create a king-size bed, and there’s an en suite shower room and separate toilet.

I drop my backpack on the bed, and before unpacking, I check that I do have the promised connection to the rest of the world. Yep, the Wi-Fi works…

I’m giving myself the evening off and tomorrow I’ll keep on digging.

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