Page 26 of The Witness

“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 focusedon 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.

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