Page 30 of The Witness

I chuckled and adjusted my grip on our bags. “Better than scared.”

Her inner spirit of adventure rising to the front despite all the shit we were facing was impressive. I’d seen plenty of well-trained operators balk at an unexpected situation. She’d embraced it. Damn, what a woman.

Sabrina and I followed the paved walkway to the seawall. At the end of the private dock, a man had gotten out of the plane. He checked the moorings and waved for us to hurry. I gestured for Sabrina to precede me down the walkway.

Our pilot looked like he’d stolen his look fromMagnum, P.I. circa 1983, from the shaggy hair and Hawaiian print shirt to the beat-up boat shoes without socks. The only thing missing was Tom Selleck's mustache.

“Hustle up,” he shouted.

Sabrina and I lengthened our steps. She shot a smile over her shoulder at me, and I couldn’t help but return it. Her excitement was infectious.

“I want to get out of here before we draw attention. This seaplane is on the wrong side of the Causeway.” Despite his laid-back island look, he sounded like a drill sergeant.

“Who is this guy?” Sabrina whispered. The brisk comment had dimmed some of her enthusiasm.

“My guess? CIA.”

Her jaw dropped at my reply.

“Get your shit on board and buckle up. It will be less than two hours' flying time to the rendezvous point in Cuba.” The pilot untied the mooring lines as we climbed into the plane.

Chapter 14

Sabrina

The hum of the seaplane’s engine was deafening even with the headset that our nameless pilot provided clamped over my ears. Our seats were hard and cramped, but the view out my small window was breathtaking. The ocean between Miami and Cuba glistened with every shade of blue I’d ever imagined, from sapphire to topaz. Thankfully, I’d accidentally kept Gigi’s sunglasses, making it possible to enjoy the view. I’d have to return them to her after everything…If we made it out of Cuba.

I wished with all my might that the last few days had been a horrible nightmare. I pinched myself once more, hoping to wake up and find that the flight was actually the start of a romantic vacation or a solo adventure. It would be an incredible start to a trip, the kind of story you told to friends for years to come. I rubbed the tender spot on my inner arm. This was no dream. Iwas running for my life and violating Cuban sovereignty; it was not a fantasy vacation.

We had descended some time ago, flying low to avoid detection by Cuban authorities. The water looked close enough to touch as it rushed beneath the plane.

The pilot’s warning that we were going to land crackled over the headset. I twisted in my seat looking for land or a boat and saw nothing. I tapped Michael’s leg and wrinkled my brow in confusion. He leaned back, and I looked out the window. His massive body had blocked my view of a long, low coastline lush with green vegetation and dotted with tall palm trees.

Even after two hours in the plane with the clean-shaven, well-dressed version of Michael, I was still getting used to his transformation. It was jarring in the most handsome way possible. With or without the makeover, there wasn’t another person I wanted here protecting me. Everything about him made this crazy situation a little more bearable.

The plane followed the curve of the land into the mouth of a wide lagoon. We dipped lower, triggering the queasy feeling in my stomach that I associated with airplanes and roller coasters. The small size of the seaplane amplified the unpleasant sensation as we skimmed only feet above the water.

I held on to my armrest with a white-knuckle grip. Michael covered my clenched hand with his and gave me a reassuring smile. I wasn’t scared exactly, but I’d never thought I’d experience what it felt like to be a rock skipped across a pond either.

I gasped. The moment the plane touched down wasn’t the violent bump I’d expected. One mild bounce and a slight dip to one side. Not that different from a normal landing, other than the crystal-clear water that stood in for a paved tarmac.

“Welcome to Cuba. Let’s make this quick.” The pilot turned the plane, and we motored toward a long wooden dock that extended far out into the lagoon.

Michael was already unbuckling his seat belt and moving to the door, ready to open it.

“You’re clear,” the pilot said, and Michael flipped some latches that made the plane’s door swing up. Bright tropical sunshine streamed into the plane along with the smell of the ocean.

Michael had a coil of rope in one hand and leaned far out the open door to toss it to someone on the dock. I unbuckled my seat belt and twisted around, craning my neck desperately wanting to see who waited for us.

“Tell him not to bother tying me up. I’m not staying. In fact, I was never here.” The pilot reached behind his seat to snap his fingers at me and Michael. “Headsets.”

I tugged mine off and dropped it in Michael’s empty seat. A moment later Michael tossed his next to mine. Apparently, the CIA wasn’t big on thank yous or goodbyes. The only thing missing was a swift kick in the ass.

Michael heaved our bags out the open door onto the dock and took my hand, pulling me from my seat into the bright sunshine.

I was in Cuba. Fuck me.

Laughter bubbled up my throat, and I forced it down. I had to get it together. Laughing hysterically and begging the nameless pilot to take me home to Miami weren’t options. Smith promised if I did this, I’d have my life back and be able to keep my promise to Hailey. I squared my shoulders and turned to meet Smith’s man in Cuba.

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