Page 33 of The Witness

“This is Camellia,” Gunter said, waving a hand at the woman as we all found seats. “She is the party planner hired by the wine and spirits conference to put on tomorrow night’s welcome party.”

“Gunter, so good of you to be late,” Camellia answered in Spanish-accented English while floating a kiss over first one of his cheeks, then the other. “I’ve been enjoying your hospitality.” She gestured at the empty glasses and retook her seat.

I sank gratefully into the leather upholstery of the dark brown club chair Michael held for me. Gunter didn’t provide Camellia with our names. Instead, he pulled a thick envelope from a pants pocket and placed it in a dry space in the middle of the table. It was all the introduction Camellia needed to give me and Michael each a big smile of welcome.

“For me? Lovely.” Camellia tapped a long red nail on the envelope. It didn’t take X-ray vision to know it was full ofcash. Vaguely, I wondered about the money’s origins: the CIA, Interpol, Gunter, John Smith. My head swam with possibilities.

Gunter and Camellia hashed out details of a plan to get Gunter and me into the party tomorrow night. Michael leaned forward, avidly nodding in agreement. I felt detached like an eavesdropper listening to a conversation at the other end of a long hallway. Straining to hear but not directly involved. Because in my world there weren’t envelopes full of money or assumed identities. I resisted the urge to pinch myself… again.

The event planner drained her drink, stood, and lifted two garment bags from the back of the chair at the next table. “These are the uniforms. They should fit you and her. The big guy will be on the guest list as Michael Dumas.”

She draped the bags over her chair and scooped up the envelope of cash. “Gunter, your ass will look great in my uniform pants. Until tomorrow, don’t be late.” She winked and none too steadily wandered from the bar.

I gathered my scattered thoughts, trying to force myself out of the weird limbo I was in. “This is it? We serve a few drinks at the party. When I see Sandoval, I point, and we’re done?” My voice sounded wrong, like I’d been drinking with Camellia all afternoon.

“Pretty much. I’ll need to contact Smith for a pickup but, yeah.” Michael looked at me with so much sympathy that I wanted to crawl into his arms for a hug. Normally I was the strong one, the ass-kicking chef in charge of a kitchen or the single mom with a thousand demands on my time, but this situation made me long for someone bigger and stronger to lean on.

“Not exactly.” Gunter rapped his knuckles on the glossy walnut tabletop. “There is one minor issue. The Cubans need Sandoval to commit a crime in Cuba. We need Sabrina to—”

“Absolutely not.” Michael cut Gunter off, his fist smashing down hard on the table, rattling the empty glasses and knocking more of the cobwebs from my brain. He looked ready to leap across the table and strangle Gunter.

“What’s going on?” I looked from Gunter’s serene smile to Michael’s clenched jaw and white knuckles.

“He’s going to use you as bait.” Michael sat back in his chair and draped a protective arm over my shoulders. “Aren’t you?” he snarled at Gunter.

“Michael and I will be here to make sure it all goes to plan.” Gunter gave me another Cheshire Cat smile and crossed one leg over the other in an indolent move that illustrated how little he feared Michael ripping him apart.

My heart picked up speed, the beats rushing one after the other as I tried to understand how I’d gone from pointing out a man to, to… bait. I sucked in a few slow breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse.

“What is the plan?” My words came out breathless. I envisioned myself as a wedge of cheese balanced on a mousetrap waiting to be consumed by a huge, ugly rat.

“We want Sandoval to attempt to kill you,” Gunter said like it was nothing. Just a normal Tuesday—easy for him to say; I was the fucking bait. My lungs seemed to stop working, and I gasped, trying to get enough air. It wasn’t helping.

Michael’s hand clasped my shoulder fiercely, and I leaned toward him, drawn to the safety of his familiar presence.

“No. You fucking spies and your need-to-know bullshit. We’d have stayed in Miami if I’d known about this.”

“And that is why you weren’t told. It’s not your decision to make, Michael. It’s Sabrina’s. Her life is the one in tatters.” Sympathy softened Gunter’s face, and for a moment he looked human. Compassionate.

The kindness slayed me. I took a full breath and pushed away the panic. I needed to know the details before I made my choice. Michael urged me to rise and leave the bar. But I shook my head and stayed in my chair.

“Tell me?” I focused like a laser on Gunter.

“The Cubans need a crime. Attempted murder will work nicely. It’s a capital crime here, and while I’m not an advocate of the death penalty,” Gunter shrugged, “I can’t think of a better man to be executed than Rafa Sandoval.”

“What are the odds Sandoval would do the dirty work himself? He’ll tell a henchman to do it. She can’t risk her life on a long shot.” Michael hovered behind my chair, his hands resting on my shoulders.

“That’s where you come in, Steel. You’re going to bring Sabrina to Sandoval and demand he take care of his witness problem then and there.”

“Why would Michael do that?” My head spun. I didn’t understand. It sounded illogical.

“Not Michael Steel, Michael Dumas. A man trying to curry favor with the most powerful criminal in South and Central America. No better way to attract Sandoval’s attention than to bring him a gift: Sabrina Dalton. But a man smart enough to bring such a prize to the table would make sure no loose ends tied him to a kidnapping of an American citizen.” Gunter explained it to me like it was the most obvious solution to a simple riddle and not a wager that had me risking everything.

“I’m not delivering Sabrina to him.” Michael clutched my shoulders like at any moment he was going to lift me out of the chair and carry me out of the bar.

“She will not be in real danger. You, me, and the Cuban police will all be protecting her.”

“No.” Michael spat out the word.

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