Page 45 of The Witness

Chapter 21

Michael

Iknew the moment Sabrina found Sandoval. She’d gone rigid and vibrated like a bowstring pulled too tight, ready to snap. The unnatural stillness only lasted a moment, but I’d seen it. She’d stooped to offer a man seated in an armchair something from her tray. The same movement she’d executed all evening, smooth as silk. Until she came face to face with him—Sandoval. And froze.

God, I hated this plan. And tomorrow wouldn’t be any easier.

Every fiber of my being screamed to go get her. Pull her back from the danger of breathing the same air as Sandoval. I eased closer, peering into the shadowed corner of the room, wishing for more light. In my head, I was screaming at her to get the hell out of there. She didn’t hear my unspoken command. Instead,cool as a cucumber, Sabrina turned and offered her tray to the other men in the group.

I gritted my jaw. This bullshit was going to give me gray hair by the time we left Havana. I watched Sabrina, unable to take my eyes off her while she was within Sandoval’s reach. Letting her do this had been insanity. Asking her to be bait in the trap we laid for Sandoval tomorrow was worse.

I clenched my phone in my pocket to keep from putting my fist through a wall. I could pull it out and snap a few photos. Broadcasting Rafa Sandoval’s face to every law enforcement agency in the world had an undeniable appeal. Let him know what it was like to be hunted. As soon as I thought of it, I discarded the idea. I couldn’t risk ruining the plan to take a picture of a man destined for the deepest, darkest prison cell in Cuba.

Sabrina, done feeding Sandoval’s crew, racewalked to Gunter at the main bar to deliver the news and point out where Sandoval sat. I followed her to the bar slowly, easing into my persona for tonight’s mission. I was Michael Dumas. A run-of-the-mill American scumbag looking to step up in the criminal world. I cracked my neck and shot my cuffs.

By the time I reached the bar, Sabrina had bolted from the ballroom. In ten minutes or less she would be safe in our room. And my anxiety would ease a notch.

I glanced at Gunter, and he nodded. No words needed. We both knew the next step in the plan.

Michael Dumas was a grasping and arrogant guy. The kind that sees what he wants and takes it. Caution is for other people. He’s brave, stupidly so. Yeah, I knew the type; I could play the role in my sleep. A hustler looking for the easy way to the top. I warmed to the role, mentally filling in Dumas’s history with a twisted-up version of my own.

“Ready to make a new friend?” Gunter came out from behind the bar. He held a small silver tray with two glasses and the bottle of Havana Club Máximo rum on it.

“No. But I’m doing it, anyway.”

“This is the best plan we have.” Gunter shrugged. The tray didn’t wobble. His hands were as steady as a sniper’s. Unlike mine, which were clenched into tight vibrating fists shoved deep into my pockets.

“More like the only one.”

“Think positive.”

I resisted the urge to punch him.

“I lost track of Acosta and Mora. Where are they?” The last thing we needed was them fucking this up.

“Acosta is holding up the end of my bar.” Gunter jutted his chin toward the far end of the enormous bar where the agent relaxed. “Mora has taken up position in the lobby where the light is better. He wants to take a photo of the illusive Rafa Sandoval when he leaves… just in case. It’s silly, you know, to think a photo makes any difference. Sandoval’s power doesn’t grow from his anonymity. His picture could be plastered on a Times Square billboard, and it wouldn’t slow him down. Exposure would only encourage him to grow his empire. Build up the layers of protection between him and the world.”

“You’re probably not wrong. But I can’t blame Mora. I was tempted to snap a picture.”

“When you rarely leave your yacht, you don’t care if all the law enforcement agencies in the world know what you look like. No one will arrest you in the middle of the fucking ocean.” Gunter spun on his heel and started walking toward Sandoval’s group.

I trailed behind him and shoved all thoughts of Sabrina and photos of Sandoval from my head. I was Michael Dumas, going to suck up to the biggest criminal in Miami. For the next few minutes, I had to be wholly in my role. If Sandoval didn’t buywhat I was selling, the entire plan would fail, and Fiji wouldn’t be far enough away to keep Sabrina safe from the fallout.

Gunter and I reached the perimeter of Sandoval’s circle, and two of his henchmen blocked our path. There was a Mexican gang tat on the big guy’s neck, and his buddy had some ugly American jailhouse ink on his forearms. Nothing says criminal lowlife like a person willing to deface their body with substandard art.

“I brought a bottle of the good stuff and a tempting offer for El Jefe.” I twisted my neck, cracking it audibly. My clenched fists and wide smile said I was ready to talk or fight in equal measure. It was a nice ego boost to be half a head taller and about twenty pounds of muscle heavier than either of them.

“Señor Sandoval isn’t the kind of man that likes strangers,” the American ex-con said.

“That’s too bad. They only make a thousand bottles of this stuff a year.” I point to the tray in Gunter’s hand.

The bodyguards were unmoved.

“I also have information on the kitchen rat he’s been hunting in Miami.” I raised one eyebrow meaningfully.

The Mexican stepped close, taking a fistful of my lapel, and hissed in my ear, “The woman chef?”

I looked down slowly at the offending hand wrinkling my Prada jacket and back up to the man’s acne-scarred face. I waited. He let go and stepped back, hands up in a gesture of apology. That’s what I thought, asshole.

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