Page 22 of Crystal Wrath
My steps falter, just for a beat, and then I keep walking. It's probably nothing. Probably just a government car, a real estate lawyer, someone waiting to pick up a client, or killing time between appointments. Miami is full of expensive cars driven by people with more money than sense.
But something prickles at the base of my neck. It’s the same instinct that's kept me alive through years of investigating people who don't want to be investigated. The SUV's positioning is too perfect, too strategic. Angled to see both the records office entrance and the parking lot exit. Professional surveillance positioning.
I get into my car and I’m immediately hit by the stifling heat that's built up inside. The steering wheel burns my palms, and the seat belt buckle is hot enough to leave a mark. I start the engine and crank the air conditioning, waiting for the interior temperature to become bearable while keeping a close eye on the SUV.
My hands shake slightly as I put the car in reverse. It's probably nothing. I'm probably being paranoid, seeing threats wherenone exist because Renat's warnings have gotten under my skin. But as I pull out of the parking lot, my eyes lock onto the rearview mirror.
The SUV pulls out, too.
Coincidence. It’s just a coincidence. We're both leaving at the same time, heading in the same direction because there are only so many ways to get from downtown to anywhere else in Miami. The city's geography funnels traffic into predictable patterns.
I take a left instead of heading straight to the expressway, choosing a residential route that will add ten minutes to my drive home. The SUV turns left, too, maintaining the same distance, neither closing the gap nor falling behind.
My heart thuds against my ribs.
I drive three more blocks and take a sudden right, narrowly missing a cyclist who shouts something in Spanish that my mother would have washed my mouth out for repeating. The SUV follows, making the same abrupt turn without the hesitation you'd expect from someone who wasn't specifically following my route.
Panic blooms in my chest, cold and sharp like broken glass. This isn't paranoia. This isn't a coincidence. Someone is following me, and they're not trying very hard to hide it. Which either means they're amateurs or they want me to know I'm being watched.
Neither option is particularly comforting.
I force myself to breathe, to think strategically instead of reactively. Panic is the enemy of clear thinking, and clear thinking is what will get me out of this situation alive. I've takenself-defense classes, and I've dealt with hostile sources before, but this feels different. More organized.
I drive like I know where I'm going, taking turns with confidence I don't feel. I loop through residential streets lined with modest homes and overgrown yards and take another right past a playground where children are swinging in the fading light. At the same time, their parents chat on nearby benches. Normal life continues while I'm being hunted through suburban Miami.
A sharp left takes me past a strip mall, a dry cleaner, and a nail salon with hot pink lettering that promises “Beautiful Nails, Beautiful You.” The SUV stays close, never overtaking, never falling behind. A shadow with tinted windows and unknown intentions.
My mind races through possibilities. Are they Renat's men? Is this his way of protecting me, keeping tabs on my movements? Or are they Francesco Bennato's people, the ones Renat warned me about? The thought sends a shiver down my spine. Renat said Bennato kills people to keep the air clear, maintaining order through violence.
Maybe they're just going to watch me. Maybe this is intimidation, a warning to back off before things escalate. Or maybe they're waiting for the right moment and the right location where a young journalist can disappear without too many questions asked.
I make a split-second decision, cutting down a narrow alley lined with dumpsters and graffiti tags in vibrant blues and reds. The alley is barely wide enough for one car, with high brick walls on both sides that block the view from the street. If they follow me in here, I'll know for certain that I'm being hunted.
The SUV doesn't follow.
I park beside a stack of cardboard boxes and kill the engine, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. Grabbing my bag, I bolt out of the car and rush around the corner, trying to look casual despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
The coffee shop is two doors down, a small independent place called Concourse Coffee that I've driven past dozens of times but never visited. Right now, it looks like salvation. Its windows are fogged with steam, and the smell of roasted beans hits me like a balm, warm and familiar and normal in a way that makes me want to cry with relief.
I push inside, the little bell above the door announcing my arrival with a cheerful chime that seems absurdly optimistic given the circumstances. The interior is cramped but cozy, with mismatched furniture and local artwork covering the walls. A chalkboard menu lists drinks with names like “The Hemingway” and “Biscayne Buzz.”
The line is long, which is exactly what I want. After purchasing a cup of coffee, I weave through tables occupied by students with laptops, businesspeople on late afternoon coffee breaks, and couples sharing pastries. Normal people living normal lives, blissfully unaware that someone is being hunted just outside their comfortable bubble.
I slide into a corner seat near the window, positioning myself so I have a clear view of the street while remaining partially hidden behind a potted plant that's seen better days. From here, I can watch for the SUV while blending into the coffee shop's afternoon crowd.
My phone buzzes with a text from Amelia asking about dinner plans. I stare at the message, trying to figure out how to explain that I'm hiding in a coffee shop because I'm being followed by men who might want to kill me. The words seem too dramatic. Too much like a bad movie plot to be real.
But they are real. This is my life now.
Two minutes later, the SUV rolls by slowly, like a shark cruising through calm waters. It stops directly in front of the coffee shop. My breath catches in my throat as the doors open. Two men step out. Tall. Broad. Dressed in sleek black suits that probably cost more than I make in a month. The type of understated elegance that screams “expensive tailor” and “dangerous employer.” One has dark hair slicked back with product, and the other is blonde with a tan that comes from spending time on boats rather than beaches.
The dark-haired one scans the sidewalk, his gaze lingering on doorways and parked cars. Professional assessment of potential threats and escape routes. The blonde checks his phone, typing something quickly with thick fingers that seem too large for the delicate screen.
I grab my phone and type frantically.Trouble. Two men following me. Black SUV. Not sure who they are. I'm at Concourse Coffee on 9th. Please don't call. Just in case.
I hit send, praying that Amelia checks her messages quickly. The response comes immediately, thank God.OMG. Stay put. I'm on my way. Ten minutes.
The men are conferring now, pointing in different directions like they're coordinating a search pattern. The blonde gestures toward the alley where I left my car, while the dark-hairedone indicates the coffee shop. They're systematic and thorough. Not amateurs who lose their target because she ducked into a Starbucks.
