I glance back.
“You were way too good for Craig Miller.”
My heart stutters. I force a smile. “Still am.”
Then I slip into the hallway without looking back, weaving past two ladies heading toward the restroom. Ishouldwarn them. But instead, I smile.Game on, Craig.
Chapter 10
Ben
Dallas, Texas
Tuesday afternoon
Well played, Billy.
I crack a smile, stepping out of the busy restaurant and into the humid press of downtown Dallas. Sunlight glints off passing traffic, and I give another wave to the women who marched me out. Not one but two ladies caught me in the women’s restroom seconds after Cybil left, and I can’t be sure it wasn’t a planned assault. A solid one given the Southern scolding one lady gave me while a tiny hurricane of a woman waved her hands and shouted in Spanish—something about chanclas and cabezas, which translated roughly to:You’re about to regret your life choices, gringo.
And I did what any grown man trained by the FBI would do: apologized like my freedom depended on it and made a tactical retreat before anyone could call security. I half expected Cybil to be waiting in the hallway with popcorn and a scorecard. But she wasn’t.
Now, as I walk the few blocks back toward my office building, dodging sun glare off car hoods and construction noise, I find myself hoping—really hoping—that she bought it. The alias. The explanation. The whole carefully packaged version of Craig Miller I delivered with a straight face and a pounding pulse.
Not in a million years would I have expected to find her here—older, sharper, still full of fire. And I definitely didn’t expect to feel seventeen again just from the way she looked at me. Like she was remembering too.
Back then, she could outrun me on foot and outsmart me with a dare. Cybil Langford was all elbows and sarcasm and never backed down from a challenge—especially if Rex and I were the ones issuing it. I used to drive her nuts on purpose just to see how far I could push her before she snapped—and it usually involved a threat of duct tape and a permanent marker.
But that’s the problem.
The fact that I spotted her at my building tells me exactly what I should’ve remembered—Cybil doesn’t let anything slide. I knew she was going to call me out on the lie. On the name I chose. Katherine wants me to turn Cybil into an asset, but I’d forgotten she was more likely to flip the script than play along. If I’m going to make this work, I need to figure out how to use her with as little contact as possible.
Which means I need to stay away from her. Spend as little time as possible around her. One, for her safety, two, for my safety, and three because apparently I have a death wish and think flirting with someone who could expose me with one wrong word is agreat idea.
It’s not. Obviously.
Just because she still makes me laugh. Just because I remember how her hair used to smell like coconut in the summer. Just because her smile hits like a sucker punch. None of that means anything.
It’s nostalgia. Hormones. Proximity.And totally manageable.
My building rises ahead, all mirrored glass and steel edges. My focus needs to be on the mission. On Ramirez. He’s who I’m working for, so there shouldn’t be any reason Cybil and I cross paths again.
I’m a few feet away from the entrance when one of the security guards—Manny—calls out and jogs over with a brown paper bag.
“Hey, Miller! You forgot your lunch.”
I squint at it. “I already told you, I didn’t order lunch.”
He shrugs. “Delivery said it was for you. Name’s on the order.”
I take the bag, already suspicious. Manny’s right. My nameison the order, but when I peek inside and see the fish sandwich, I know it’s a mistake. I’d rather eat a stapler than fish. I’m about to hand it back when a black Mercedes G-Wagon glides up to the curb like it owns the street.
The passenger door swings open, and Jimmy Rook steps out like we’re old friends meeting for coffee. “Craig, you got a minute?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just opens the back door—removing any illusion of choice. My pulse jumps. This is out of the ordinary. And in my line of work,out of the ordinaryhas a nasty habit of turning fatal.
Lorenzo Ramirez is in the back seat, calm as ever. I climb in beside him, keeping my expression neutral, like this is all part of the day’s agenda and not a potential prelude to getting buried in a ditch off I-35.
I settle into the leather seat, and if the surprise meeting wasn’t enough to spike my blood pressure, the sight of Sammy “The Paws” Pawson behind the wheel finishes the job. Crime bosses don’t bring their muscle to a lunch meeting unless it comes with a side of cement shoes.
