“Give me their names.”
I press my fingers to my temple, willing my brain to work, but it’s useless—muddled by adrenaline, exhaustion, fear, and thefreaking unconscious FBI agentsprawled across my back seat. “I don’t know,” I rasp, trying to force clarity through the haze. “Baird, that’s his last name. I can’t remember his first name. And Milosh.” I squeeze my eyes shut, grasping for his last name, but instead,Ben’sface flashes in my mind, smug and unreadable. My chest tightens. “Kamarov.” I exhale. “Ben... Ben was questioning why I was talking with a Russian oligarch.”
“Okay,” Athena says, followed by the rapid clacking of a keyboard. “Milosh Kamarov is former Russian intelligence with a rumored history of torture. Definitely not a good guy.”
I’m past the part where I should be freaked out that almost being accosted by a Russian supervillain is not the worst part of my night. “What does that have to do with me not going to jail?”
“Ask yourself what an FBI agent is doing at the same party as an ex-KGB officer with ties to arms dealers and money launderers and who could write a book on how to make his enemies disappear without a trace.”
My panic pauses just long enough for reason to creep in. “They wouldn’t be at the same party unless the FBI is investigating someoneatthe party.”
“Exactly.”
I frown. “But who? Ramirez?”
“I don’t know.”
For the first time, Athena sounds... uncertain? Worried? I lookat the agent knocked out in my car. “What am I supposed to do with him?”
“Get rid of him.”
I gasp. “I’m not killing him!”
“What? No!” Athena groans. “Why is that your first thought?”
“I don’t know! You said it so casually!”
“Cybil, I meantmovehim. You need to get him out of your car.”
My breathing shallows. I look around the neighborhood. I haven’t seen a car, which is good but also bad. “I think it’s illegal to dump a body on the side of the road, even if they aren’t dead. Not to mention I threw up my DNA all over the place.”
Athena sighs, and I can practically hear her pinching the bridge of her nose. “I have an idea, but I need you to stop hyperventilating.”
“I’m not hyperventilating.” But I am. I take a long, deep breath and exhale slowly. “Okay, I’m good. Please tell me your idea doesn’t involve me committing any more felonies tonight.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m back in my car, back in downtown Dallas, and pulling into the half-circle drive of the Merius Hotel. A valet makes eye contact and hustles over.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“It’ll work so long as you sell it,” Athena assures me. “Call me when it’s done.”
“Sounds just like a mob boss ordering a hit.”
Athena laughs and I end the call as the valet reaches for my door.
I open it before he can. “Hi, hey, um, I’m just pulling up to help my husband.” I thumb toward the back seat. The valet peeks inside, then looks back at me, eyes subtly scanning over my dress. Is thatpukeon my hem? I fight the urge to recoil and instead force a sheepish smile. “He had a little too much to drink.”
The valet, young—maybe in his mid-twenties—nods knowingly,like this is just another Saturday night. Do unconscious federal agentsfrequentfive-star hotels?
“I’m just going to get him to our room and then move my car to public parking, if that’s okay. Won’t take long.”
“Sure. Just pull up over there.”
“Thanks.”
I park, get out, and immediately realize I havenoideahow to move an unconscious man into the hotel without drawing attention. As understanding as the valet seems, there are definitely people inside who might be more... curious.
“Hey, honey,” I jostle the agent’s leg, not sure if I want him awake or not. Awake would make it easier to move him but assure he could identify me. Arrest me. “We’re at the hotel now.”
