Nah . . . Couldn’t be.
My mind was going off the rails again, weaving scenarios that were so far-fetched, they were ridiculous. It was the voice of fear feeding itself, snowballing into a monster of illogical thinking and imaginary dangers. Yet this man was quite real, and so was his threatening demeanor.
As I walked into the building, I came within a few feet of Jack, close enough to see the bulging muscles on his arms, his clenched jaw,and the lines creasing his brow. For a cop, he was too conspicuous. He had to be private security hired by the Taylor family. That was actually worse, though. With cops, at least, I knew what to expect.
But then, how had he found me here?
Inside, the blast of air-conditioning hit me like a wall—just like it had when I first stepped into the hotel. A shiver ran through me, but this time, it wasn’t just the temperature. The chill burrowed deeper, settling under my skin, a reminder that no matter how many times I did this, the stakes never got lower.
Following signage, I was directed to a self-service terminal where I entered my name and phone number, and then I took a seat, waiting.Worrying.Numerous service stations were spaced along the wall, set up quite closely together, and most of them were in use. I’d be within earshot of at least two other employees and any number of customers. I hoped DocsMaster93 knew what they were doing.
After about twenty minutes of waiting, a chime warned me of a text message. It read,Hello, Olivia. We are ready to serve you. Please come to Desk 9.
A slight tremor weakened my muscles as I approached Desk 9. A middle-aged, slightly overweight woman with thick-rimmed glasses and a look of immense indifference on her face sat behind the counter. Her home-bleached hair showed its brown roots spliced with lots of grays, and hung dull and matted over her shoulders. Could she really be DocsMaster93? She looked nothing like a corrupt government official, and I’d seen a few. This woman was more like a worn-out, overworked widow with a morning drinking habit and spiced-up coffee in her Starbucks travel mug.
What if my dark web source had been arrested or called in sick?
“Yes?” she asked, throwing me an impatient look. “How can I help you?”
“I need a new driver’s license. I just moved. My name is Olivia Taylor.”
No flicker of recognition came when I introduced myself. She extended her hand over the counter. “Let me see your documents.”
Holding my breath, I extracted the envelope from my purse and handed it to her. She didn’t flinch. She pulled out the papers folded inside and perused them quickly. Then she turned her attention to the flash drive inside the envelope.
For a split second that seemed endless to me, she stared at it. Then at me, as if wondering what to do. But finally she slipped the envelope under her desk with a quick, smooth move, as if throwing it into the trash.
I breathed.
Without another word, she began typing into her system, occasionally looking at my paperwork. She took my photo quickly, guiding me with monosyllabic jaded prompts. A few minutes later, she handed me a temporary license.
“You can use this until you get the new one. It’s expedited,” she added. “You should have the new one delivered in about three days.” Her dark eyes turned to steel. “Do I need anything to process this?” she asked in a low voice, making sure the crypto deposit on the flash drive didn’t need a password.
I shook my head.
“Excellent,” she replied, showing no emotion. “You’re all set.”
Relief washed over me. “Thank you,” I replied. She nodded and turned her attention back to her screen.
I bounced out of there with a spring in my step, headed for the door.
Until I remembered the mysterious man I’d nicknamed Jack.
Was he still waiting for me, right outside the entrance? From where I was, I couldn’t tell. I stopped before reaching the doors and called an Uber, then waited impatiently inside, pacing the floor back and forth, obsessing over the ride’s arrival time. And over Jack and what he could’ve wanted. When the driver was about a minute out, I ambled toward the double glass doors, pretending to be rummaging through my purse and discreetly scanning for Jack.
He was there, his cold eyes glued to the doors. No reaction showed on his face when he saw me coming, and my ride was already at the curb, so I decided to walk past him without looking at him anymore. Perhaps ignoring him would work better, because challenging him surely hadn’t.
As I rushed past him, I kept my head high, my steps brisk but controlled, forcing myself not to react. Not to run.
I heard him move behind me, the scuff of his shoes against the pavement quickening. A cold spike of dread shot through me. Then his hand clamped around my arm, fingers like iron, yanking me back with enough force to knock me off balance and turning me toward him.
I gasped, my breath catching as pain radiated up my arm. I twisted, trying to wrench free, but his grip only tightened.
“You don’t belong here,” he said in a low voice, his breath touching my ear.
The overwhelming fear inside me turned into instant rage. Glaring at him, I hissed, “Let go of me. Or live to regret it.”
“You’re not safe here,” he said, releasing his grip. His words stunned me. I gaped at him, speechless. He shot a quick glance toward the parking lot, as if he was afraid to be seen speaking with me. The cameras above our heads didn’t seem to matter to him. “Run,” he said, his voice tense, loaded. “Get out of Vegas.”
