Page 173 of Forbidden Fate

Breathe like you have nothing to hide.

Don’t look for cameras.

Don’t look for exits.

Do not touch the passport in your pocket every five seconds, no matter how much your fingers itch to make sure it’s still there.

Most of all, don’t draw attention to the fact that your face looks like you’ve been in a bar fight.

When I get to immigration, the officer takes my bogus passport, scans it, looks at my face.

“What’s the purpose of your visit?” he asks.

“Family emergency.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“Texas,” I say.

He gives me a dry look. “You’re already in Texas.”

I blink. “Right. Near Austin.”

“Length of stay?”

“I don’t know yet. Depends.”

He looks at the passport again and then stamps it. “Welcome to the United States, Mr. Lucero.”

He stamps the passport.

Just like that.

I’m through.

I keep moving. I need money I can use here. I find a currency exchange and convert my Colombian bills into a little under two thousand dollars. That’s more than I thought I’d get, but I grabbed a pretty good fistful.

It’s enough to rent a car, buy time, keep moving, maybe disappear for a few days if I don’t move straight toward the one place every dangerous person in my orbit expects me to go.

Which is, of course, exactly what I do.

The rental counter takes longer than immigration.

Every minute I stand there, Vega’s shadow grows longer.

Maybe they were already on their way before I left the country.

My jaw aches from clenching it.

The clerk slides over the key. “Parking section B. Space forty-two.”

“Thank you,” I say quickly and then follow the signs toward the parking lot.

The car is a gray sedan. Completely unremarkable. It’s perfect.

I get in. I’ll need a phone. A couple burners. And a place to stay. I won’t be able to afford the luxurious Austin hotel I stayed in last time. That was on Vega’s dime.

Damn.