When I was sent to Louisiana and given the name Ryan Sumner, I thought I was prepared for the job ahead of me.
In theory, it’s easy to believe I could handle whatever he threw at me.
In reality, there was no way to prepare myself for what he did. Mr. Smith struck where it hurt the most.
It’s too late to run, so I need to see this through.
I finally arrive at my destination and find a spot to park. After I throw some quarters in the meter, I duck into a CVS to buy a prepaid phone, a single-dose pack of Advil, and a bottle of water. There’s a headache building behind my left eye that I need to get in front of. Leaning against the back of my car, I balance the phone against my shoulder once I hit send so I can use both hands to throw back two pills and chase them with water.
Devon answers on the second ring but doesn’t say a word in greeting.
“It’s me,” I say.
“Twenty-One C hotel in one hour. Coffee shop in the lobby.”
“Number?”
“Five fifteen.” And then he ends the call.
It’s a short drive to the hotel, and thankfully I find a parking spot around the corner from the front door. In addition to this being a hotel, 21C is also home to a museum, so the lobby is teeming with people and I’m forced to weave through the crowd, dodging rolling bags and swinging briefcases, until I get to the coffee shop that sits to the right of the main entrance. A huge banner hanging over the hall that leads to the convention rooms catches my attention.
Reelect Andrew Marshall—Promises Made, Promises Kept
I skip the long line for coffee and find a small table where I have a good view of the lobby.
Forty-five minutes later, a smile stretches across my face when I see Governor Andrew Marshall stride through the front door. There are quite a few people with him, two who I recognize from my short time in his employ. Early polls show he’ll win his reelection by a landslide, and his name is already being batted around as a potential presidential candidate.
I leave my jacket on the table, so no one takes my place, and walk toward them. He spots me when I’m about ten feet away, and I can see recognition dawn on his face even though I look different than I did six years ago.
He separates from his group and closes the distance between us.
“Mia?” he asks.
“Yes, Governor. It’s me.”
“How have you been?” he asks. I can tell he wants to reach out in some way, to hug me or shake my hand, but neither seems right under the circumstances, so he ends up shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I’m good. I’ve been following your career. I couldn’t be prouder.”
He shrugs. “I had some good advice early on that I believe has helped me tremendously.”
I take a deep breath and ask, “Can I speak to you a moment in private?”
One of his aides has materialized next to him. “I’m sorry, but Governor Marshall has a tight schedule. He’s due to speak at a luncheon in just a few minutes.” She has a hand on his arm and is trying to pull him away, but he stops her.
“Margaret, it’s fine. I have a few minutes.”
I gesture to the coffee shop and he follows me back to the table I saved. Once we’re both sitting, he asks, “Are you in trouble? Is that why you’re here?”
I give him a tentative smile. “Maybe a little. I’m okay. For now.”
Andrew leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his voice dropping to an almost whisper. “I owe you and we both know it. What can I do to help?”
Shaking my head, I say, “I’m not ready to call that favor in yet, just needed to make sure it’s still on the table and you’re still willing to give it.”
We stare at each other while he tries to read me, but I’m giving nothing away. “If it is in my power to help you, I will.”
I nod, knowing this is the best I’m going to get from squeaky-clean Andrew Marshall. “That’s what I needed to hear. And now enough about me and my problems. How are you?”
He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m good. Balancing the job and the reelection campaign, so it’s a busy time. But I have to ask, Mia, are you good? Happy?”
God, if he only knew. “A few rocky spots left to smooth out, but I’m getting close.”
This gets me a smile finally, although it’s smaller than I wish it was. He glances at his watch, signaling our time is up.
“You need to go,” I say, making it easier for him to leave.
Andrew stands up and pulls a card out of his pocket, then hands it to me. I study it while he says, “My private cell. Just let me know what I need to do.”
And then he’s gone.
I drop back down in my seat and watch him walk away. Holding the card in front of me, I read it over again.
A loud screech pulls my attention from the card, and it lands on the man dragging out the chair Andrew just vacated. It’s George, but instead of the UPS uniform, he’s dressed in a dark suit.
He drops down in the chair, catching the flicker of surprise that washes across my face before I hide it away.
“You look good in a suit.”
He smiles and says, “You’re supposed to be in Atlanta.”
“I’m working my way there. Needed to make a couple of stops first,” I answer.
“What are you doing?” he asks in a soft voice. His concern for me is apparent. “You’re playing with fire. Andrew Marshall won’t do anything that gets his hands dirty, we both know that.”
My eyes never leave George’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just passing through town and thought it would be nice to catch up with a few old friends.”
He frowns. “You can lie to everyone else, but don’t lie to me. Not after all this time.”
“Then you don’t ask me questions you know I can’t answer.”
George rubs a hand across his mouth then says, “Mr. Smith thinks you need a bit more incentive.”
I let out a loud, frustrated breath. “You going to send the detectives another picture of me on a public street?”
“Not me,” he says. “I’m just the messenger. The next set of images will make it increasingly hard to get you out of trouble. He’s not playing around.”
I nod slowly, considering his words. “Any other messages you need to deliver?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he really thinks about what he wants to say. “Just one from me. Head to Atlanta. You can still make it to the bank and get into that safe deposit box by tomorrow afternoon. Give him what he wants. I don’t want to do what he’ll ask me to do if you don’t. Please, Lucca.”
This knocks me back a bit. This is the most candid he’s ever been with me.
All I say is, “Thanks for the heads-up.”
I stay in my seat while he rises from his. “Tell your guy he’s getting sloppy. I clocked him coming in through the service entrance in a maintenance uniform.”
He always calls Devon “my guy.” Devon and George have played their own cat-and-mouse game over the years, trying to figure out who the other one really is, but I don’t think either have been successful. At least I know Devon hasn’t been.
“Wish we could have gotten that drink,” I say.
He laughs. “Get your ass to Atlanta and maybe we can.” Just as he’s about to walk away, he turns and adds, “Good luck.”
I shrug and give him a smile. “Who needs luck?”
His laugh carries with him out of the coffee shop.
I sit frozen in my seat another ten minutes, running through our conversation over and over.
The urge to run floods my system.
But running means I’m looking over my shoulder not only for Mr. Smith but for the police for the rest of my life.
Finally, I get up and head to the elevators. I hit the button for the eighth floor once I’m inside. I walk down the hall to the door that leads to the stairway. I go up and down by elevator and stairs three more times until I end up on the fifth floor and I’m positive no one is following. Knowing Devon, he’s had the cameras monitoring this floor on loop before he walked into the hotel.
I knock on the door to room 515.