The Last Flight(71)

But it was too late now. Liz was gone, and soon, Eva would be too. Maybe it was better this way.

*

She found Castro sitting in the back, near the kitchen, away from the giant windows that overlooked the bridge. “I ordered you a burger and fries,” he said by way of a greeting.

She dropped her bag on the seat and slid across from him. The red vinyl booths were filled with tourists taking selfies with their cell phones. In the parking lot outside, a tour bus unloaded and a crowd of people made their way toward the walking side of the bridge.

Nerves slipped through her, like long ribbons twirling and twisting into a tangle as she imagined leaving from there. Exiting the restaurant and climbing into an anonymous sedan and disappearing. Her fingers tapped the table, her leg jiggling beneath her. “Thanks,” she said. “But I’m not really interested in a meal and small talk, if that’s okay with you.”

Agent Castro nodded. “My supervisor denied the request for witness protection,” he said.

Eva felt the air rush out of her, the sounds around them growing sharper. The clatter of plates and cutlery, the steady drone of conversations. All of her plans dissolved and vanished, as if they’d never existed. “Why?” she managed to ask. “You told me yourself you’d been after Fish for years.”

Agent Castro took a packet of sugar from the small cup at the edge of their table and traced the edges of it with his fingers, unable to meet her eyes. “I happen to agree with you. But like I said, witness protection is expensive, and we don’t do it very often.”

“When do you do it, then?”

He looked up at her, and she saw genuine regret in his eyes. “We use it mostly for big targets. Organized crime. Major networks. I know Fish feels like a big target to you. And he certainly is for me. I’ve been close to him more times than I care to admit. And every time, he slips away. My contact goes dark, and I’m back at square one.”

“All the more reason to make this happen,” she said, working hard to keep her voice low. To not let the desperation she felt break through.

“I can offer you twenty-four-hour protection at an undisclosed location. All the way through the trial. I promise you’ll be safe. If you have an attorney, now would be the time to call them.”

Eva sat with his words. Let them assemble into a picture. Her, alone in a hotel room, two guards at the door. An armed escort to and from the trial that would surely result in a not-guilty verdict. Or a mistrial. And then what? She’d be free to go back home? To unlock her front door and do what? Wherever she went, Fish’s people would find her. Dex would probably do the job himself. After a betrayal like this one, he wouldn’t rest until he’d found her.

When she was a child, the girls in the group home would go to Sister Bernadette for advice with a problem—a friendship gone bad, an unfair teacher, a foster home that hadn’t worked out. Eva never had, but she’d listened all the same, sliding herself along the edges of their conversations, absorbing whatever wisdom Sister Bernadette had to offer. She would often tell them The only way out is through, that no matter the situation, one step would lead to the next, and the next one after that. And so Eva leaned into this new development. Wrapped her mind around it and got to work thinking through to the other side. She found it ironic that both Sister Bernadette and Dex offered her such similar advice. Play through.

“Then I guess we move forward and hope for the best,” she said. “What do you need?”

Castro tucked the sugar back into its cup as the server brought their food, the smell of the burger and fries turning her stomach sour. “Ideally, we’d like to put a wire on you and have you meet with Fish.”

“That’s impossible,” she said. “I’ve never met him. It would be a huge red flag if I asked to now.”

Castro’s eyes narrowed. “This whole deal goes away if you start lying to me.” Gone was the apologetic tone, the regret he felt at not being able to do more for her.

“I’m not lying to you,” she said. “That’s not how things work. I’ve been trying to find out more—how the drugs are moved, about Fish himself. But I don’t know much more than my small corner of it.”

Castro sat back in his seat, both hands flat on the table. Finally, he said, “We have proof, Eva. Photographs of the two of you together.”

Eva shook her head, confused. “That’s not possible,” she said. “I swear I’ve never met him.”

Castro reached into his coat for his phone and flipped through photos until he found what he was looking for. Then he held it up so she could see the screen.

It had been taken at Haas, the night she was supposed to meet Jeremy. She recognized the people around them, the sad accountant in his frayed sweatshirt at the end of the row. And there, in the middle of the frame, were Eva and Dex, their heads bent toward each other, deep in conversation. The quality was incredible—the shot must have been taken with a high-powered lens.

She shook her head again, unable to process what she was seeing. “That’s not Fish, that’s Dex.”

Castro pulled the phone back and stared at her, squinting as if he didn’t quite believe her. “I don’t know who Dex is. But that man is Felix Argyros. Fish.”





Claire


Sunday, February 27