Page 19 of The Wrong Brother

“…one moment,” she says carefully.

“What?”

She clears her throat awkwardly. “Your identification appears to have been flagged.”

Every hair on my body stands up.

“Flagged?” I repeat.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t override the restriction from here. You’ll have to?—”

Restriction. I stop listening. There’s no way this is a coincidence.

“What restriction?” I ask sharply.

The woman shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t have details available.”

“That’s impossible. I’m just on vacation.”

“I’m sorry.”

People are waiting impatiently behind me now, annoyed sighs building in line. The clerk already looks eager to get rid of me. Like I’m a problem, someone to worry about, watch carefully, in case I throw a fit.

Fear crawls slowly up my spine.

I back away from the counter numbly before she can call security or ask more questions. My breathing turns shallow as I turn in a slow circle, scanning the crowded airport terminal.

People everywhere.

Strangers everywhere.

And somehow I still feel hunted.

Outside the massive terminal windows, twilight begins to settle over the California coastline in deep blue waves. Planes take off into the night one after another while a horrible certainty grows heavier and heavier inside my chest.

Someonefound me.

* * *

I leave the airport so fast I almost forget my suitcase.

My pulse pounds violently in my throat as I drag it behind me across the parking garage toward the transit station connected to the terminal. Every instinct I have is screaming now.

This is real.

Someone flagged my ID. Someone froze my bank card.How?Who has that kind of power? And what the hell would they want withme?

My mind flashes back through every case I was involved in. Smaller things before Miami, or at least team activities where I wouldn’t be high up on the list. Is it Moreno? Did he get out somehow, and no one told me?

Or the Bratva. Maybe they’re tying up loose ends, untrusting of me since I got myself into that mess. Stupid to be convinced to look the other way.

The bus terminal is nearly empty compared to the airport. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead while tired travelers sit scattered across rows of molded plastic chairs. A vending machine hums loudly near the entrance.

I clutch the last cash I have in my hand so tightly that the bills crumple. Two hundred and fourteen dollars, tucked away into an inner pocket in my purse. I’d forgotten about it, but it’s still not enough to get me to New Jersey. Especially without an ID.

A bus, though. I can get somewhere with that.

Nevada. Arizona. Somewhere ugly and anonymous where nobody knows my name and no one can find me.