Page 76 of Lethal Obsession

“Christ.” I grip the railing in resigned frustration. “It’s been barely a fortnight, and the entire swamp is already oozing through the fucking streets. I’ll get a flight home today.”

“No!” Renata and Mak speak at the same time.

I turn and glare at the latter, who looks typically unfazed.

“Miami is going to hell,” I snap, “and you two want me to sit on my ass drinking cocktails?”

“Hunter will have you arrested the moment you set foot on US soil,” Renata says. “This all looks like you, Lex. Everyone knows you stormed a Lucchese hotel right before you left town. And you’ve made Everglades waste disposal your signature move. You can’t be anywhere near this.”

“When I use the Everglades for waste disposal,” I say coldly, “the waste stays disposed of. This has Kiril Novikov written all over it.”

“It’s possible,” she says. “It’s also possible that’s just what someone wants you to think. Either way, if you come back, you’re playing right into the hands of whoever is behind this. And much as it looks like the Novikovs, their operation isn’t big enough to take down three senior members of the Lucchese family. Not without help.”

That’s true enough. Not to mention that normally Dima would have known the moment those boys stepped across the state line—which means it either wasn’t the Novikovs or they have serious help.

“You need to stay put, Lex,” Renata is saying. “The lack of hard evidence linking you to the Luccheses is the only reason there isn’t an Interpol Red Notice out for you already.”

“I’m a lot less worried about a fucking Red Notice,” I say tersely, “than about bodies piling up in my swamp. Not to mention the fuckers who staked out my Paris hotel.”

“Leave the swamp to Dima and me. You and Mak can deal with Paris.” Renata sounds harried. “I’m only calling you about this in the first place because Dima asked me to. Hunter and the FBI have your entire operation under a fucking microscope, and until Lars runs in-depth security checks to make sure you haven’t been tapped, Dima didn’t want to risk exposing you.”

Smart. But not being able to talk to Dima feels like I’ve had a limb cut off.

“Where the fuck did Hunter get the money to run a gubernatorial campaign, anyway?” I snarl. “He’s always relied on backing from organized crime, and criminals don’t like being burned.”

“That’s what I’m trying to work out, Lex.” I don’t miss the taut frustration in her tone. “But I’m a marshal, not FBI, and I’m being stonewalled everywhere I turn. There’s something going on here that doesn’t make sense. Hunter’s campaign is extremely well funded. And I mean the kind of money that’s going to be hard to beat.”

The kind of money that can find me in an airport when I’ve booked under a fake name and then hit me in a Paris hotel only hours later. The kind of money that has a nondescript cream card, a name right out of The Matrix, and a gray fucking suit.

“I can’t just do nothing.” I glare at Mak across the deck, addressing him as well as Renata.

“Nothing is the only thing you can do, at least for now.” Her blunt response is unequivocal. “As far as the FBI is concerned, you’re currently partying somewhere in the Caribbean. We need to keep it that way. Stay out of sight and wait for me to contact you.” There’s a noise in the background. “I have to go,” she says and abruptly cuts the line.

I stare at the phone in my hand. “Fuck,” I say finally.

“It’s not that bad.” Mak still has that same annoying smile on his face. “How long has it been since you took a holiday, Lex?”

My glare deepens. “Is that what this is?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you actually want to go back to that festering swamp of yours.” He plucks a prawn from the platter and dexterously undresses it. “And just to labor your favorite metaphor,” he goes on, “when was the last time you saw a gator take a flight to Europe and stake out a Paris hotel?”

“We both know that Paris wasn’t the Novikovs, Mak. They’re one family, with limited resources, and Kiril is a murderer, not a businessman. He’s the muscle who gets paid to kill, not the mastermind who hires a team to do it for him.” Feeling in need of something harder than beer, I pour a vodka. “It’s this John Owens fucker who’s the problem.”

“Agreed,” he says readily. “Which is why I did some digging on him.”

“Ha.” I shake my head as I toss the shot off, already knowing what’s coming.

“And nothing.” Mak’s mouth twists. “He doesn’t exist.”

“Yeah.” I turn the shot glass upside down on the table, resisting the desire to have several more, in quick succession. “I figured.”

“Your friend Dima covered every base on the ground looking for him. Admirably discreetly, I might add. But Owens disappeared from Miami Airport like smoke. Even the security cameras were wiped clean.” Mak takes another prawn from the platter. “I have enough contacts, both official and unofficial, to access any name I choose to, even those operating entirely off book. Let’s face it—when it comes to off-book operations, the official sources usually come to me anyway, even if they don’t realize I’m the person they’re talking to.”

I can’t help but smile at that.

“My point is,” he continues, dipping the prawn in sauce and popping it into his mouth, “if Owens was an operator from a government agency, I’d know. He isn’t. Nor does he belong to any known crime family or syndicate.”

“What about the Paris team?” I put the vodka aside and reach into the cooler for another beer as the steward replaces Mak’s Negroni. “Do we know where they came from?”