“I have the perfect job lined up.”

65

Mike demanded I review money-laundering facts all the way to a Houston hotel near the airport. He handed me a carry-on containing a prescription for an inhaler with four refills, passport, ID, credit card, extra burner phone, plane ticket to Miami under the name of Ellie Whyte, and a change of clothes with a short, perky dark wig. My new look matched the images on the photo IDs. I’d officially become clandestine.

“Shelby, you don’t have to go through with this. You’re not trained.”

“You’re wrong. I’ve prepared for this since I was four years old. My stupidity allowed her to commit more crimes than we will ever discover.” I drew in a breath to calm my shaky voice. “She will face justice for all those she’s victimized.”

His soft-blue eyes emitted gentleness. “Intel suggests her operation is expanding internationally.”

“We suspected she had overseas accounts. How widespread is her network?”

“I’ll keep you posted. My point is you’re walking into a potential trap.”

“The FBI is aware of all this, and I won’t be arrested once I land in Miami?”

“You’re covered.”

“Thanks, Mike. I owe you big-time. I believe God will see me through this. If He takes me home in the middle of it, I’m confident Marissa will be stopped.”

“I see why Denton is in love with you. You have many admirable qualities and compassion for others, but don’t substitute courage for the role of a fool. And don’t get yourself killed before you and Denton can have a life together.”

I smiled and kissed his cheek.

Alone in the hotel room until an early morning flight, I called Marissa and updated her on my travel plans.

“What are you wearing?” she said.

“Jeans, yellow T-shirt, short dark wig. Are you picking me up?”

“No. Someone who works for me.”

Walking into a trap crossed my mind, a reminder of prison life. “A need-to-know basis?”

“That’s how I operate.”

Supper held no appeal, but I needed food for strength. I ordered vegetable beef soup and bread, but the taste escaped me. I tried to sleep. A useless endeavor. The circles beneath my eyes resembled craters. Sometime after midnight I drifted off. At 4:45 a.m. the alarm sounded.

Showtime.

Denton texted me with emojis, one with praying hands.

Infiltrating a money-laundering operation frightened me when my knowledge of how it worked resided in games played long ago and online research. I couldn’t right any of Marissa’s wrongs—or even my own—but I could do my best to stop the crimes.

After exiting the aircraft in Miami in the central terminal, I bought coffee and watched the clock. The acid burned my stomach, and I dumped it. Forty-five minutes later, a text instructed me to walk to the west walkway that crossed to the Dolphin Garage from Terminal D.

I sighed, longing for the days and weeks ahead to speed by. Denton claimed working my way into Marissa’s confidence might take months. The scales tipped in her favor. She possessed the skills and experience of the operation. The contacts and analysis of when and how to move the money and the intricate, underhanded methods were second nature to her. Could I ever match her in a new game of wit?