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  "Cassie, did Nico—"

  "Don't worry. Max tried to chew him out, but Nico pretty much ignored all of it. He was here in the office to Skype with the New York office anyway, and Max took the opportunity to vent his spleen. I think Nico thought it was humorous rather than humiliating."

  "Which means Max now feels humiliated instead of vindicated."

  "What can I say? It's Nico."

  Right. And he knows that Max knows everyone in the world would offer my perfect techno-wingman a job the minute he decided he'd had enough of the Beacham Foundation. Which would also be the day I had Max drawn and quartered. At some point, the man had to learn to leave the fieldwork to the experts and just give us the support we required.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Jack wave a set of car keys.

  "Gotta go, Cass, but a couple of final things. First, I'm assuming Nico is still on the payroll."

  "Yes. Absolutely. And flouting every screaming command Max made during the Skype session."

  "Good. Now for my second question. Have you found out anything about the number Jack and I found in the safe-deposit box in Orlando?" For security purposes, my team was working alone on this new discovery. Jack was convinced there was a mole in one or both of our organizations, though we hoped anything on the Beacham side ended with Simon's defection. However, given the possible scope of the heist based on intelligence learned so far, we decided to keep everything at a minimalist level. Cassie and Nico received regular updates and helped with research, but even they would not know everything. We just couldn't take any chances. We didn't want to risk tipping off a mole anywhere.

  Equally, I wasn't taking any chances with Jack. Information I gained on my own would be parceled out on a need-to-know basis too. Without asking him, I knew he would be doing the same. We might be partners, but we weren't very good at working as a functioning duo.

  "Sorry, but no. Nothing on Nico's end yet either. At least, nothing he's made me aware of."

  I already knew Nico had come up with nothing, at least if I believed Jack. Still, I wanted the confirmation from Cassie since I didn't know why Jack seemed to be running my source as if Nico was his own. It was one thing to share my resources, another to abdicate all authority. I needed to figure out what to do about the situation quickly, but it shouldn't go through Cassie. I caught myself biting my lip. "Okay, we'll talk later. Maybe we can conference on Skype this evening."

  "I'll get a message to Nico and see how his schedule is running," Cassie said.

  Jack cut the distance between us with several long strides, his patience obviously at an end. One more question before he got too close. "Have you found any more missing art on the bad USB drive? Anything else pointing to Florida, since we've now been led here because of the bank box?"

  "Nothing yet." Cassie's image shook her blonde, hot-pink-tipped hair and looked down like she was keying or making a note while she talked. "But I have an idea on how to get into some of the corrupted areas. I'll let you know if I find anything interesting in the next few hours. I'm hopeful."

  "Great. I have to go. Talk to you soon." I ended the call just as Jack entered my personal space.

  "Anything?" he asked.

  "Only that Max is out for blood over my finances, but what else is new? Got the car?"

  He dangled the key ring tagged to a steel-blue Mercedes 350 Cabriolet ragtop.

  "A convertible, Jack? Really?"

  Yet when I saw it a few minutes later, I had to admit it was gorgeous. I didn't put up any fight when he opened the top to the sun.

  "Dig around in your catchall of a purse and fetch something to hold back your hair. The windblown look is devastating on blondes of your age." He grinned, knowing full well I recognized he was pushing my buttons. Successfully, as usual.

  He was also right about my bag. I still had the lovely gold-on-white Hermes scarf Cassie lent me for camouflage on a Chunnel ride. Though how something so expensive could make one incognito in such a setting was unbelievable in the extreme.

  In the current situation, however, riding in an expensive car, heading for an expensive part of Miami Beach, and playing the part of an expensive playmate to Jack, the coin-and-chain printed scarf was perfect. I slipped it over my hair and tied it under my chin, Lauren Bacall or Kate Hepburn style, and added big sunglasses. For a split second I could imagine my grandmother looking down at me—from wherever she and her old cronies played their nonstop bridge rubbers—with love in her eyes and a smile on her pale-pink lips, nodding in approval. I looked the part and was now completely wind resistant.

  Jack grinned, and I had little doubt he was thinking exactly as I, despite never knowing my grammy. There were moments when he and I connected in ways I didn't understand, and this was one of those.

  We were on the road and checking out the early street scene as we headed for Miami Beach and the water. The day was fast approaching the trolling hour, and a little later when the streetlights came on avenue by avenue, we'd see the hipsters converge, merge, and urge each other into sleek bars and trendy restaurants. We were on the cusp of the evening's magic moment when the marathon clubbing and dining commenced. The fact it was a Thursday didn't make much difference. The scene would have been familiar any other night of the week too, but weekends naturally heralded even bigger crowds and wilder spectacles.

  I simply wanted food.

  "Jack, can we stop somewhere for a late lunch." I looked at my watch. "Or, I guess, early dinner?"

  "Soon. I thought we'd check out Wynwood first."

  Wynwood was once an industrial district. Thanks to the art crowd, it had been transformed into their personal Mecca and was known for the monthly gallery walk. But, alas, a flick of my phone told me tonight did not show the gallery crawl on the art scene agenda. So why were we headed there? I raised my voice to be heard over the street and wind noise. "Got a tip I should know about, Jack?"

  "In a mo'. Want to check out a source," he shouted back. "See if we can find any connection to Simon."

  It hadn't been that long ago Frommer's too often commented in their Miami guides about how the city lacked any reputation as a cultural center, but reputations were made to be reversed. The beach city's artistic street cred had changed in a progressively upward movement during the last few years. With the milder winter climate, Miami started playing host to international events and created liaisons with other esteemed art fairs. When Switzerland's Art Basel hit Florida each winter for its days in December, the city parlayed the connection into other events for art snowbirds, and the Miami cultural reputation made its slow but steady rise.

  So I was not surprised Jack already had a potential lead to follow, and I mentally reviewed the Fendi's stash of costume jewelry in case I needed to upgrade the bling of my ensemble. A couple of blocks farther on our journey and the city's design district opened up. Nearby, south of Wynwood, sat the CIFO, the private museum founded by money that originated from Ella Cisneros having once been married to the namesake media group. One of my favorite museums, chiefly because of the location just blocks away from the bayfront and the Miami Art Museum pavilion. The city was changing in a good way.

  Yet the set of Jack's jaw told me wherever we were headed in the art scene was not likely all glitter and lights. Didn't surprise me but didn't make me happy either.

  When I noticed how the silver Honda behind us kept making every turn we did, well, the knowledge pushed happiness even more distant. In my peripheral vision I noticed Jack straighten a bit and knew he'd spotted the car too. Not, of course, that I ever doubted his observation skills for a second.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I wanted to make a joke, ask Jack if he needed me to drive, say that I could lose them. But the gravity of the situation wasn't lost on me. The Honda was coming up fast, and the expression I read in the side mirror of the guy riding shotgun increased the tension. A second later, he raised his right hand to the dash and sunlight flashed on the metal object he held. Damn!

  Jack must have se
en the same thing in the rearview. I watched him grimace and hit the accelerator as if we were in a Ferrari. In fact, as I scrabbled to choke the door handle in a death grip, he even said, "God, I wish I had a Ferrari right now!"

  "I take it they were fresh out at the rental counter," I yelled back.

  "Actually, no. I thought it would look too retro-Miami Vice and Michael Mann, and chose classy instead. Thought you'd prefer that." He kept his face forward the entire time he spoke. No smirk, no wink. But I watched a nerve twitch one time at his temple.

  I wasn't sure how to respond. How I even wanted to try to respond. So I used my left hand to dig around in my purse to find my smartphone instead.

  I'd always loved visiting Miami when Grandfather was alive, but as a child I spent more time in Coral Gables than South Beach. If my father came along, he spent most of his time at one of the high-roller jai-alai establishments. He dragged me inside once when I was twelve or thirteen, paying someone to let me slip past the rules, and I spent a bored afternoon stealing sips of his beer while he bet on a ball that would probably kill him if the thundering sphere hit him. Instead, it hit his wallet, and we left when he ran out of cash. Miami became all work once I reached adulthood, and I'd spend fly-in weekends scrambling to attend one art extravaganza or another.

  Regardless of the number of times I'd visited, I didn't usually drive in Miami. Rather, I was picked up and delivered wherever I needed to go. So now, with the always-changing cityscape and Jack's current Le Mans maneuvers, I was quickly and hopelessly lost. I had just brought up my phone's street map app when Jack slammed on the brakes and jigged right. The phone rocketed out of my hands and onto the floorboard. I'd find it later. I wasn't letting go of the door for anything.

  I didn't bother asking Jack if he had a plan. The set of his jaw said he did—even if he didn't.

  As fast as our real-time views changed, my screen app probably couldn't have kept up anyway. I felt like I was in an old episode of Miami Vice or simmed-out in Grand Theft Auto, except for the fact that if either were true, we really would have been in a cherry-red Ferrari.

  Buildings were a blur, and I heard sirens in the distance. Things were coming to a head. At one opportunity, Jack moved to the left turn lane just as the arrow changed to green, the Honda inches from our back bumper. Jack didn't slow in the turn, but as our car filled the intersection, he grabbed the hand brake and pulled an almost perfect Rockford one-eighty sliding-round move and barreled back the way we'd come, speeding again in the traffic-free lane. The Honda wasn't as quick.

  "Keep driving!" I stared into the mirror to give a blow-by-blow. "They're trying to back up and follow us, but cars are behind them!"

  I didn't know if Jack's driving panache was due to beginner's luck, survival, or specialized training, and figured it was probably a measure of all three. I patted his leg in encouragement, and he smiled. Then he had to burst my euphoria, saying, "I'm glad we could slow them down a bit, because from the sound of their motor when they were behind us, I think they have a lot more horsepower than the Honda's factory specs!"

  A few seconds later, his prophesy came true. The Honda resumed its tail, not even trying anymore to pretend it wasn't interested in us. I looked back and met the gazes of the two twenty-something males through the Honda's windshield, and though we all hid behind sunglasses, there was no doubt who the two behind us thought was the prey in this situation. They were in this for keeps. I wondered how long the adrenalin and testosterone cocktail surging through all these alpha males' veins would hold out. And if we would escape before someone had a stroke. Or worse.

  The wind pounded my ears and jazzed my pulse up several more notches. But it's all fun and games until someone pulls a gun. A hand snaked out of the passenger window of the Honda.

  "Jack! Gun!" And the first shot screamed over my head.

  The young thug was either a lousy shot or just trying to scare the shit out of us. As far as I was concerned, the latter was a fait accompli. It wasn't going to get us to stop, however. Jack's jaw tightened a little more. His lips looked like one thin line.

  "Hang on," he yelled.

  Like I'd even let go if I could.

  Still, when he took a kamikaze opportunity to use an almost nonexistent break in oncoming traffic to zip at the last second into a tiny, nearly passed mouth of an alley, my heart practically left my body. Amid the cacophonous crescendo of angry horns and panicked brakes, I experienced centrifugal force strong enough to give me an idea what a facelift felt like without the benefit of anesthesia. I don't know how he kept us vertical. We did go up on two wheels at one point, and landed hard when my side again belly flopped to the asphalt. Was there a way to get whiplash without being hit? If so, just call me the poster girl.

  The Mercedes fishtailed dangerously close to each side of the alley, clipping a Dumpster with the right rear bumper and nearly sideswiping the concrete facades of the buildings until Jack fought and regained full control. I had no idea if we were going the right way down the narrow one-way crevasse, so I kept my eyelids squeezed shut and prayed. I didn't know the ethics of praying when breaking the law to save your life, but a second later Jack shot out the other side and hung another hard left. I opened my eyes when I felt the sun's heat again hitting my face and looked to my right to see the light winking across the water of Biscayne Bay. I started breathing again.

  "How in the hell did you keep from hitting something?" I grabbed my head with both hands. "How did you ever get onto this busy road, making a left no less, without causing a pileup?"

  "One of us must have a guardian angel." He grinned.

  "Well, I'll admit I closed my eyes and prayed."

  "Me too."

  My jaw dropped. "You what?"

  "Just kidding." He laughed.

  Okay, it may have lightened the moment, but we both knew we had to get off the grid soon. Jack made three more quick turns, but since our pursuers had apparently missed their first opportunity to blast through the alley with us, they either had to reconnoiter after overshooting the opening or had given up the chase. I was betting on the former, since the gun convinced me they were prepared to go to whatever lengths necessary.

  "So, who were they?" I asked when Jack finally slipped the Mercedes into a public parking garage. We needed a brief bit of privacy to get our pulse rates back down to nonemergency levels, and this hidey-hole fit our needs of the moment.

  "That's the million-dollar question, I'd say." He riffled his long fingers around the top of the steering wheel, almost as if he couldn't believe it was still in one piece. I understood the feeling. Then he mused, "Couldn't be Moran, since the pair in the Honda seemed to have no compunction about killing you."

  "Or, I'm not Moran's favorite anymore." I frowned. Back to the question of why Moran spared me the last time. And while the location and vehicles were different, I had to admit there were some similarities between this incident and the shooting by the motorcyclist in France, as well as our escape under gunfire on the streets of London. Both were believed to be Moran-commissioned jobs. Was this incident similar because Moran was behind it? Or to make us think he was? "It wasn't the Amazon this time though. Or Weasel and Werewolf."

  "No," Jack agreed. "Just two blokes who looked like every other young man in Miami. Nothing remarkable."

  "Except the gun."

  "There is that. Made an impression, I take it."

  "Forty-four Magnums usually do."

  "Thank your guardian angel he had that cannon. He likely wouldn't have missed if he'd been aiming with a lighter gun." He slipped off his Ray-Bans and pulled out his phone. "In the meantime, I think we need to add some insurance in case there were people with videos that could identify us to the authorities."

  "No doubt there were people taking videos."

  "A fact which makes me deliriously happy at the moment."

  "You want us picked up by the cops?"

  Jack just smiled and finished his text. When he hit Send, he turned and said, "Luckil
y, the U.S. Senator whose family is in both of our debts after last night's little exercise is a representative of the whole state of Florida. Not just Orlando."

  Why didn't I think of that? After giving myself a mental palm slap, I asked, "So, you're going to have your buddy get the senator to keep our names off the police blotters?"

  "Yes, and if a video does surface to help positively identify the guys or the Honda, I want to know that information too." His phone chimed, and he read the text, then turned it my way. On it. Ur covered. Will send DTs gained l8r.

  "Which I'm translating as his promise that if he gets any details later, you will receive them too."

  Jack nodded.

  I chewed my lip, thinking. "How did the guys in the Honda pick us up? This is a new rental car, so no opportunity for them to add a tracking device. And I didn't notice them following from the airport. Did you?"

  "They could have the car rental agent on their team. Most rentals are GPS tracked now, especially luxury models. But that gets complicated since they didn't know which company we would use. Hell, I didn't even know which company I was going to use." He shook his head and raised his phone, looking a moment at the screen. But he returned it to his pocket without using it again, then said, "My guess is one guy stayed in the car at Miami International, ready and waiting to move, and the other went inside and shadowed us from the arrival gate. I imagine our meeting the suits simply whetted their interest and concerns even more. As we all left the complex, they likely hung back at enough of a distance to tail us until they could pick their spot to drive us off the road to kidnap or hijack or…" His voice went almost to a whisper. "Or kill us. Who knows?" The volume of his words went up a smidgeon, but his tone remained deadly. "When they realized we spotted them, they moved in close and improvised. Almost always a mistake."