The sedan was forced to brake, trapped behind the truck in the middle lane.

“My office is compromised,” Marisol said, her voice tight.

“They said they are already inside,” I said, holding up my phone.

“We aren’t going there,” she said.

She reached for her dashboard mount and tapped her screen to make a call.

“Craig, it’s Marisol,” she said into the speaker. “I have the client, and we have the full paper trail.”

A man’s deep, tired voice came through the car speakers.

“Are you secure?” Craig asked.

“We are being followed,” Marisol said. “I need a secure entrance at the justice building.”

“Go to the basement intake gate on Fourth Street,” Craig said. “I will alert security to let your plate through.”

Marisol hung up and accelerated down a side street.

The neon signs of downtown Miami blurred into long, colorful smears on the wet asphalt.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I clutched the heavy leather briefcase on my lap.

Inside were the bank statements, the forged power of attorney, and the original insurance payout documents.