Madeline had a standard military field kit on hand and insisted we keep it. Inside the zip-up nylon case was a shiny collection of scissors, needles, sterile wipes, bandages, and sutures. I worried that the motion of the plane would make fixing my finger tricky, but Erica was clearly used to patching up wounds under less-than-ideal circumstances. I was more concerned that some of Leon’s blood from his busted nose had found its way into the cuts on my face, and now whatever unholy STD cocktail it contained was currently swirling around my system. Nothing I could do about that, unfortunately, except root hard for my immune system.
T cells don’t fail me now.
I thanked Erica, but the rumble of the motor and the rattling of the crates against the metal interior of the cabin made lengthy conversation all but impossible, so I had the remainder of the trip to plot our moves once we reached US soil. Of all the things I’d fucked up in my life, it was crucial that this not be one of them.
Getting there would hopefully be the easy part. I had no doubt Trish had her people—both Interpol and internal—watching every airport, train station and bus terminal within a hundred miles of Brussels. Outside that radius, however, her resources would stretch thin, regardless of how vast they were. It was simply impossible for her to have eyes everywhere. (Or so I kept telling myself.) I hoped that buying three tickets to Scranton, Pennsylvania from an airport in the Czech Republic wouldn’t attract any undue attention.
I considered flying directly into Philadelphia but opted against it out of an abundance of caution. It wasn’t unreasonable to expect Trish to have eyes watching not only my potential points of departure but my destination as well. Scranton to Philadelphia was a two-hour drive, three at the most. Safer and it wouldn’t take us too far out of our way. We’d bounce around a few different connecting flights, too. Bury our trail as much as possible without dragging out the flight time longer than necessary.
It was what to do once we arrived in Philadelphia that had me stumped. I knew I needed to find Robert and tell him what was going on. I knew I didn’t want Denise and the kids to know I was in the country, no matter how badly the temptation to see them would seep in once I got there. And I knew it would be a matter of days—two, three if we were lucky—before either Ghost or The Persian arrived with their own agenda.
Preventing them from carrying out that agenda was where I was stuck.
Did we tell Robert, and then run? Let him tell the cops in his precinct and hope they could handle it?
Did we convince him that it was best to leave them out of it because A) Trish could have people within their ranks, and B) It was unlikely that even several squads of city cops would matter much whenever Ghost or The Persian made their move?
Would Robert believe me at all, or would he arrest me on the spot and blow everything up before it even got started?
Then there was the darker part of my mind, the one that wondered if Robert was only on Trish’s hit list to frame me, or was there another reason. One that tied him more directly to Trish’s business and the task force that was investigating it. One that made the threat to Denise and the kids even greater. I told myself that was just the jealous ex-husband coming out, that a homicide detective among a group of covert intelligence operatives would be the Thing That Didn’t Belong in the classic Sesame Street quiz, but the thought nagged at me all the same.
When we landed fifteen miles outside of Prague, I was no further along in my strategizing than I’d been when we took off. Paralysis by analysis, as my old boss used to say.
We thanked Madeline and I again offered to pay her for the ride. Once more she refused, accepting a long hug and a lingering kiss from Erica instead. It was more than a parting peck between close friends. There was tenderness in it. Intimacy.
“Whoa, wait a minute,” Joey said as Erica hiked her bag on her shoulder and walked past us. “Is she—”
I elbowed him in the ribs to prevent whatever juvenile remark that was about to leave his mouth, but he was persistent. I held back so Erica could get a few steps out of earshot and made him lower his voice.
“No wonder you never hit that,” Joe said, snickering.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’s gay, right?”
“How should I know?”
“You interviewed her, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but that’s not one of my standard questions,” I snapped, already tired of this conversation and almost certain Erica could hear us anyway.
“She pretended to be a man! How do you not ask a follow up question to that?” Joey shouted. I shushed him, then shook my head.
“I did ask a follow up, but—”
“But what,” he said at a more respectable volume, “were you afraid the Professional Killers Union was going to sue you for discrimination?”
I started to respond but then decided to quit feeding the beast and began to follow Erica instead.
“Got a Human Resources manual you follow for all your interviews, do you?” Joey mocked as he fell into step behind.
“Please stop talking,” I said without turning around. Behind me, Joey laughed, the deep kind, fueled by too much testosterone, that goes well with a beer and inappropriate jokes.
It was a short walk to the nearest town, and then we took an Uber to the airport. Though my head was on a swivel and my blood pressure nestled firmly in the red, we secured our tickets with no more trouble than the people ahead of us or behind us in line. We even had time to grab a late lunch of greasy fast-food burgers and fries in the food court before we boarded. All in all, it was as eventless and boring as a trip to the airport should be. Which, given the way my last trip to the airport ended, was an enormous relief.
We couldn’t get three seats together, so I had time alone with my thoughts. The VP of Sales next to me, his paunch swollen large by many an in-flight meal and hotel room service, insulated himself with his laptop and earbuds before we were given the all clear to do so. He slipped his shoes off too, but that was fine. If it made him more comfortable and less inclined to strike up a conversation, I would put up with the smell.
Flight time was estimated at sixteen hours, forty-eight minutes, not including layover limbo. I was college educated and had built a successful career for myself in two drastically different realms of a highly competitive field. Surely I could come up with a logical, realistic plan to protect my family in that amount of time.
Granted, I had never done anything quite like this before, but all it required was some careful thought and consideration. Like chess. Think three moves ahead. I was good at chess.
CHAPTER TWENTY
This was nothing like chess. In chess, if you make a wrong move, you don’t catch a bullet between the eyes. And I must have been absent in college the day they taught how to counteract the machinations of two highly trained covert assassins.
And yet, when we landed for our first layover in Paris, I still believed I had the capability to put everything together. I bought a notebook and a pen from one of the airport stores, along with a light gray Marc Anthony button-down and a new pair of blue jeans for $150. Airport markups are criminal. Joey and Erica picked up a change of clothes as well, and we each purchased a small bag to carry our old outfits after changing in the restroom.
Feeling refreshed, I opened the notebook and began jotting down ideas. By the time we landed in Barcelona for our second and final layover, I had a rough outline of a spy thriller that would feel quite comfortable nestled on a shelf at any airport Hudson News, but in terms of actionable, usable strategy, it was as unrealistic as the plots in those same thrillers.
We were somewhere over the Atlantic when I first texted Erica, airplane mode be damned. She sat three rows behind me, both of us in the middle section. Joey had the window seat that backed up against the lavatory wall. The barefoot VP from the first leg of our journey had been replaced by a college kid coming home from a semester abroad. At least, based on his age, backpack, and laptop covered with torn and faded stickers of bands I’d never heard of, that was the backstory I’d created for him. We never said more than “Hello” to each other before he covered his ears in a pair of headphones that looked like they cost more than my entire overpriced airport wardrobe.
Help me, I texted.
Oh come on, he’s better than the last guy you sat next to, she texted back.
Not that. The plan. I have none.
