The voices beyond the hatch are speaking French. I catch fragments—my French is serviceable, but not perfect.
She turns to me, voice pitched low. “They’ve been warned. Authorities are waiting at the gate for two passengers.”
My stomach drops. She slides her bag off, sets it between her feet.
She continues, voice calm, “The captain told them the crew needs to transfer to another flight immediately after landing.”
I breathe a little easier.
She nods toward the door. “Crew will exit through the rear. Every passenger’s being id’ed before they can deplane.”
I nod, grateful for the uniform, the hat, the cover. For once, being wrapped in polyester feels like a stroke of luck.
I make a last-minute rummage through the bags and snag two pair of aviator sunglasses.
Saint kneels, works her multitool to quietly unjam the maintenance hatch we rigged. We hear the main cabin doors open—voices, footsteps, the hush of orderly crew filing out.
She cracks the door, watches. Then, with a small gesture, she motions me forward, hand wrapped around her backpack’s handle.
Time to go.
She opens the door like she owns the place, stride unhurried. I fall in behind her, matching her energy and sliding the glasses onto my face. We join the end of the crew, blending inbehind a flight attendant with a pixie cut and the runway walk of a model.
The Emirates staff at the rear door—suits and official clipboards—nod at each crew member as they pass. Saint and I nod back, eyes forward, following the line through a separate gate and straight into the freedom of the Dubai airport.
I nudge her with the sunglasses, and she puts them. Eyes forward and shoulders back as looks like any other steward.
For now, at least, we’ve pulled off the impossible again. But if I know Saint, she’s already plotting three moves ahead—and so am I.
Tonight is the night two years in exile have been leading toward.
Whatever happens next, there’s no turning back.
Airports are built to dissolve people.
Too much glass, too many reflective surfaces, too many signs pointing in slightly different directions so that no one ever feels fully certain they’re going the right way. Everyone moves fast while accomplishing very little, dragging roller bags and clutching coffee cups like talismans against panic. It's chaos disguised as order, and it works because no one wants to admit how lost they are.
Which makes it an excellent place to disappear.
As long as you’re not wearing the uniform of an airline employee who just hijacked a plane.
“We need to change,” Alejandro declares, already shepherding me toward a clothing store with his change in course.
“No shit,” I mutter, eyes sweeping the open floor like I expect armed security to rappel through the skylight.
Everything is neutral and polished, racks arranged with military precision, lighting engineered to make you forget what time zone you’re in. The red of my steward uniformlooks obscene against it, loud and unmistakable. His captain’s jacket is no better.
We may as well be wearing warning flares.
I don’t bother being selective. Black jeans, a white tank, clean socks. Clothes meant to be forgettable. I scoop them into my arms and duck into a dressing room, kicking the door shut behind me before Alejandro even chooses between which fit of jeans he’s going with.
My backpack hits the bench and the laptop comes out first.
I flip it open, connect to the store’s network, and watch the indicators roll green. No lag. No interference. No digital hands reaching for me yet. My pulse doesn’t slow anyway.
I text Grim.
SAINT: It’s on. We’re moving.
