My shoulders tense.
Alejandro doesn’t notice. He’s too busy watching the exits.
“I need my jacket,” I say, battery hidden behind my forearm.
I pull it from the bag, shrug into the leather, making sure the battery is concealed up my sleeve, cold and solid against my skin. We step out together, unhurried, blending into the current of travelers flowing past.
A few yards later, I shift the battery down into my pocket.
A guard stands in the middle of a cross-section, boots planted wide, eyes scanning. They land on me and linger.
One beat too long for me to be comfortable with.
I don’t react. I don’t rush. I don’t look away quickly. Instead, I let my eyes lazily move to another face, like I’m people-watching during my trek through the airport.
Boots pound in front of us.
A squad of guards runs toward us, focused and fast. My shoulder tense and I hold my grip around the battery tighter. My hold on my backpack strap also tightening. But they rush past, not sparing us a glance.
Alejandro exhales through his nose. “Well, that’ll wake you up in the morning.”
But we may not be out of the clear yet. Not if someone reported a mysterious laptop thrown in a trashcan.
I glance back. The guards sprint past the store, past the trash, past my discarded problems. For now.
It takes a train and several moving sidewalks to reach baggage claim and the exits.
A surge of travelers’ floods around us, rolling bags clipping ankles, shoulders bumping. Someone slams a suitcase into my heel and curses.
I use the moment.
“Watch it.” The battery slips from my pocket into the nearest trash can, swallowed by paper cups and boarding passes.
Alejandro misses it, too busy glaring after the man who clipped his shoulder. “Asshole.” He gives one more glare before putting his shades on as we walk through double sliding doors.
Outside, the air feels sharper, cleaner, like freedom pretending it doesn’t have strings attached.
Alejandro scans the parking structure. “That one.”
A dark sedan. Mid-size. Invisible.
I’m at the driver’s door before he finishes speaking, multitool already out. The lock pops, and I’m at the steering wheel while Alejandro stands behind, blocking any passersby.
The engine turns over smoothly.
Alejandro pulls up a map on his phone. “I’ll drive.”
He slides into the driver’s seat without asking and pulls his phone up on the console. The map is already open. A route already drawn.
I don’t remember him entering adestination.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He doesn’t look at me. “Where Hartley will be.”
I squint at the screen, then at him. “That’s not the summit.”
“It’s the Atlas Complex,” he says, glancing at his watch like the timing matters. “Keynote speakers have a brunch with contributors. He’ll be there.”
