We’ve got twelve hours in a flying metal box. She could at least pretend to relax for five minutes.
But no.
Of course not.
She shrugs off her leather jacket and lowers Skippy to the floor between us. Then she starts unbuttoning his shirt with clinical precision.
“Wow,” I say. “Didn’t know youwere into that.”
She ignores me—an impressive talent she’s honed to art form.
The shirt comes off. Two bullet holes stare back at us—both courtesy of today’s festivities, not part of his original death. Poor Skippy. What a way to start your afterlife.
Saint examines him for tattoos, scars, anything. I’m watching her face when something catches my eye.
A thin incision, fresh and running along the inside of his forearm.
“Here,” I say, pointing.
She leans in, presses her thumb gently around the wound. Something solid shifts under the skin.
“There’s something in here,” she murmurs.
“A chip?” I guess.
“Maybe. It’s hard.”
I pull out my pocketknife, flicking it open with a satisfying click. “Let’s cut it open and see.”
Saint’s hand is instantly on my wrist. “No. What if it’s a deadman’s switch?”
“He’s already dead,” I remind her.
“No, you idiot—rigged to destroy itself if we try to remove it.” Her eyes narrow. “It could have information we need, and we could fry it.”
I tilt my head. “It could also be a tracking device. The Guild wanted him gone for something.”
She exhales slowly, thinking fast. “We’ll have to risk it eventually. But not up here. Besides—what are they going to do? Blow us out of the sky?”
“I wouldn’t put it past anyone.”
She smirks. “They need my body to claim the kill. So, we’ve got that on our side.”
She re-buttons Skippy’s shirt, smooths it down, and props him upright facing us, like he’s part of the conversation.
“I’ve got a guy in New York who can help,” she says. “He’s not Guild. I can trust him.”
Something sharp twists in my chest.
A guy she can trust.
Not me.
I don’t show it—haven’t survived this long by bleeding in public—but the jealousy slides under my skin like a blade.
She tosses her jacket against a stack of crates, pulls her backpack under her head like a pillow, and closes her eyes—completely, maddeningly relaxed.
I wait a moment, then another.
