He shakes his head dramatically. “No. Absolutely not. He is now and forever Skippy. Owen is ridiculous.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Skippy is not better.”
“It’s too late. It stuck.”
I let it go. We have bigger problems. And unfortunately, that includes the fact that Alejandro’s “source” could be anyone from a disgraced medic to a smuggler with a questionable digestive tract.
“You’re an exile,” I remind him. “Meaning you can’t use Guild assets. So, whatever ‘sources’ you have left are firmly in the bottom-feeding section of the black market.”
He shrugs. “You have your contacts. I have mine.”
“Yeah. Mine aren’t wanted in three countries.”
“Four,” he corrects, smug. “But who’s counting? And don’t forget—you’re an exile now too, mi Pícarita.”
I stare him down. He stares back. Annoyinglyconfident.
And he’s right—we don’t have time.
He jerks his chin toward the display board. “Chicago. Overnight line. Boarding in ten.”
Lucky us.
“Let’s go.”
I exhale, long and resigned. “Fine. But if your source is a guy who works out of a basement with a pet ferret named Hannibal, I’m stabbing you in the thigh.”
Alejandro grins like he’d enjoy being stabbed in the thigh. “Deal.”
Which, frankly, is the exact moment I know something is going to go wrong. The universe hates us too much for anything else.
We find a wheelchair abandoned near the parking garage elevators—rusty, one wheel squeaking like it’s begging for death. Perfect. We plop Skippy—Owen—into it. His head lolls to the side in a way that looks disturbingly natural, like an overworked commuter taking a sad nap.
We push into the terminal. Alejandro uses a kiosk, pays cash he lifted from some poor bastard’s pocket thirty seconds earlier, and somehow also pockets a pack of pink bubble gum from the snack rack.
He hands it to me with a wink and a devil’s grin.
It’s my flavor.
I pretend the flip in my stomach doesn’t exist as I pop two pieces.
We keep moving. Snatching what we need as we go.
A woman about my height stands staring up at the departures board, her rolling suitcase parked directly behind her.
A rookie mistake.
As we pass, I grab the handle and keep walking. The suitcase glides neatly behind me like it’s always belonged to me.
Alejandro spots a duffel bag at a man’s feet—the guy too busy on his phone to notice the world burning around him. Alejandro swoops down and grabs the handles, plopping squarely in Skippy’s lap.
“Hold this for me, amigo.”
Skippy does not object.
We find our platform just as boarding begins. The private sleeper cars are still locked—they won’t open them until we’re already moving. Which means we’re trapped with the general population for a bit with a smelly corpse and I think is getting puffier by the minute.
Fucking terrific.
