Same goes for the body scanners. Every operative has a chip that keeps the machines blissfully ignorant. The scanner won’t notice the gun tucked against my spine or the two knives Saint keeps in her ankle sheaths like jewelry.
Shoes off. Belt off. Gun case in a tray.
I step through, arms lifted.
The scanner clears me without a hiccup.
Now the case.
Always the case.
There’s always some risk—a rogue guard doing their job too enthusiastically, a random inspection I can’t talk my way out of. Even with the illusion tech disguising the contents, the case still needs to pass human hands.
Right now, the monitor sees a violin. The tech in the case will make sure the scanner gives it a green light. Not sent away for a random inspection.
The case rolls toward me.
I slip into my shoes, shove loose items back into my pockets, and reach for the handle?—
A TSA agent steps into my personal space like he’s leading national security.
“Excuse me, sir,” he says. “I’ll need to open the case.”
My stomach drops into my ass.
And that wiggle of gum-chewing intuition Saint had?
Yeah.
I think it’s about to pay out.
The TSA agent gestures at the case like he’s asking permission to touch a newborn.
I press the release latch.
Not the real one—the secondary button that triggers the holograph.
I crack it, looking inside to make sure the perfect 3D illusion is cast: black velvet lining, a delicate violin nestled in its curves, an ornate bow beside it. It even reflects the overhead lights on the sheen of the wood.
The agent whistles. “Beautiful piece.”
Then he reaches.
I snap my hand out. “Ah ah. Please don’t touch.”
I widen my eyes just enough to look like a panicked musician, not a man hiding the kind of weapon that dissolves governments.
“The wood is very delicate,” I explain. “Oils from fingers, temperature shifts… it’s temperamental.”
I start closing the case, slow and reverent. “You understand.”
The agent backs off immediately, hands raised. “I do. I played for ten years.”
Of course he did.
We make the kind of small talk that edges right up against my gag reflex—what brand he used, how he misses it, how airport hours ruined practice time—but it smooths the moment. Staying calm and avoiding becoming memorable.
After a glance at my watch, he gets the point. And with the case strap over my shoulder, the weight settled betweenmy shoulder blades, I walk away without being shot or detained.
