A bookstore.
“Hold up,” she says.“I want to browse.”
I check my watch.“You have ten minutes.”
I don’t like standing still with my back exposed, and the longer I loiter, the easier I am to log.
At twelve minutes, I go looking.
I find her in a narrow aisle, nose in an ancient book.I position myself where I can see the door and the old man behind the counter.
Someone walks in—a shadow across the doorway—and my body reacts before my brain catches up, shifting just enough to block Adena from view.Just a teenager.Still, my pulse spikes.
Whatever it is she’s reading, she’s fully absorbed in it.And when she notices me watching her, she closes the book too gently for someone pretending not to care.
The old man clears his throat.“Half off all Bibles today.”
A Bible.Right.Of course.She’s a church girl.And she wasn’t allowed to bring hers.
Before I can think of the danger, I jerk my chin toward the book.“We’ll take it.”
She looks up at me, fingers tightening on the book, eyes searching my face like she’s waiting for the catch.
The old man takes it from her fingers and bags it without comment.We breeze out, me twenty bucks lighter, her holding something that could get us killed if Marquez’s men ever search our bags.
Outside, she turns and smiles.
Not her polished smile.
Her real one.
Sweet.Reserved.Almost shy.
And for one quiet second, I forget we’re standing in enemy territory.Forget last night.Forget the checkpoint.
Forget everything except the fear that if Marquez ever sees that softness in her, he’ll weaponize it against me.
Or worse—against her.
Thirteen
Adena
The TSA line snakes through roped queues.Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a harsh, unflattering glow.Travelers shuffle forward—businessmen in wrinkled suits, families with crying toddlers, college kids with oversized backpacks.
The agent at the document check takes one look at Jagger and flags him for additional screening.
Not surprising.He looks like a sleep-deprived drifter who’s been living rough for a week—dark circles under his eyes, three days of stubble, a thousand-yard stare that screams either trauma or trouble.
“Do either of you have any weapons to declare?”the agent asks, his tone already on edge.
“Yes,” Jagger says.“Handgun.Registered and permitted.”
“Me too,” I add.“Beretta.Also registered.”
The agent examines both sets of paperwork—carry permits, registrations under our cover names.Everything of mine is legitimate.And I know Jagger’s will be, too.
But he still calls over a supervisor.
