The screen lights up, showing our faces. Naomi's so close I can feel her breath on my cheek.
"Smile," she instructs as the countdown begins.
I try. I really do. Because she asked me to. I can fieldstrip and rebuild an M249 SAW in less than twenty seconds. I can run sub-four-minute miles for a half-marathon.
But I can’t remember the last time I put on a smile for a photo.
"What the hell is that?" she says, looking at my face in horror.
“I’m smiling,” I say through my teeth since I’m still smiling. It makes it sound like I’m growling at her.
“That’s terrifying.”
“Thank you?” I say, dropping my failed grin.
“Well, that’s not going to fly because even though I kidnapped you and threatened you and am now on the run with you and somehow convinced you to burn your cabin to the ground to help me take on some sort of dark government conspiracy, I’m actually really delightful.”
“I believe it.” There’s not a hint of sarcasm in my tone. I really do believe it, pleased as she is with her little joke. It’s adorable. And charming.
“Well, if you’re going to be married to me, you can’t go around looking like that about it.”
“Noted, ma’am.”
That earns me one of the handful of smiles I’ve gotten from her. And as bad as I am at it, she is a stone-cold marksman. It hits me three places in quick succession. One in the head, chest, and a place I don’t even want to consider.
I smile back because I can’t help it.
“See? There it is,” she says, pleased as punch with herself. As she should be. She is the cause and sole owner of any smiles I’ve had in the past few days, which may make her the cause and owner of all the smiles I’ve had in the last decade.
The photo booth takes a picture. We turn, and she grabs my arm. It takes a few more. I look back at her, and she looks back at me. The smiles drop, but all that warmth goes to our eyes.
"Cute," a distorted voice says, breaking the spell.
Naomi jumps a little, and we both turn to look at thescreen. Instead of our faces, there's now a shadowed, distorted disembodied head.
"Static.”
"Hello, Walker," the figure replies. "I see you've made a friend."
"Static. This is Naomi Barrett. Naomi, this is Static."
"Pleased to meet you," Naomi says, her voice steadier than I expected, given the circumstances.
Static's digitally altered face shifts slightly, and I can almost imagine his actual wry expression beneath the pixelation. "Walker Cole reaching out after all these years. I'd say it's nice to hear from you, but experience tells me that if you’re making contact, something's gone catastrophically wrong." His electronically altered voice still carries that familiar dry humor. "Unless you just missed me? Or am I invited to the wedding?"
Naomi stiffens slightly beside me, her thigh pressing against mine in the cramped booth. I ignore the comment and give Static the bullet points of what’s happened. The encounter with Naomi in the woods, the fake marshals, the shoot-out, and finally, what Naomi discovered that put her in this situation. I keep it concise. We're exposed here, and while I don't see anyone clamoring to use the photo booth, there's no reason to linger.
"El Centinela?" Static echoes when I finish, his distorted image leaning closer to the camera.
"That's right," Naomi says. She shifts forward with renewed intensity. "A black site. It doesn't appear on any maps. I only found it through financial records that shouldn't have been accessible.”
"I'll find it." Static's modulated voice still conveys his certainty.
No doubt from him, and no doubt from me either. If Static says he'll find something, it's as good as found.
"I need to get a message to my coworker," Naomi adds.
This is the first I've heard about this.
