"People like us?" She raises an eyebrow, and I catch a hint of that almost smile I'm beginning to crave.
"Fugitives," I clarify, though I have no doubt she’s amusedthat an angel like her and a beast like me would have anything in common.
"We won’t be anywhere near security," she points out. "We’ll find Matt in the parking structure, right?"
Matt. The name grates on me. I don’t want to explore why.
"Yeah, but every square inch of that place is monitored," I say. "And if these people are what you say, they'll have access to those systems."
Naomi shifts in her seat, turning toward me. "Do you think I'm lying?"
"No," I answer immediately. "I'm just not convinced this guy can be trusted."
She furrows her brow. "I've worked with him for three years. He’s one of the good ones."
“No offense, Naomi, but you thought there were a lot more good ones in your agency before you crossed them.”
The fading sunlight catches her face just right, highlighting what I've been trying not to stare at since she got into my truck. She looks away, but not before I catch something in her expression that makes my chest tighten.
“I trust him.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have any other options.”
I nod through a long silence. "Then we'll make it work.”
Denver's skyline appears in the distance, the airport's distinctive white peaks rising against the darkening sky. My instincts continue to scream at me to turn around.
"Tell me about your partner." I mean partner in the professional sense. But it comes out like it’s the personal kind.
"He's not my partner. CIA analysts don't have partners.But he’s a good man." She turns her body toward me. "CIA is like a lot of workplaces, I imagine. Some are just getting a paycheck. Some are just good at what they do. But he’s like me. He wants to make a difference.”
"I hope you're right. Because if he doesn't turn us in, you're making him an accessory."
"Not if your friend did his job. You trust your guy. I trust mine." I still don't like any of it. Especially referring to him as "her guy."
But if this is going to happen the "right" way—the way Naomi, the good tax-paying, loyal government employee, wants it to happen, for the justice system to actually provide some justice—we do need Matthew Spencer.
Because otherwise, all that would be left is my way.
Escape.
Or a whole lot of death.
I guide the truck onto the airport access road as the evening traffic thickens around us. It’s a perfect camouflage, except for the eyes watching through digital lenses.
"When's his flight get in?" I ask, checking the rearview mirror for the third time in thirty seconds.
"Eight forty-five," Naomi says, checking the truck clock. "We have about ten minutes."
"All right. If you trust him, make me trust him. Tell me more," I say, keeping my eyes on the road.
She shifts in her seat. "He's brilliant. Graduated at the top of his class at Georgetown. Could've gone to the private sector and made millions, but he wanted to serve."
Of course he did. Probably looks like he stepped out of a recruitment poster, too.
"He's the one who taught me how to follow money trails. When things started getting weird with what I found, he encouraged me to keep digging."
