RYDER
The heat hits first. It seeps in through the seams of the plane the moment the doors open—thick and immediate—carrying dust, fuel, and something metallic underneath it all. Mogadishu doesn’t ease you in; it announces itself, loud, chaotic, and alive in a way that feels hostile if you’re not prepared for it.
But I’m prepared. I step off the plane with the rest of the passengers, posture loose but alert, senses already cataloging everything at once. The tarmac is crowded, noisy, ringed with armed men who look bored in the way only people accustomed to violence ever do. This place runs on vigilance and luck, and luck is not something I rely on.
I scan exits, distances, lines of sight, and then I register her. Kate. I don’t look directly at her. I don’t need to, because awareness doesn’t require eye contact. She’s close enough that I feel the shift in air when she moves, the subtle disruption in the crowd that marks her presence in my peripheral vision.
I don’t like it.
This wasn’t part of the plan. I’d already adjusted for coincidence once; the bar rooftop was an anomaly, an overlap that should never have happened. Mogadishu confirms what I don’t want to acknowledge: proximity to her increases risk.
When I received their portfolios yesterday, I almost turned down the job, but that would have raised too many questions with my handler. And besides, this is a problem I created by failing to deliver the first time, and I need to clean up my mess.
I keep my gaze forward, expression neutral, and move with the flow of people toward the terminal.
Addison is exactly what I expected—energized, animated, eyes wide with curiosity instead of caution. She takes in the chaos like it’s fuel. She thrives in environments like this. I clock her immediately as someone who doesn’t understand how close danger always is here, only that she’s willing to step toward it anyway.
Kate is different. She’s quieter, more contained, but there’s tension in her shoulders, awareness in the way her eyes track movement without lingering. She’s nervous, but doing her bestto stay calm, and that alone tells me she’s more capable than she looks.
Still not my problem.
The terminal is a crush of bodies and sound—languages overlap, voices rise and fall, and somewhere nearby, a child cries, sharp and cutting through the noise. I sweep the area again, slower this time, mapping faces, noting who’s armed and who’s pretending not to be.
I stay slightly behind them, maintaining distance without making it obvious. I need to stick to my role as a photographer, a forgettable civilian, and I remind myself as much as we collect our bags. I do not look at her or acknowledge the night that exists between us like a fault line.
The chauffeur finds us near the exit—a local man in his forties, posture respectful, eyes alert. He holds up a sign with the media house’s logo, pronunciation careful when he confirms names. I vet him as safe because the way he scans the crowd tells me he knows where he is.
I step aside as they greet him, letting Addison take the lead. Kate hangs back half a step, fingers tight around the strap of her bag. She glances at me once, quick and uncertain, but I don’t react. I ignored her for most of the flight, and I plan to do the same for the duration of this trip. What happened that night cannot happen again.
We move toward the vehicle together, and I position myself automatically in the rear seat, right side, where I can see the most without being obvious. Old habits surface easily here, and this environment pulls them out of me without resistance. Addison takes the front passenger seat, leaving Kate to sit next to me. I feel the heat radiating off her, how her scent—sweet and familiar—invades my senses, but I do my best to block it all out.
The doors close, lock clicks, and only then do I allow myself a measured breath. I am not enthusiastic about this arrangement, about seeing her again, or the way coincidence keeps forcing our paths to cross. I know better than to believe in fate. This is probability misbehaving, and I need to be careful.
Very careful.
The car pulls away from the airport, swallowed by traffic that obeys rules only when it feels like it. The car merges into traffic with a confidence that borders on defiance. Horns blare constantly, not in anger but as punctuation—a language all its own. Lanes exist in theory more than practice, motorbikes weave through gaps that shouldn’t be possible, while pedestrians step into the road like they trust the chaos to part around them. Our driver takes a route that avoids congestion without detouring into anything too quiet, and that tells me he’s experienced.
Addison chatters in the front seat, asking questions about landmarks, the city, and what’s changed since the last time she was here. The driver answers politely, cautiously, offering enough information to be helpful without oversharing.
Then Kate speaks. She leans forward slightly, her voice calm, and addresses him in fluent Somali. The driver’s posture changes immediately—his shoulders loosen, expression warms—and he answers her easily, conversationally, like he’s speaking to someone who belongs in the language instead of borrowing it.
Everything in me stills. I understand Arabic; Somali shares roots, rhythms I recognize, but it’s not mine. I catch fragments—place names, casual phrasing, a joke I don’t fully grasp but understand enough to know itisone.
Kate laughs softly, and something in my chest tightens before I can stop it. This isn’t the careful, mechanical tone people use when translating. She’s not filtering her thoughts through grammar rules; she’stalking, engaging, and existing in the language like it’s second nature.
I hadn’t categorized her this way, and I don’t like recalibrating mid-mission. I glance at her reflection in the glass without turning my head. She looks more at ease now than she did at the airport. Now this is the chatterbox I remember from the rooftop.
Addison watches the exchange with delight. She glances at me. “Isn’t she brilliant?”
I don’t respond, but deep down I agree with her.
The car slows briefly at a checkpoint. Armed men approach, eyes sharp, fingers loose near triggers. The driver lowers his window and speaks quickly—deferential but not afraid. Kate stays quiet now, gaze forward, posture still. She has good instincts.
The guards wave us through without a hiccup.
After a few more twists and turns, the hotel appears ahead—concrete and glass rising out of the city like a guarded promise. I assess it immediately—perimeter, entrances, windows. It’s not perfect, but it’s workable. It’s the same compromise everything else here is—concrete reinforced with intention, glass thick enough to stop small arms fire, security visible enough to deter opportunists but not so aggressive it draws attention. It’s the kind of place that pretends neutrality while knowing exactly why its guests are here.
The driver pulls into the secured entrance, and I straighten slightly, already shifting gears.
