I move carefully, easing out of bed, dressing in the dark. The motions are automatic and practiced. I check my watch. Time is already slipping.
Kate shifts slightly, murmurs something I can’t quite make out, and rolls onto her side.
I gather my gear, pause once at the door, and try to let myself feel the weight of what I’m walking away from, but there’s no regret or doubt. The mission isn’t finished. Yusuf Aden Barre is still breathing, and every second I spend here is a second closer to failure.
I open the door quietly and step back into the night, sealing the emotional door behind me as firmly as the physical one.
Time to carry out my mission.
9
KATE
My hand slides across cool sheets and stops short, fingers curling into nothing. For a moment, I stay still, eyes closed, hoping my body is lying to me, that if I just wait long enough, he’ll be there—warm and solid, like he was when I fell asleep.He isn’t.
The room is quiet in a way that feels wrong. Light filters through the curtains, cutting across the unfamiliar ceiling. I blink a few times, orienting myself, my pulse already ticking too fast for someone who just woke up.
I’m in James’s room. The bed still smells faintly like him—soap, clean fabric, something deeper underneath that I can’t name butrecognize anyway. I sit up slowly, the unease arriving before any coherent thought does.
He probably just stepped out. That’s what I tell myself as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the cool floor. But that hope dies when I glance at the bedside table and see nothing there—no note, no scribble on hotel stationery, no hastily written explanation. Not even a polite,Had to run. See you later.
My chest tightens as I get off the bed and move through the room on autopilot, collecting my clothes, dressing without really seeing myself. This is stupid, I think as I pull my hair back. I knew what this was. I didn’t expect anything, and that’s true.Mostly.
I shake my head, annoyed at myself, and leave his room. He’s a grown man, and he doesn’t owe me explanations. We’re here to work, not—whatever last night was.
I make it back to my room on autopilot, fingers numb as I swipe the keycard, the door clicking shut behind me with finality. Inside, the quiet presses in as I head straight for the bathroom, shedding my dress along the way like I’m peeling off evidence. The shower heats quickly, steam filling the small space. I step under the spray, bracing my palms against the tiled wall as the water cascades over me.
That’s when the memory hits me in fragments. The way his hand settled at my waist on the dance floor, pulling me out of discomfort and into something steady. The way the rest of the room faded until it was just us moving together. The way hispresence had wrapped around me like a promise he never spoke out loud.
I tilt my head, watching the water trail over the marks he left behind, a strange mix of comfort and unease curling in my chest. He was real, last night happened, and whatever this morning is, whatever this feeling is, it doesn’t erase that.
I finish showering slowly, as if lingering might bring clarity with it, but it doesn’t. When I dress, I choose my clothes carefully again—professional, composed, armor in fabric form. I smooth my hair, school my expression in the mirror, and try to convince myself that I can compartmentalize this the way I always do.
I run into Addison near the elevators, coffee in hand, already awake and annoyingly functional. Relief loosens something in my chest the moment I see her. At least one thing in this place feels familiar.
“Morning,” she greets brightly. “You look like you lost a fight with a very comfortable bed.”
“Something like that,” I mutter.
Her eyes flick over me, sharp and observant. “You okay?”
I hesitate for just a beat before asking, “Have you seen James?”
She doesn’t even pause. “Nope. Probably already downstairs, or out early taking pictures. You know, sightseeing.”
I nod, even though that answer doesn’t sit right. He didn’t strike me as theearly morning stroll through Mogadishutype. Or the sightseeing type at all.
“This is not the time or place for sightseeing,” I mumble, the words echoing in my head with surprising clarity.
Addison takes a sip of her coffee. “We’ve got a little time before the meeting anyway. If he’s not back by then, we’ll worry.”
I force a small smile and follow her toward the elevators, telling myself to focus. To ground myself in what I can control. Today, being the last day, matters. Whatever is happening with James—whatever this unease is—I can deal with it later.
Downstairs, the lobby is already buzzing with activity. Journalists cluster near the entrance, security moving with that particular brand of alert efficiency that tells me everyone knows today matters. The air humming with anticipation.
I scan the room without meaning to, but there is no sign of James.
Addison catches the movement and grins slowly. “Looking for someone?”
