The sharp squeak of rubber-soled shoes against linoleum cut through the library's hushed atmosphere. My head lifted fractionally at the sound, tracking its source without appearing to look directly. A middle-aged woman with steel-gray hair cut in a precise bob approached from the reference desk, glasses hanging from a beaded chain around her neck. Her cardigan—navy blue with pearl buttons—and sensible shoes marked her as staff rather than security, but the purposeful line of her mouth concerned me more than any uniform. She was heading straight for our terminal, her eyes narrowing with the particular focus of someone who has spotted something out of place.
I shifted my weight imperceptibly, preparing to move. The woman's gait was unhurried but determined, each footstep a soft squeak against the polished floor. My assessment was immediate and automatic—late fifties, no obvious physical training, likely unarmed except perhaps for pepper spray on her keychain, but her hand was already drifting toward the phone clipped to her belt. Far more dangerous than her physical presence was what a single call from her could summon.
I tapped Matt's shoulder twice—our prearranged signal for approaching threat. His response was immediate, though nothing in his posture betrayed alarm. Without breaking rhythm in his typing, he minimized Collins' files and inserted a flash drive into the USB port.
"Starting transfer," he murmured, his voice barely audible as his fingers initiated the copying process. A progress bar appeared on screen—15% complete and crawling forward with excruciating slowness.
The librarian was thirty feet away now, her path taking her between computer stations, gaze focused on our corner. She'd removed the glasses from around her neck and perched them on her nose, squinting slightly as she looked in our direction. The recognition hadn't happened yet, but it was coming—I could see the process beginning as her brow furrowed, mental connections forming.
"Library security protocols," I whispered to Matt. "She'll check ID first before making accusations. Standard procedure gives us approximately forty-five seconds from initial contact."
Matt nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes fixed on the progress bar: 27%.
I moved from my position against the wall, deliberately placing myself between the approaching librarian and Matt's screen. The transfer needed another minute at least—time we might not have once recognition sparked. I adjusted my baseball cap lower, though I knew the gesture was likely futile. My face had been plastered across every news outlet in Florida for days; the cap was camouflage at a distance but wouldn't withstand scrutiny.
The librarian stopped three feet away, close enough that I could smell her light floral perfume and see the Tampa Public Library name badge pinned to her cardigan: HEAD LIBRARIAN in block letters beneath the library logo.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice carrying the practiced quiet of someone who had spent decades in hushed spaces. "I need to see some identification, please." Her eyes moved between Matt and me, settling more intently on my face with each passing second.
I shifted my stance, angling my body to block her view of the screen where the progress bar had reached 42%. Every microsecond mattered now.
"Identification?" I repeated, injecting confusion and slight indignation into my tone while keeping my voice low. "We're just doing some research for a family project."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting as she studied my face more carefully. "I believe all patrons were informed upon entry that ID is required for computer use." Her gaze drifted toward the screen, but I subtly shifted again, maintaining the visual barrier.
"My husband has his license," I said, nodding toward Matt without taking my eyes off her. I could see the moment recognition began to crystallize—the slight widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips, the small step backward she took unconsciously. She knew who I was now.
"You're—" she began, her hand moving decisively toward the phone at her belt.
I didn't let her finish. "We'll be going now," I said calmly, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "No need to call anyone."
Matt's subtle head tilt told me the transfer had completed. He ejected the flash drive and pocketed it in one smooth motion, then closed the browser and cleared the history with three precise keystrokes. We had seconds at most before the librarian recovered from her shock.
"You're that FBI agent," she said, voice rising slightly above appropriate library volume. "The one who?—"
"Ma'am, please step aside," I interrupted, my tone firm but notthreatening. The last thing we needed was to create a scene that would draw immediate attention.
Her hand had reached the phone now, fingers curling around it as she took another step back. "I need to call security," she announced, louder now.
Matt stood, gathering our minimal belongings with calm efficiency. We moved in tandem, stepping away from the terminal in perfect synchronization born from days on the run together. The librarian's voice rose behind us—"Stop right there!"—but we were already moving through the stacks, our pace deliberate rather than panicked.
"Don't run," I murmured to Matt as we navigated between shelves of reference materials. "Running draws attention. Walk with purpose."
He nodded, matching my stride as we wound through the library's labyrinthine arrangement of bookcases. Behind us, I could hear the librarian on her phone, her urgent whispers carrying in the quiet space. Other patrons had begun to look up from their books and computers, curiosity drawing their attention to the commotion.
We reached the non-fiction section, where I'd noted a side exit during our arrival. Standard library security protocol would focus on covering the main entrances first, leaving secondary exits vulnerable for precious extra seconds. The door—marked EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY—would trigger an alarm when opened, but by then we'd be moving through the adjacent courtyard.
"Security's coming from the main entrance," Matt observed quietly, nodding toward the front of the library where two uniformed guards had appeared, scanning the space with practiced efficiency.
"Ten seconds," I responded, maintaining our measured pace through the American History section. We reached the emergency door just as one of the guards spotted us, his hand moving to the radio at his shoulder as he pointed in our direction.
Matt pushed the door open, and the alarm immediately blared through the previously hushed library. Bright afternoon sunlight momentarily blinded me as we stepped into the courtyard, but I'dmemorized the layout when we arrived—fifteen steps to the wrought iron fence with the broken section, then across Palmetto Street to the alley where we'd left our latest "borrowed" vehicle.
We moved with controlled urgency, not the panicked flight of the guilty but the strategic withdrawal of trained operatives. Behind us, voices shouted orders as the security team organized pursuit. Too late. We slipped through the gap in the fence and crossed the street, blending into a group of college students waiting at the crosswalk.
Matt's hand found mine, his fingers warm as they closed around my cold ones.
"She recognized me immediately," I said as we reached the alley, our pace never faltering despite the sounds of pursuit fading behind us. "Our window for moving freely in public is closing fast."
