"I'll tell them I'm transporting you to a secure facility for erasure. Buy us time before they realize I've gone dark."
He's quiet for a moment, those dark eyes searching my face. "You're giving up everything. Your position. Your cover. Everything you've built."
"Yes."
"For me."
"For us. For the investigation. For the children in those facilities who don't have anyone else fighting for them." I brush my thumb across his cheekbone. "But mostly for you. Yes."
He kisses me. Soft at first, then harder, his hands fisting in my shirt.
"Okay," he says when he pulls back. "Let's go commit treason."
"That's the spirit."
The private airfield is forty minutes outside the city, hidden behind a facade of agricultural warehouses. Jace's contact meets us at the gate, checks credentials that don't officially exist, and waves us through without a second glance.
The jet is sleek, unmarked, the kind of aircraft that rich people use to avoid the inconvenience of commercial travel. I've been on dozens of them over the years, always for work, always focused on the mission ahead.
This is the first time I've boarded one as a fugitive.
Jonah whistles as we climb the stairs. "Nice. Very supervillain chic. Does it come with a white cat and a swivel chair?"
"Just leather seats and a fully stocked bar."
"Even better." He drops into one of the seats, stretching out his legs. "I could get used to this whole 'running from shadowy organizations in luxury' thing."
"Don't get too comfortable. We're not on vacation."
"You're no fun." He pats the seat next to him. "Come sit. You've been tense since we left the apartment."
"I'm always tense."
"More tense than usual. Which is saying something, because your baseline tension level is somewhere around 'coiled spring about to murder someone.'"
I sit beside him. The cabin is small but private, separated from the cockpit by a closed door. The engines hum to life as the pilot begins taxi procedures.
"Better," Jonah says. "Now relax. We have hours until Geneva, and if you spend the whole flight clenching your jaw like that, you're going to crack a tooth."
"I don't know how to relax."
"I've noticed." He reaches over, takes my hand, laces our fingers together. "Try. For me."
The jet accelerates down the runway and lifts off. I watch the city shrink below us, watch the life I've built for thirty years fall away into clouds and distance.
An hour into the flight, Jonah gets bored.
I can tell because he starts fidgeting. Tapping his fingers on the armrest. Bouncing his knee. Looking around the cabin like a flighty bird. He picks up a magazine, flips through it, tosses it aside. Examines the bar but doesn't pour anything. Presses his face against the window like a child, watching the clouds.
"We're above the cloud layer," he announces. "It looks like cotton candy. Murderous, atmosphere-level cotton candy."
"Fascinating."
"You're not even looking."
"I've seen clouds before."
"You've seen everything before. That's your whole personality. 'I'm Jagger Harrison, and I've seen it all, and nothing impresses me because I'm dead inside.'" He affects a deep voice for the impression. It's not accurate.
