Winter narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve got your own box reserved for your people at the Warcross concert, right?”
“Always.”
Tems nodded. “Then extend invitations to the entire Singaporean cabinet. It should go over well—I heard that the CEO has already invited the prime minister and the president. I’m sure Emika Chen would approve the cabinet. Tell her it’s a sign of your gratitude to the government for your visit. Can you do that in time for tomorrow night?”
Winter was quiet before he nodded.
Tems looked back at Sydney. “Will you be in that box during the concert?”
Sydney sighed and rubbed her temples. This mission had gone wildly off the rails within their first hour of arrival. “Yes,” she replied. “Other security will be scattered down with the crowd.” She glanced at Winter. “But the box will have the best views of the scene from above. If I’m stationed there as your personal bodyguard, I can keep a better eye on you.”
“What if we come out empty-handed?” Winter said.
“Then we’ve failed,” Tems said simply, “and the president dies. But no pressure.”
Winter looked at Sydney, and she wanted to bury her face in her hands. This was going to be even worse than London.
Tems’s grave expression wavered at their silence, and a wicked smile spread across his face. “Is that you both agreeing?”
Sydney glared at him. “This would be so much easier if it wasn’t you,” she replied.
“As in, you’re more personally invested because of me?” Tems asked.
“As in, I dislike you enough that I’m considering sacrificing the security of the entire world just to drag you home, instead of going through with your absurd plan.”
“Well,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. “The world’s stability hangs on it, so take your time.”
Some people never changed. Sydney glared at him, knowing full well what her answer would be. He knew it, too, and the satisfaction on his face was almost more than she could bear.
We both know we make a good team, sweetheart.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Fine,” Winter echoed, his voice just as tight.
“Fine,” Tems said with a smile. He straightened in his seat and clapped his hands together, as if they’d just had the most congenial conversation. “Our fun begins tomorrow.”
11Haunted Pasts
Even at night, humidity hung in the air.
Winter didn’t mind it much—in the darkness, the moisture felt good on his skin, and warm breezes combed through his hair as he leaned against his balcony to admire the city beyond the ink-black bay, a seemingly endless expanse of glittering skyscrapers and curving freeways.
It was long past midnight, and Gavi was already asleep in her bed, but Winter’s jet lag still hadn’t worn off, and Tems’s bargain with them hadn’t helped stop his mind from whirling. So he found himself out here instead, on a video call with his mother.
This time, at least, she was back in her apartment, and she’d picked up after the first two rings. Winter tapped an option on his screen that broadcast her as a three-dimensional figure from his phone, then set the phone down on the balcony’s wide ledge. The image of his mother hovered beside him, as if she were really there.
“I caught up on the news about your book,” she said to him. “I’m sorry, baby bear.”
She looked healthy today, he thought with relief—her hair was tidily braided over one of her shoulders, and her eyes looked alert, not lost in grief or desperate for distraction.
Winter shrugged and looked out at the city lights. “It’s not my book,” he said. “But thank you.”
“Xiàn zaìzai na? Back in LA?”
He gave her a polite smile and shook his head. “Singapore.”
