Page 103
Of course. That’s a normal threat in our line of work.
But it’s different, with her here.
It actually scares me.
"It will take at least twenty-four hours for anyone," I say.
She shakes her head. "You knew where I was."
That’s different. I’ve been following her the same way she’s been following me. "The last video I sent had tracking virus in it.”
"Bastard," she says, joy in her voice.
For a long moment, she’s in that place where she delights in me outplaying her, but that’s short lived. She blinks and she’s back to the reality of our situation.
"Is your handler tracking you?” I ask.
"No.”
And I left her phone at his place. Unless she’s got a chip in her arm, she’s safe.
Mine is in a faraday cage.
But nothing is foolproof.
Better to assume our bosses can figure out where we are.
Still, we have a few things in our favor. “I picked this place for a reason. There’s no cell service here. Only satellite phones.”
“Wi-Fi?” she asks.
I shake my head.
She smiles. “How am I going to fall asleep if I can’t stream Netflix?”
“What are you watching at home?” I ask.
She launches into her latest show. A crime drama from the aughts. She goes on about the merits of its female characters (they’re well done, but they could use more screentime) for a few minutes. Her eyes light up. Her body relaxes. Then she finishes and settles back into the space here.
She looks up at me from her spot on the couch, her blue eyes hazy with the confusion of earlier. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Because I love her.
It’s really that simple.
For a long time, I tried to deny it, but it’s clear as day.
Every molecule of my body is screaming to comfort her. Hold her in my arms. Breathe in her scent. Do whatever it takes to make the hurt go away.
My eyes meet hers.
She sees it too. It’s all over her face.
But I give her a different answer. “PTSD is part of the job.”
She nods, accepting the answer, but not necessarily buying it.
“Why don’t you take the bedroom and rest for awhile?” I ask.
