Chapter Two
Petra
In her fatigue, Petra swayed back and forth, her backpack hanging heavily from her shoulders. There were zero chairs available in the waiting area, but once seated on the plane, she reminded herself, it would be noise-canceling earmuffs, a blackout eye mask, and some much-anticipated sleep.
She looked around the room at the other passengers, many of whom had decided to wear pajamas for the flight. They must have the same strategy in mind.
With a glance at her phone, Petra realized it was only half an hour until loading. She slid a foil packet from her pocket, tore it open, and extracted the film with the medicated patch that helped with travel sickness. Peeling off the backing, Petra stuck it behind her ear, then squirted hand sanitizer on her hands and wiped them with a tissue.
Petra found the medication to be an overall boon to flying. It relieved any nausea; it took the edge off any unease during turbulence, and it did a great job keeping her just fuzzy enough—like a couple of cocktails without the inebriation and the day-after effects—to rest if not sleep – the whole way to her destination.
Just a few minutes more, an anxious moment of disorganization as people settled into their places, an announcement from the flight crew, and she’d be asleep.
That sounded so good.
On today’s flight, humanity would be packed in tightly. The attendant had already begged the travelers to come forward and let ground crew check in roller bags for free. There wasn’t going to be enough room in the cabin. If things weren’t sorted voluntarily, they’d just stop folks at the door.
Some people dragged their bags toward the desk.
Petra had learned long ago to keep two days of supplies in her backpack and send a prayer to the gods of flight that her suitcase arrived at the same time she did. But wrangling a roller bag onto a plane jumbled her nerves, and Petra didn’t like that sensation.
She hoped that even though she was in a bottom-scraper of a seat, there would be space in the overhead bin. In a window seat, she wouldn’t be able to wrangle the depth of her backpack properly under the seat in front of her.
Patting over her heavy winter coat—an absolute necessity for today’s Washington D.C. December weather, but something that she wouldn’t touch once she was down in St Croix with its steady daily temperatures in the mid-eighties—Petra was considering the deep pockets. Could she move items from the backpack so that she had a better chance of keeping her bag with her? She was loathe to hand it off to anyone since her laptop was stowed inside.
The attendant lifted the microphone to her mouth. It looked like she’d been dealing with peoples’ feelings all damned day long.
It was only eight thirty.
Petra braced for news about delays, but instead, she heard, “Hermione Armstrong, please see the desk attendant.”
Petra blinked.
It was unexpected that her legal name be called out—and Petra didn’t like it. It felt like a violation of privacy. She moved forward quickly lest the woman call her name a second time and maybe throw in her middle name like a child summoned to the principal’s office.
Was she getting bumped? Par for the damned course. If she were bumped, that would be her sign that she should go home and stay there with her cozy bed and new book.
“Hermione Armstrong?” the woman staffing the desk asked.
“That’s me.”
“We have an unusual situation. Your name was chosen for an upgrade. Your points allow us to upgrade you to our comfort designation with the added benefit of bulkhead space.” A little too cheerful, a little too smiley, this woman was trying to sell something to Petra.
As her mind sprinted around looking for a reason that an upgrade would need a sales pitch, the only thing Petra could land on was an article she read about a couple that had to fly next to a corpse because the man in their aisle seat had suddenly died on their flight.
Petra wasn’t down with anything like that. “Oh?”
“The person assigned that seat would like to switch because they don’t like dogs.”
“Dogs.” Petra’s gaze followed the attendant’s line of sight to a woman in a cat sweater. “Does she know where I was sitting? She’d prefer my seat?”
“She was informed that we upgraded by list and that she’d have to accept whatever seat was being vacated. And she said she prefers that.”
That seat would have been a claustrophobic squeeze for Petra and this woman…
Who knew? Maybe she liked the feeling of compression.
“This is the situation.” The staffer leaned forward, pulling her smile even wider. “We have four working dogs who are traveling to the island. The dogs need the extra room of the bulkhead. On the left-hand side, the dogs will sit in the bulkhead seats at A, B, and C. Their handlers will sit right behind them. On the right-hand side, there will be a handler in bulkhead seat D, a K9 in E, and the seat we are offering you is the window seat, F.”
“With the bulkhead space.” Images of the K9s at her base in Afghanistan came to mind. They were deadly dangerous. “What kind of working dog?” Petra glanced around, but only the hand-held-sized dogs were in view – the kind their owners could stow in a carrier under the seat, or hug to their chests for emotional support; like that chihuahua over there.
“The one in your row,” the staffer looked down at a piece of paper with a scrawl of illegible blue script, “is a German shepherd named Cooper.” She threw her shoulders back and nodded with emphasis that Petra read as pride. Or satisfaction? Patriotism? No, Petra couldn’t figure out what the woman was trying to convey with her body language.
For her part, the look on Petra’s face must not have read as enthusiastic because the staffer added, “You’ll receive free drinks and the upgraded meals and services of the comfort seat section.”
Before Petra could game out this change of events, she found herself saying, “It’s fine with me. I like dogs.” If nothing else, maybe she’d walk away with a good bar story, The time my flight to St. Croix went to the dogs.
“Thank you.” The staffer looked relieved. “You’ll board when we call for those who need assistance so you can get settled. The dogs and their handlers will load last.”
As the lady with the cat sweater mouthed “thank you” to her, Petra wasn’t sure the woman would feel the same by the time they got all the way down to St. Croix.
Stepping out of the way so more people could bring their rollies to get checked in, Petra found an empty spot to stand in by the window. There she watched the ground crew turn and stop their ant-like activity, focused on something just out of her view. Petra changed her angle until she saw the distraction.
Each of the four men, dressed in the easily recognizable Iniquus camo gray tactical uniform pants, topped with winter bomber jackets and visored caps, stood wide-legged with a K9 sitting at attention between their feet.
Something about the team—the level of calm and orderliness around them—made her yearn to have that, too.
A well-trained dog and an orderly man would be nice additions to her life. Petra felt a bit like a child looking at the glossy tarts in the bakery window, hungry for that kind of connection.
Up until now, Petra’s job had been crazy hours and crazier assignments. She wasn’t sufficiently reliable to have any kind of relationship that included someone who depended on her—not a pet, not a romance, not even a plant.
People often talked about the boredom of schedules and routines. Petra craved it.
You always want what you don’t have. The grass is always greener.
But in her case, Petra believed she’d shoveled enough shit in her day to properly fertilize that greener pasture. And she was looking forward to a slower, more reasonable way of life now that she had her own research lab at the FBI.
Petra had high hopes that things were about to change. She liked the idea of setting her roots in one place, with a routine and the work-life balance that made a more rounded existence possible.
When her phone buzzed, she pulled it from her pocket, Avery Goodyear. Petra might not have a dog or a man in her life, but she did have good friends.
Avery: Rowan told me about your new position! Congratulations! I’m taking you out to celebrate. When are you free?
Yup, with her spanking new title and her own research lab, she did feel like a celebration was in order. But right now, Petra was more interested in the Iniquus operators below her, so she tapped to make a phone call just as a jet took off with a woosh of noise.
“Good morning.” After a pause, Avery asked, “Are you at the airport? I thought that was over.”
“For work, it is. This is personal. I’m flying down to St. Croix.”
“Good that you’re getting out of this weather mess. I’m surprised the airlines aren’t delaying your flight.”
“Shhh. We do not speak such things into existence.”
While Avery chuckled. Petra added. “I’m looking at a group of men from Iniquus. You and Rowan are friends with a bunch of people from there, aren’t you?”
“It’s a big place with lots of people,” Avery said.
“Yeah. I know. But these guys are wearing operator uniforms. I’m sending you a photo.” Petra did her best to get a clear shot then tapped the send button. “It’s a bunch of their dog people who will be on my plane. Do you recognize any of them? Got any scuttlebutt?”
“Okay, let’s see.” There was a pause as Avery looked at the picture. “I can’t make out the guys with their hats pulled down like that, but I know two of the dogs. First, that blue logo on their coat means they’re on Iniquus’s Cerberus Tactical K9 Team. But I’m sure you already figured that out since dogs … Okay, the Malinois on the right is Max. His handler would be Halo St. John. He’s an ex-Australia Commando.”
“Australian, huh?”
“Down, girl. He went off on assignment with Panther Force and came back engaged,” Avery said. “They were married three weeks later. That happened just recently, too. Like October, maybe? You missed the window of opportunity.”
“Wow, whirlwind.”
“When you know, you know,” Avery countered. “You know?”
“Obviously, I do not. Okay, and the other one that you recognize?”
“Cooper is the German shepherd closest to you.”
“Okay, he’s the one I wanted to know about,” Petra said. “The staffer said Cooper would be sitting next to me on the plane. Who’s his handler? Her handler?”
“ His handler goes by ‘Hawkeye.’ I don’t know him very well. He’s new to the area, new to Team Charlie. He did some time in the field with Strike Force and then Panther Force—that’s how I first met him at a Panther Force cookout when he got that assignment. Then, I did some brainstorming work with their team. Yeah, nice guy. I’ve enjoyed talking to him the few times we’ve ended up in the same room. He seems interested in everything, able to discuss anything. Quick thinking. Kind. And,” she put a lilt into this last part. “I know he’s single.”
“I can almost hear your eyebrows popping. I’m not looking for a date. Especially today.”
“Why? What’s going on today?” Avery asked.
“Oh, nothing really, just I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
Avery sighed. “Yeah, I hate days like that. So, you’re at the airport. Where are you headed? Did you say St. Croix? When will you be back? Who are you with?”
“Me alone. Tamika was supposed to come, but that’s a whole story I’ll tell you when I get back. So yeah, St. Croix for a couple of days. I’ll be home Monday night.”
The staffer brought the mic too close to her mouth, so her words were garbled when she announced, “We are preparing for our direct flight to St. Croix. Families with young children or those needing extra time or assistance may board now.”
Petra started walking toward the ramp. “They told me to load with those needing extra assistance, so I was settled when the dogs got on.”
“How fun is that?” Avery asked.
“We shall see. Got to go. I’ll call you with my report about how it went flying next to Cooper for seven hours.”
As she slid her phone into her pocket, Petra felt the eyes of the room following her toward the ticket taker.
It made sense. After all, Petra always looked over to see who needed extra help. Why was this her habit? She had no idea. Cute babies, sure. Maybe to know who might need her if things took a bad turn.
But here she was, walking up the aisle without a babe in arms, looking physically fit and capable. As she moved, she could feel the eyes of the room tracking her with what felt like a smidge of hostility.
With her PhD in brain security that included a hefty look into social media psychology, Petra could admit she was a tiny bit paranoid that someone would video her and slap it up on some site with running commentary, “Look at this chick who wanted special privileges. Does she look like there’s a need? #princess #thinksshesspecial #doyouknowher? We heard her name called out; it’s Hermione Armstrong. Social media, do your thing!”
And just like that, the Internet could ruin a life.