Chapter 37
Airports are built to dissolve people.
Too much glass, too many reflective surfaces, too many signs pointing in slightly different directions so that no one ever feels fully certain they’re going the right way.
Everyone moves fast while accomplishing very little, dragging roller bags and clutching coffee cups like talismans against panic.
It's chaos disguised as order, and it works because no one wants to admit how lost they are.
Which makes it an excellent place to disappear.
As long as you’re not wearing the uniform of an airline employee who just hijacked a plane.
“We need to change,” Alejandro declares, already shepherding me toward a clothing store with his change in course.
“No shit,” I mutter, eyes sweeping the open floor like I expect armed security to rappel through the skylight.
Everything is neutral and polished, racks arranged with military precision, lighting engineered to make you forget what time zone you’re in. The red of my steward uniform looks obscene against it, loud and unmistakable. His captain’s jacket is no better.
We may as well be wearing warning flares.
I don’t bother being selective. Black jeans, a white tank, clean socks. Clothes meant to be forgettable. I scoop them into my arms and duck into a dressing room, kicking the door shut behind me before Alejandro even chooses between which fit of jeans he’s going with.
My backpack hits the bench and the laptop comes out first.
I flip it open, connect to the store’s network, and watch the indicators roll green. No lag. No interference. No digital hands reaching for me yet. My pulse doesn’t slow anyway.
I text Grim.
SAINT: It’s on. We’re moving.
Send.
The uniform comes off fast, practiced, rolled up and tossed in the corner.
The heels are kicked off next. The mirror reflects a version of me that looks wrong without the hat, hair finger-coiled into place, lipstick still perfect like I didn’t just help nearly turn an international flight into a crime scene.
I’ve got to get rid of that. Taking the uniform again, I wipe the lipstick off like it’s offended me.
My phone stays stubbornly silent.
I pull the jeans on, tug the shirt over my head. My boots wait by the door. I glance at the phone again.
Nothing.
Alejandro finishes before I do. I hear his steps stop just outside the dressing room.
“Saint,” he says quietly. “You good?”
“Almost.”
I text Grim again.
SAINT: Inside the terminal. Need to move.
Still nothing.
I run a quick network check again, more out of superstition than necessity. Everything remains clean, which somehow makes my skin crawl more. Silence is never neutral.
“You need help with your fucking zipper or something?” Alejandro asks. “Because we really should go.”
“I’m fixing my hair.”
“That is not a priority.”
I yank open the door, hiding my body behind it like I’m still dressing. “The last man that fucked with my hair is dead. You wanna be next?” I shut the door before he can answer. All I get from the other side is a frustrated huff.
I stare at the laptop, my reflection ghosted in the dark screen, warped by the dim light of the dressing room. It has been useful. More than that. It’s been my advantage, the thing that let me stay three steps ahead while everyone else chased shadows.
But Grim isn’t answering.
That’s the problem.
He should have answered by now. Even a single word. Even a curse. Silence from Grim is never neutral. It means he’s busy, compromised, or cutting a line on purpose, and none of those options end well for the person still holding the data.
If this machine falls into the wrong hands, it won’t just tell them what we know. It’ll tell them who to burn.
And Alejandro won’t wait forever out there.
I can already feel the clock tightening, the thin thread of patience he’s holding snapping closer to the end. He’ll come in if I take too long. He’ll push. He’ll force movement. And once that happens, this stops being my decision.
I glance at the flip phone on the bench, willing it to light up, to vibrate, to give me anything at all. A single message would be enough. One word to justify keeping this alive.
Still, nothing.
Fine.
I look back at the laptop. This thing has become a liability, not because it exists, but because I’m the only one still listening to it. Too traceable. Too valuable.
The decision lands clean and hard.
I wipe it.
Factory reset. Full overwrite. No shortcuts.
The progress bar appears, creeping forward like it has all the time in the world.
I send one more message to Grim.
SAINT: Wiping now. Leaving immediately.
The bar crawls past twenty percent, then thirty. I pull my boots on while it works, fingers moving faster than the machine ever will to fluff my hair out. Make it look like I’ve actually been doing something in here.
A knock hits the door. Sharp.
“Saint.”
“Boots,” I call back evenly. “One second.”
Sixty percent.
Seventy.
Every nerve in my body hums. This is the danger zone, the space between action and consequence where everything can still go wrong.
“Fuck, Saint.” Another knock, harder this time. “We need to leave.”
“I know.”
Ninety percent.
Ninety-five.
The bar stalls at ninety-nine.
Son of a goddamn bitch. Of course it does.
I stare at the sliver of empty space like I can will it to fill. One second passes. Then another. The laptop fan kicks up, whining in protest and I’m afraid he’ll hear it.
“Saint,” Alejandro says, his voice tight now.
“Almost.”
“If you don’t come out in five seconds, I’m coming in.”
Four.
Three.
Two.
The progress bar completes.
I snap the laptop shut, yank the battery free, and shove both under the red pile of the stolen uniform. I straighten and pull my backpack on.
“Hold your fucking horses,” I say, steady as stone, ripping the door open before Alejandro knocks again. I’m holding an armful of red fabric, bundled tight against my chest.
“Hold this,” I say, shoving my bag into his hands. “I need to toss these.”
He takes it automatically, eyes flicking down the corridor. “Make it fast.”
I move to the trash can near the registers and dump the uniform. The laptop follows, wrapped but still making a heavier sound than fabric should when it hits plastic.
My shoulders tense.
Alejandro doesn’t notice. He’s too busy watching the exits.
“I need my jacket,” I say, battery hidden behind my forearm.
I pull it from the bag, shrug into the leather, making sure the battery is concealed up my sleeve, cold and solid against my skin. We step out together, unhurried, blending into the current of travelers flowing past.
A few yards later, I shift the battery down into my pocket.
A guard stands in the middle of a cross-section, boots planted wide, eyes scanning. They land on me and linger.
One beat too long for me to be comfortable with.
I don’t react. I don’t rush. I don’t look away quickly. Instead, I let my eyes lazily move to another face, like I’m people-watching during my trek through the airport.
Boots pound in front of us.
A squad of guards runs toward us, focused and fast. My shoulder tense and I hold my grip around the battery tighter. My hold on my backpack strap also tightening. But they rush past, not sparing us a glance.
Alejandro exhales through his nose. “Well, that’ll wake you up in the morning.”
But we may not be out of the clear yet. Not if someone reported a mysterious laptop thrown in a trashcan.
I glance back. The guards sprint past the store, past the trash, past my discarded problems. For now.
It takes a train and several moving sidewalks to reach baggage claim and the exits.
A surge of travelers’ floods around us, rolling bags clipping ankles, shoulders bumping. Someone slams a suitcase into my heel and curses.
I use the moment.
“Watch it.” The battery slips from my pocket into the nearest trash can, swallowed by paper cups and boarding passes.
Alejandro misses it, too busy glaring after the man who clipped his shoulder. “Asshole.” He gives one more glare before putting his shades on as we walk through double sliding doors.
Outside, the air feels sharper, cleaner, like freedom pretending it doesn’t have strings attached.
Alejandro scans the parking structure. “That one.”
A dark sedan. Mid-size. Invisible.
I’m at the driver’s door before he finishes speaking, multitool already out. The lock pops, and I’m at the steering wheel while Alejandro stands behind, blocking any passersby.
The engine turns over smoothly.
Alejandro pulls up a map on his phone. “I’ll drive.”
He slides into the driver’s seat without asking and pulls his phone up on the console. The map is already open. A route already drawn.
I don’t remember him entering a destination.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He doesn’t look at me. “Where Hartley will be.”
I squint at the screen, then at him. “That’s not the summit.”
“It’s the Atlas Complex,” he says, glancing at his watch like the timing matters. “Keynote speakers have a brunch with contributors. He’ll be there.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“That wouldn’t be public.”
“The brunch was,” he says easily, like he’s been waiting for the question. “It was advertised. We’re coming up on the window now.”
He says it smoothly. Too smoothly.
Logical, on the surface. Public-facing event. Scheduled appearance. Reasonable assumption that Hartley would attend. It fits. It almost convinces me.
Almost.
Because the way he explains it carries more detail than people usually volunteer, especially when that detail involves where powerful men eat breakfast. Locations don’t get broadcast. Attendee lists don’t get confirmed. Not for safety. Not for men like Hartley.
I catalog it quietly and let my face go neutral.
“Fine,” I say, opening the passenger door and getting in. “Let’s go.”
The engine turns over, and we pull into traffic.
I don’t press him.
Not yet.
We pull away cleanly, merging into traffic like we belong there.
At the red light, my flip phone vibrates.
I pull it out low, hidden by my jacket, and read the single message.
GRIM: Got it.
I finally let myself breathe.