Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
I’m nearly done packing my bags when Kat arrives at my door.
She sends me a tight smile, holds up a bottle of whiskey, and slips inside without waiting for my invitation.
“Figured you might need this as much as me,” Kat says, making a beeline for the cupboard beside my stove.
It’s an upscale half-kitchen with a full-sized fridge, which I’m hardly ever in one place long enough to fill, but it’s the closest thing I have to home.
I catch the glass she slides to me across the island and knock it back.
“Mateo gave me some insight into your meeting,” Kat starts.
“Truthfully, I—” She cuts herself off and glances at the kitchen pendant lighting hanging above us.
It’s a well-known, tolerated fact that privacy for ISA agents is a luxury, not a right.
None of us really know where or how we’re surveilled, but I suspect that maybe Kat does.
“If it eases your nerves, Graham seems to be… competent,” she finishes.
“I’m not nervous,” I reply, too tired to make it believable.
“Of course not.”
“You’re headed to Budapest soon?”
She nods, flicking raven-black hair over her shoulder, a stark contrast to pale olive skin. “Four months. I may even run into you.”
I squint at her. Kat knows better than me that we’re not allowed to discuss mission details, unless we’re being dispatched as a team. General ideas or war stories after the effect are one thing—but we’re beginning to verge into territory that we both know would be frowned upon at best.
“A twelve hour train ride wouldn’t really be a coincidence,” I reply slowly, feeling my pulse pick up.
“Can we be honest?”
“When aren’t we?”
Kat laughs quietly. We’re never honest with each other unless it’s mutually beneficial.
“I know you resent being treated like you’re radioactive after Chelyabinsk. I’ve seen first-hand how capable you are.” Kat sips her drink, as if steeling herself. “So when I say you need to be careful, Sloane—” Her voice lowers to a near-whisper. “—it has nothing to do with you.”
My chest hollows out, as if my heart momentarily vanished.
The pretense we’ve been trained to keep up has fallen from her eyes, the corners creasing with worry, like she’s imploring me not to brush her off.
If there’s ever a time to be nervous, it’s when a spy decides to be transparent.
Either by their hand or someone else’s, you’re probably about to die, and you might not even know it yet.
The sense of doom that’s been following me since I was ordered to chauffeur Graham Baudelaire to the Denver airport scratches across my skin like a tattoo from a dirty needle.
“I understand,” I say.
Even though neither of us believe it.