She reached his row, glanced at the empty space beside him, and swung into the open seat across the aisle. Neither spot was hers—not on the pass she’d boarded with anyway—but they’d paid for enough tickets under enough identities to guarantee proximity without drawing the attention of database hunters who might be looking for exactly this kind of connection. That was the difference between buying tickets and using them, and the benefit of flying where carriers didn’t overbook to the same degree as in the United States. Any name would do for a reservation if you were willing to burn the cash and there weren’t thirty people on standby waiting for the first open seat.

Jack removed the earbuds.

She shoved her bag down by her feet and said, “Hey.”

Hey, as if she was right on time, playing this according to plan.

Hey, as if she hadn’t sought out a tight connecting flight, become part of the group rushing to make the next leg, and nearly missed this one in the process.

Hey, because hers had been a tri-purposed strategy that kept her invisible to watching eyes while tormenting him to the last minute while leaving him no way to confront her about the second, because the first was in itself perfect.

He said, “You got tagged?”

She searched for the seat-belt ends. “Just lost track of time.”

The lie exploded inside his head.

If she’d truly lost track of time, she’d have never admitted to it. And if there’d been a legitimate reason for the delay, it’d have cost her nothing to give it. She lied when there was no need to lie, lied because she knew he’d know it as a lie.

This was the game she played.

This was how she maintained control.

He leaned back, shut his eyes, and blocked her out.

Voice low, she said, “Those weren’t Russians, John.”

Her words were a question, not a statement, but he was in no mood to share his mental toys. He pushed the first earbud back into place.

She jabbed his arm. He refused to look.

She punched him harder, and knowing she’d keep it up even if that meant drawing attention until she sabotaged this whole thing, he turned and glared.

Her hands uttered words her mouth left silent.

What the fuck?

His said, Agreed. They weren’t Russians.

The cabin jolted, and the plane began to move.

Her hands demanded explanation.

Training and old grudges split him down the middle.

Withholding what he knew could get either one of them killed, but cooperation was a two-way street that she’d just blown up.

His said, Later.

Tell me now.

That was the thing, though. Tell her what exactly?

They’d expected he’d be shadowed the moment he showed up on radar.