The war room, watching and analyzing airport-security feeds in real time, was supposed to provide that cover, but they’d done a shit job so far.

Transfers was a choke point.

Boarding the connection was a choke point.

Deplaning in Berlin was a choke point.

Target knew they were looking for him, and there was no more chance he’d head to any of those choke points than that he was at gate twenty-four right now.

Passport control was the weak spot.

In a perfect world, digital alerts would start pinging as soon as he handed over his documents, but someone able to disappear the way he had wouldn’t rely on a single passport. The information they had on him was now effectively worthless.

He’d already become someone else.

Kara diverted, following the pictograph signage that would take her through immigration.

Nick said, “Angel, confirm status on gate twenty-four.”

Angel said, “Confirm. Target seated in waiting area.”

Kara’s insides protested.

The confirmation made absolutely no sense. Angel saw what they couldn’t, and yet insisted on sending them where target couldn’t possibly be.

Nick, as if reading her mind, said, “What’s the recognition match?”

Angel said, “No match available.”

This airport was too big, had too many exits to run an effective picket, and now Nick was headed in the opposite direction of where they needed him.

Angel was wrong, and because she was wrong, they’d lose target.

Kara clamped her mouth shut and focused on the crowd. Arguing it out with Nick over open coms would raise an apocalyptic shit storm. This was his call to make.

He was good with people, he understood when facts mattered less than appearance, and he knew they had nothing to gain and everything to lose by ignoring Angel. She listened to him, respected him—well-deserved respect—Kara didn’t begrudge that, though she did begrudge the way a guy would be lauded for saying the exact same things in the exact same ways that earned her a reputation for being rough around the edges and a poor team player.

Nick said, “Kilo, redirect to immigration. Juliet, take my gate.”

Kara was a step ahead of him, already in line, searching for anything familiar, watching bodies and faces in the ebb and flow while stamps thudded into passports and the crowd moved steadily forward.

Juan confirmed approach to connecting departure gate, the flight their target should have been on, the flight they should have been on.

Kara reached the immigration desk.

The official glanced at her, then the photo page.

She’d put on a few pounds since the photo was taken, but she was still brown hair, hazel eyes, wide cheekbones, and skin just dark enough that strangers usually assumed Mexican or Puerto Rican ancestry, and she never bothered to clarify, because those assumptions required less effort than explaining blood quantum.

The official stamped her passport and handed it back.