In her airplane seat, Natalie leaned forward in anticipation of what she knew was coming next. She watched as Julia expertly ran her hands over Natalie’s arms, stomach, chest, and then grazed her nether regions, while looking into Natalie’s eyes. “Just checking for any breaks or serious injuries,” she’d said, leaning in close, “I’m sorry if we hurt you.” On the monitor, it looked as though they were about to kiss.

“I’m, um, okay,” Natalie had replied nervously, thinking the TSA would disapprove of this pat down.

In real life, they’d had to wait twenty minutes for the cameras to reset and Natalie flashed back to the conversation they’d had during the break.

“Sorry about the pat down. I hope they warned you?” Julia had said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Reg said he wanted it slow and personal. Better TV.”

“Reg?” asked Natalie, searching her mind.

“Reginald,” Julia said, then added, “Oh wait. You guys call him the Chief, right? You’re lucky you get to work for him.” She looked almost wistful as she said the words.

Natalie let that sink in before asking, “How do you know the Chief?”

“I’ve done a lot of work for your parent company and their high-value targets,” explained Julia, shading her eyes from the sun. “When he was overseas, I handled personal protection for him, Katie, and the kids.” She got a gleam in her eyes. “Such a great dad. Heart of gold. He really helped me out.”

“The Chief. Helped you out,” Natalie repeated, trying to square Julia’s picture of a sensitive, openhearted “Reg” with the boss she knew.

“Yeah, my line of work isn’t great for women. Especially, you know, dykes like me.” She shrugged. “Reg was kind of my champion.”

Before Natalie could ask a follow-up question, a twenty-foot-long drone—a fucking military-grade drone—had come streaking through the sky, giving them “cover” for their escape.

That’s when Natalie had realized ATN was spending a small fortune on this shoot. It was more elaborate than anything she’d ever been part of—in fact, more elaborate than almost any news story she’d seen outside an election, a tsunami, or maybe a wedding on a morning show. At her first local station, she’d been asked to limit her use of lights because the bulbs were so expensive.

Leaning over her chair, Matt poked Natalie on the shoulder. “This is great. You’re—”

“Stop talking.” Her eyes were fixed on the screen and, privately, she had to admit he wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t anything she would ever have put together, but it was kind of thrilling TV. If reporting actual information weren’t a consideration.