phone was still vibrating. She snatched it from her pocket and switched off the alarm. She was well alarmed.
She stilled, staring at the screen. She forced her trembling hands to navigate the unlock pattern. The Bluetooth signal was faint but it might be just enough. Lights zigzagged across her vision as she scrolled her playlist.
“I Knew You Were Waiting.”
“She Works Hard for the Money.”
“Because the Night.”
No, no, no, no.
Oh. She paused, scrolled back up a few tracks. Yes.
Swiping quickly, she hooked into the cottage speakers, slid them to full volume and pressed Play. From downhill, a snare drum hammered. She tapped along on the steering wheel—eight quick counts—and shakily started the engine as the drum and bass guitar joined, followed by the rhythm.
She automatically went for the headlights, stopping herself a second short of stupidity, and navigated out of the rutted driveway and onto the road, eyes open so wide they hurt. Joan Jett launched into her lyrics, echoed by half a dozen ghostly Joans glancing off the surrounding hills, half a second off the beat. The connection would cut out at the end of the track. Two minutes and fifty-five seconds. One song. One chance.
“I Love Rock ’n’ Roll,” the hillsides sang.
“So do I, Joan,” Samira muttered. “But now what do we do?”
After a couple of minutes of driving, the tinny phone speaker kicked in, as the next song on the playlist uploaded. Out of range. The cottage would have silenced. Advantage over. Was it enough? She was in the next valley, so the car sound would be difficult to pinpoint. No movement or lights in the rear-vision mirror, and her preplanned escape route had enough twists and turns they couldn’t easily track her. First chance she got, she’d contact Tess, nail down a new plan.
“Time Has Come Today,” squeaked out of the phone.
Indeed. Time to come out of hiding and end this, whether she liked it or not—and she definitely did not. But Hyland had just made her decision for her.
“Yes, Joan,” Samira said, swinging into a side road. “The time has come.”
London
IT WASN’T PARANOIA. Samira was being followed. A tall, brittle man with crisp blond hair fading to white. Jeans, a brown leather jacket, a burgundy overnight bag. The guy who’d shoulder-charged the French doors the night before last?
In Paris that morning he’d been one of the few other patrons at the café two blocks from the Gare du Nord, apparently engrossed in the weekend Le Monde. At the station, she’d bought her ticket to London minutes before the cutoff for the 8:13 a.m. train—but as she’d crossed the concourse she’d glanced back to see him scurrying into the Eurostar ticket office. If he had time to read the newspaper and drink a café latte, why wait until the last moment? She should have kept walking, waited for the next train, aborted the whole lunatic mission. Midway through the Channel tunnel, he’d strolled into her carriage and slipped into a vacant aisle seat three rows behind. He’d hung back as the train emptied at St Pancras and lingered among the seats, tapping on a phone. She’d ducked into the bathroom, willing him to disappear, hissing to her sunken-eyed mirror image that she was being irrational. More than one man in Europe had white-blond hair. When she emerged, he was still there.
Now he was trailing her down the travellator to border control. Coincidence? She dragged her tongue over her teeth. She didn’t do coincidences anymore.
She looked around for a clock. Tess and Flynn should be waiting at Pancras Square near the station, after landing at Heathrow overnight, as they’d hurriedly planned. Very soon, if the passport worked, Samira could sponge off their confidence. Just having people to talk to would be a novelty, if she was even capable of carrying a conversation.
After the hushed voices and hum of the train, the station boomed with white noise that filled the air like a gas, curving up to its soaring glass dome and sweeping back down. Pearly light hung in the air. As she pulled up at the back of the immigration queue, she adjusted the plastic shopping bag on her shoulder. Inside, the polystyrene-wrapped champagne bottles whispered and clunked. Somewhere among the thick-coated passengers a newborn baby yelled, long beyond the reach of comfort, its shuddering mews swelling, ebbing, swelling, ebbing. Her blood pressure was playing that song, too.
She tightened her scarf and pulled her necklace over top of it, fingering the small gold cross. The queue was moving slower than she’d bargained for. There blew the theory that fooling UK border control at the Gare du Nord was enough, that the check at this end would be cursory. She shuffled to her right. Ahead, at a counter hung with a sagging string of red tinsel, a blue-shirted officer studied a passenger’s passport and ticket. Did they suspect something or were these checks standard? She’d only ever entered Britain with her parents, through diplomatic checkpoints.
Not that she always got a free pass into the United States, either, despite her green card. Carrying alcohol was a ruse Latif had adopted for their many flights in and out of JFK, when foreign students with names and faces like his had begun to draw suspicion.
They see the whiskey and figure you’re not some extremist jihadist, he’d once said at duty-free, picking up a bottle of Jim Beam he’d later donated to Charlotte.
She’d laughed. Or they conclude it’s an elaborate ruse to make you look less like a jihadist and pin you down for a cavity search.
She’d called him paranoid.
She shut her eyes tight until the burn eased. Not paranoid enough, in the end. Really, she needed to stop reliving their every conversation. And if she wasn’t doing that, she was having imaginary new ones. Sometimes imaginary arguments, sometimes aloud, pausing for his answers as they ran through her head. Day by day his image faded but his voice still curled through her.
Great, so she had two voices in her head—Latif’s and Jamie’s. Way too much time alone.
She pulled down the edge of the champagne bag to better reveal its contents. Doubling down on the paranoia because today it was her friend—and racial profiling wasn’t.
On the pretense of cricking her neck, which really did need a crick after a night sleeping in her car, she glanced over her shoulder. The blond man was two people behind. She swallowed past a prickly lump in her throat. Subterfuge was way beyond her comfort zone. Sure, she’d done shady things—hacked into secure systems, cracked passwords, unleashed harmless viruses—but only from behind a keyboard and monitor and only to prove she could or to test her clients’ systems. It was Latif who’d got off on this spy stuff, Latif who’d dragged her into this world of shadows, Latif who’d got killed and left her to finish this.
She spun her backpack to her front and removed the passport. Her hand trembled. Pretending to be engrossed in fiddling with a zip, she shuffled forward with the crowd.
Here she was in strolling distance of Regent’s Park but not yet officially in the country. No-man’s-land. In front, a toddler peeped over his mother’s shoulder, eyeing Samira through thick black curls. She gave what she hoped was an indulgent smile. The tot ducked. After a few seconds he peeped one hazel eye up. She winked and the boy buried his face, wrapping fat arms around his mother’s neck. The game continued until they moved off—and didn’t do a thing to settle Samira’s nerves. From somewhere the newborn was still wailing. Samira’s breath was getting shorter. Her chest stung.
Not now. Not ever but not now. But when did a panic attack ever come at a convenient time? She forced a deep inhalation.
“Next!” An officer beckoned Samira—young, light brown hair tied back, expression set to don’t-fuck-with-me. “Ticket and passport.”
The woman flattened Samira’s passport