She clicked her tongue. At some point the limitless possibilities had become limitless threats. Emails, phone calls, databases, servers, web searches...nothing was private, nothing was truly secure, everything could be traced and hacked in an ever-accelerating spiral of cat and mouse between the security analysts and the hackers—in her case, sometimes one and the same person. Once, she’d been contracted to infiltrate a system she’d previously been hired to secure, and that remained the only one that’d eluded her. She still didn’t know whether to be proud of that or embarrassed.
She blew out a breath. One step at a time. First, find the tunnel. After hours enclosed in a capsule, the thought of fresh air and freedom tugged her toward daylight like a magnet was clamped to her chest. Freedom would come when this was done. Freedom from danger and—just maybe, just a little—freedom from grief and guilt?
A large man in a navy suit pushed past. She snapped out a hand to catch the champagne, and patted her bag’s zip pocket, checking for the outline of her wallet—the fictional Italian signorina’s wallet, rounded out by a fake driver’s license and fake credit card, and the remainder of Samira’s real euros. Getting pickpocketed would be a disaster.
Ignoring her clenching stomach muscles, she followed the signs toward the far end of the long station, white columns marching along beside her. The blond guy couldn’t be the one from the cottage. Her enemy couldn’t know she was here. Nothing would go wrong. She’d passed the biggest challenge—getting into Britain. Maybe the evidence would be damning enough that she wouldn’t need to testify. She could wait out the storm at a cozy flat in an English seaside village where she didn’t see a threat in every shaking leaf or heavy footfall. Then maybe she’d be able to breathe without forcing every inhalation. Since Latif’s death, her every breath had seemed like a conscious effort, as if it were her instinct to die, not live. She’d had the sense she was viewing the world from afar, hardly feeling the ground under her feet.
With the exception of that one day—and night—last fall...
Which she shouldn’t be thinking about.
And today was real. Stomach-curlingly real. Despite the fear, it was empowering to do something that wasn’t sitting around lurching between anger and sorrow and frustration and regret. She would finish the mission Latif died for. If she died, too, so be it, so long as she avenged his death and made his sacrifice worth something.
She passed a TV on the wall of a café, tuned to a news channel, just as it flicked to...something familiar. Someone. She backtracked. Tess. Tess was on the screen, walking between two black-uniformed cops. Handcuffed. Samira’s throat dried. Whistle-blowing reporter arrested, read the scroll at the bottom. Then, Sen. Tristan Hyland cleared.
Feet operating automatically, she stepped inside the café, hardly able to absorb the words. The special counsel had announced there was insufficient evidence to prosecute Hyland, and had instead charged Tess with obstruction of justice for her sworn testimony. She’d been hauled off a plane on the tarmac at Dulles Airport in Washington, DC, “caught trying to flee the country,” according to the voice-over. The picture changed. Tess’s Legionnaire boyfriend, Flynn, surged through a churn of journalists, his face thunderous. “How the [bleep] do you think I feel?” he mumbled. “This is bullshit.”
Samira pulled her scarf away from her throat.
A family bustled into the café, speaking loud German, drowning out the news report. Suddenly another familiar face was staring out from the TV. Shit. Shit. Samira’s green-card photo—she looked so young. Warrant issued for arrest of Newell accomplice.
Samira yanked her beanie lower. The senator appeared on the screen, speaking to reporters in front of a plane. His daughter, Laura, rested a hand on his shoulder, almost protectively. As the German family retreated into the back of the café, his words became audible.
“...would like to thank the many loyal Americans who’ve supported us through these baseless and incredibly hurtful allegations. It’s been a long and tough road but we always had faith that the truth would prevail and the real villains would be exposed—those people in the media and my political opposition who would manufacture lies to destroy me, my family and my career, solely for ratings and profit and political point scoring.” He eyeballed the TV camera, as if he could see Samira standing there. “Today, the scales of justice rebalanced. For that I am grateful, if not surprised. God bless you, America.”
Applause.
Samira clenched her fists as the senator hushed the cheers and listened to a question. It was inaudible but a smile relaxed his face. Laura wiped away tears—real tears, going by the smudges in her heavy black makeup. The audio faded out and the network’s presenters began speaking over the footage, lamenting the millions “squandered on this witch hunt” and predicting Hyland would revive his presidential ambitions. The senator adjusted his tie and rolled his shoulders, drawing attention to his broad frame. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned, muscular forearms and his Marines tattoo. He laughed, like he was sharing a joke with the reporters.
How the hell had Tess and Latif ever thought they could take him on and win? The darling of American politics, with his boyish grin and blue eyes and square face and thick salt-and-pepper hair and insane popularity—JFK and Reagan rolled into one physically and politically attractive package. When he wasn’t being declared the sitter for America’s next president, he was being hailed the country’s most eligible bachelor. The next silver fox–in-chief. Heck, Samira had once thought him hot. Latif had teased her about it but she wasn’t alone. A meme cult had grown out of his good looks. And the senator knew just what he was doing when he brought his chic environmental crusader of a daughter to press conferences and functions—a reminder that he was a grieving widower and devoted father, and there was an opening for a future First Lady.
Teflon Tristan. When Tess and Latif had uncovered evidence that the military contractor he’d founded had orchestrated the LA terror attack, Hyland had argued it’d gone bad long after he’d sold it—successfully, it now appeared. Somehow he’d swum clear of the maelstrom that’d dragged down his former pals. But Latif, who’d worked for the contractor, had sworn that Hyland had still been calling the shots at the time of the attack, desperate to save the foundering company from liquidation and legal scrutiny by securing more war contracts. Latif had died searching for evidence to skewer his former boss.
The screen switched to the presenters, who moved on to another story. Eyes on the white tiled floor, Samira walked out robotically, hollow from her stomach to her toes. She no longer had anyone to meet. At a newsstand she picked up the Guardian. Nothing yet about Tess—or Samira. But on page three, a story about Hyland announcing a UK visit. Shit, he was coming here? She scanned the story. The secretary of state had fallen ill overnight, so Hyland was on his way to Edinburgh for a NATO meeting, and to observe a joint military exercise in Scotland.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. Was he coming to supervise Samira’s capture and extradition? He always kept a private security team around him and Laura—was this an excuse to bring them to Britain? Had he known Samira was heading to London when she fled Tuscany? Did he know about Charlotte? What the hell did any of this mean?
Below the main story, another article zeroed in on controversy that Laura was traveling with him, having hurriedly arranged a book signing in Edinburgh for her memoir, which reportedly painted her father as a saint. A quote from the minority House leader: “This is yet another clear case of the Hylands profiting from the senator’s—”
“No free reads,” belted a voice from the stand.
Samira jumped, nearly ripping the paper. She shut it abruptly and tossed it back on the pile.
Tess wasn’t in London, wasn’t waiting in the square with Flynn. And Samira was officially a wanted woman. Thank God she’d turned down the special counsel’s offer of witness protection in the United States, or they’d have her now, too. Thank God she hadn’t used her own passport. Thank God she no longer looked like the naive, optimistic ingenue in her green-card photo. But the UK probably had a swift extradition agreement with the United States—if she survived long enough to fight a legal battle.