Page 20 of Don't Look Back

“No. Find out where she’s staying and who she’s meeting. Remind her that she might still be in danger, and you need to keep tabs on her.”

“Of course. Wewillbe keeping tabs on her.”

Rand reached his SUV, which had a few bullet holes thanks to being parked next to Kira’s car. But none had done more than cosmetic damage. “I’m counting on it. You heard the captain. I won’t have backup. Is it true that Raptor is busy?”

“No comment.”

“Can you get me some surveillance equipment—small microphones, cameras, trackers, those spider drones we used last December—that I can get through security? Nothing illegal to have. I just don’t want it recognized.”

“We have a kit that fits inside a case that passes as a DSLR camera with a telephoto lens. The outer shell even takes digital photos. Lousy ones, but still, it passes inspection.”

“Good. Meet me at Dulles, inside security, with the kit. I’ll buy your ticket.”

“Well then, I’ve always wanted to visit Fiji.”

He laughed. “I was thinking Newark. One-way.”

“Spoilsport.”

“You’d hate all the relaxation and fun in Fiji.” Rand climbed inside his SUV. “Also, I meant what I said about reprising my cover as an art buyer. If Kira’s meeting with any dealers, that could come in handy. Call the auction house owner, Gillibrand. See who he works with in Malta. Get me an in with an art collector or seller.”

“I can’t do that. Gillibrand doesn’t know Kira was working for us. He’s…not a fan after we exposed some shady deals that resulted in fines.”

“Doesn’t that happen to every auction house at some point?”

“Yes, but he didn’t like the undercover nature of our work. He claims we were bordering on entrapment.”

“Were you?”

“No comment. The point is, no Gillibrand for any known Valkyrie. That’s why we had to bring Kira and you in last December.”

“Fine. Tell Kira to contact him and set something up with one of his agents in Malta. Tell her it’s for FMV. Then get me the contact’s name. I’ll do the rest.”

“I don’t see how this will work. You have to travel under your own name. You’ll be required to show your passport at the hotel. There’s no time to create aliases and fake IDs.”

“That’s fine. Last December, Kira and I came up with the perfect cover story using my real name.”

ChapterTen

Kira tucked the paperback spy novel she’d picked up at Dulles airport into her carry-on bag. She’d actually managed to read about half of it, which was a testament to the writing given how tired, frazzled, and scared she was.

She’d wandered into the store looking for a light romance to distract her, but in the moment, she didn’t want to read about some other woman landing the man of her dreams. She usually loved those books, but today, she was thinking about life and death and family and danger and lies.

She didn’t even know if she was asking herself the right questions about her parents.

She found herself drawn to the mystery and thriller section, and the cover of the book grabbed her. It promised to be a sharp departure from her current reality. Sure, there were guns, but it was more tactical military than random-lone-gunman terrorism. Spy games in north and east Africa.

There was even a little romance between the Green Beret hero and the Moroccan woman who’d turned informant to save her younger brother. Kira suspected the woman would either end up dead or on the wrong side with the final reveal, because the book read like the first in a series with the same hero, and James Bond never crossed paths with the same heroine twice.

It had been the escape she needed for the lengthy travel day, which—given that she’d arrived at Dulles three full hours before her scheduled departure then her flight had been very late doing the actual departing—had lasted exactly twenty-four hours. It was now Thursday, less than forty-eight hours since the shooting on Little Creek. Three p.m. in DC and nine p.m. in Malta.

She followed her fellow passengers off the plane and onto a bus that delivered them to the terminal. The line for passport control was long. She shuffled forward with the crowd in a waiting room that wavered between hot and manageable on the sweltering early summer night. Thirty minutes after arriving, she presented her shiny new blue book and got her first stamp.

It was a moment she’d dreamed of for decades. There should be fanfare. But it was late here, and even though her body was still on DC time, she was tired. Still, she took the passport book and pressed it to her heart, pausing—literally—for a beat.

She was here. In Malta.

Her first international trip.

---