Page 7 of The Truths that Deceive

The mystery man is gone, but I’m still unsettled, so much so I don’t log back in to the dark web when I sit back down at the table. I just mindlessly surf the web for celebrity gossip and fashion trends.

This time when I pack up my laptop, the deliberately battered shell that hides state-of-the-art hardware, I leave my drink and a copy of whatever book I pull from my pack on the table. Then I slide out the back door past the bathrooms and into the gloomy Berlin day. The inkling that my life is about to become equally gloomy suffocates me like someone just stuck a plastic bag over my head.

Because in my line of work, that could easily become my reality.

There’sno way I’m going to be able to nap at my little hole-in-the-wall sublet apartment in Mitte, so I decide to change clothes and my look. I twist my hair into knots on my head, exposing the undercut, and I pull on my schoolgirl-on-crack outfit. Long thigh-high striped socks and chunky Mary Janes, plaid skirt with a white shirt and tie.

Then I paint on cherry-red lips, heap on lots of eyeliner and mascara, and pull on a black jacket.

I quickly cram my computer, fake ID, and all my hardware into a red and black backpack and sling it on. I glance in the mirror.

Hacker to party girl in minutes.

A perfect disguise.

I bounce from place to place through the city. In and out of gallery shows and parties, skirting the edges, scouting for anyone who doesn’t belong.

The beat of unease grows deep in my gut, and I’m on edge, the needlelike teeth of that unease nibbling harder and harder.

Finally, I make my way into a club, dark and moody German industrial music playing in the background. I scout the space as my eyes adjust to the dim light. This place definitely takes in a certain type of clientele, and anyone working for the government—no matter which one—would stand out like a dick on a cake.

And field agents? They’re not sending one of those assets afterme.

It’d be men in suits with no sense of humor.

Like when I got arrested at fourteen for hacking into top government sites.

Still, I’m itching like ants are crawling all over me, and I can’t stay still.

Rookie behavior, a voice in my mind screams.

I slip farther into the space. Smoke fills my lungs, stinging my eyes as I find my way to the center of the dance floor.

Although the real rookie behavior is me giving in to the emotions and physiological reactions to being followed.

Shit, it’s like a beacon calling out to anyone watching.

I push through the crowd on the dance floor to the bar on the other side. I order a whiskey and down it to calm my nerves. Then another for good measure. The golden heat of it sinks into my flesh to smooth the frayed edgesof my nerves. I drink just enough for that, not nearly enough to lose the sharpness I need to survive.

In the next room, one that smells like sweat and smoke and the sweet and cloying aromas of vapes, I find a small table. I pull out a chair when a shadow falls on me.

All of my senses burst into life.

The man grabs my arm.

His touch is electric, burning through the fabric of the jacket.

“Bitte,” I say. “Ich?—”

“Nein.” The velvet is hard now, cold like steel. Wintry. “You’re not as hard to find as you think.”

“Bitte,” I say again, letting out a string of German where I tell him he’s got the wrong person and to let me go. The words fall over each other but he understands them perfectly, even though he’s switched to English.

Dammit. I don’t want to cause a scene, but I also don’t want to be dragged off to a windowless room here or in the United States. So I act.

I stomp on his foot with my huge platform Mary Jane and elbow him hard in the chest.

His hand slips and I run.

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