Page 40

We move into the airport, where security holds back the throng. My heart is beating wildly. Julian's hand is tight on mine. He moves his arm around my waist as we wait in line, Sandra in front of us. She handles everything, and soon we are being escorted to the front of the security line.

My purse and carry-on bag go onto the conveyor belt, and I breathe through the slight panic from relinquishing the pen to the X-ray machine.

I pass through the metal detector, my socked feet cool against the linoleum floor. My purse appears, but the conveyor belt stops before it reaches me. A bored-looking guard, face etched in deep grooves from decades of frowning, pulls it off and looks up—starting a little when he sees me. "This is your bag?" he asks in accented English.

I nod, my mouth suddenly a desert.

"Come with me?" He moves down the opposite side of the belt, and I grab my shoes before following him to a metal table. Julian picks up my carry-on and his bag, then steps up next to me as the guard places my purse onto the examination table.

He slips on a pair of thin plastic gloves, and I finally find enough spit to swallow. Unzipping my purse, he looks inside before cautiously reaching in to pull out my wallet, phone, a package of mints, and the key fobs for my apartment and car.

My passport and ticket go next to them on the metal table. My Kindle is the last thing from the main compartment to be pulled. An intense need for a comfortable chair and a cup of tea wells up in me. I grip my shoes to keep from grabbing at the device.

When I hear the interior zipper opening, my heart beats heavily in my chest, blood rushes in my ears, and visions of myself in a Chinese prison camp race through my mind. The security agent pulls out the pen and puts it next to the other items. Reaching back into the small pocket, he rummages around. My eyes are fastened onto the pen.

Look away!

I drag my gaze back to the security agent and put a mild smile on my face; I am patient, innocent, and well-behaved. "Ah," he says, pulling out a pointed nail file. He holds it up for my inspection. "This," he says, "is not allowed."

"I'm sorry," I say, impressed with how normal my voice sounds considering that my heart just slipped back into my chest. "I didn't realize it was in there."

He nods, placing it to the side. One more swipe around in the bag, and he nods to himself.It’s secure.

The agent begins to put the items back in my bag. He picks up the pen and spends a moment looking at it. "Nice," he says before dropping it back into the interior zippered pocket.

"Thank you," I say, clearing my throat.

Julian’s palm at my lower back, sneakers back on, I try to keep a natural grip on my purse as we move toward the first class lounge but can't help a tight squeeze, just to make sure the pen is still there.It is.

Once in the lounge, Julian orders us both drinks, and we settle into comfortable arm chairs. He pulls out his phone and begins to scroll. "I'm going to run to the bathroom," I say.A final check before I pull out my Kindle and slip into the world of fiction.

Julian nods and gives me a smile before returning his attention to the phone’s screen.

In the restroom, I step into the stall and close the door, leaning against it and taking deep breaths, forcing myself to unwind. Opening up my purse, I take out the pen and stare at it for a moment.Should I unscrew it, try to figure out what it is?

No. Better not to know.

I hear the door open and a pair of heels click on the tile floor. Putting the pen back into the zippered pocket and securing it, I flush the toilet and then step out of the stall. A Caucasian woman in tight black pants, with luscious dark curls streaked with red highlights cut into a stylish bob, is washing her hands. She smiles at me in the mirror, her lips painted an even brighter red than her hair.

I step up next to her, putting my purse strap across my chest to wash my hands. Her muscles tense, and alarm bells jangle in my mind. Instinct pushes me back from the sink as she twists, her hand chopping through the air, aimed for my throat.

My back slams into a stall door, and I stumble as it gives way. The woman kicks out backward, her pointed heel striking for my gut. I dive into the stall, cornering myself but avoiding the blow.

Her leg comes down, and she stands on it, spinning and aiming a roundhouse kick to my face. My hands thrust up, blocking it and throwing her off balance for a moment.

Red lips drawn tight, my attacker grunts as she catches onto the counter and steadies herself. I take in a breath for the first time since she took a swing at me.What in the Cornhole is going on?

Pushing off the row of sinks, she leaps at me again, her fist barely missing my face as I duck. Coming up fast, I bring an uppercut with me, but she's spun away.

She's fast.

I raise my fists in a defensive pose and, with my back leg pressed against the toilet, bring my front foot up, striking out. Red steps back again, leaving me enough room to get out of the stall.

I land on my front foot and bring my rear one up, striking at her again. She catches the foot, her eyes lighting up with power.

With a quick twist, she turns my leg.I’m forced to follow or break my ankle.My chest hits the ground, and Red holds my foot at her waist. She twists it again, and again I follow, my face up now, looking into her eyes, black jewels lit with victory.

I bring my free foot up and over her wrists, cracking it down hard. She grimaces but her hands remain locked around my left ankle. Raising on my elbows, I grit my teeth and kick at her hands with my right foot. She twists, and I cry out with pain as my ankle strains. Turning to the side, to ease the pain, I place my palms on the bathroom floor and kick for her stomach with my right foot. She stumbles back, and her hold loosens. I strike out again. This time her grip breaks, and I pull free.