Page 7

6

My sleep isn’t long, and it isn’t great.

“How are you feeling?” Flynn asks in the kitchen, early the next day.

“Fine,” I say, like I’m shutting a door. “You?”

“Fine,” he says, refusing to get the hint. “Did you…uh…did you know that you snore?”

I scrunch up my face, grabbing another cup of espresso. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes. Yes, you do. I heard you through the wall. I almost woke you up to see if you were okay.”

“That’s…thoughtful,” I say, noting that it’s morning—and the shock hasn’t gone away.

The sun’s rising over Rome as I strip off my tee, leaving the shirt in a tidy pile before changing into the outfit that Flynn’s laid out on the bed. I can hear him pacing in the other room, speaking to someone in hushed tones on his phone, as I slip into the sky-blue linen dress; it reminds me of summertime and those haughty European cruise commercials, where people laugh over their salads. Who picked out this dress? Gail? Flynn?

The dress fabric is weightless against my skin. Bending over, I do a little hoppity-hop, strapping on my new sandals—which are probably, oh , 2,000 percent more expensive than my Birkenstocks—and this time, actually do glance at myself in the mirror above the dresser. I startle, doing a double take. A chill sweeps down my spine, because I see it. I see it completely. The bangs are still mine. The nose and the lips are still mine. But the brunette woman in the mirror, the one with the posh sandals and resort-style dress, she isn’t a washed-up chef. She isn’t the girl who grew up in Maine, who shucked all those oysters, who made a series of bad decisions and ripped her whole life apart.

I lean in, hands gripping the edge of the dresser. My fingertips are turning numb. I tilt my head, examining my sharp jawbone (like hers), the small splatter of freckles under my left eye (like hers), our cheekbones like tiny, rosy apples. Add the gold-flecked contact lenses and the beauty mark, the polished skin and the flawless nails—

Holy. Shit.

On the other side of the door, Flynn gently raps his knuckles. “You ready to rock and roll?”

I clear my throat. “Yeah. Coming.”

In the foyer, Flynn appraises my full transformation with a quick sweep. “Ten out of ten,” he says, although I can’t quite make out his expression behind his round, trendy sunglasses. “No one’s going to be able to tell you apart, even if they get close. Which they won’t, physically. Especially not with your moves.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, trying not to smile.

“No, I mean it. I had worse sparring partners at the Farm—you know, the CIA training camp—and they went on to become field agents.” He tosses me the small metal compact in his hand; it’s makeup, shaded to my exact skin color. “That’s to cover up those little scars. The burn mark near your wrist? Just in case anyone zooms in with a camera.”

I clench the compact between my fingers, tucking it into my dress pocket—and ignoring the fact that this man knows my skin. “How’s your nose?”

“Never better,” he says, chipper, even though—if you look closely—the area under his left eye is mildly bruised.

Gail’s left her trench coat, a sun hat, and a pair of glasses by the front door, and I slip them on at Flynn’s instruction, shielding my face as I slide into the back seat of yet another vehicle. It’s beginning to feel like musical chairs, transport edition. This one’s a Range Rover with fully tinted windows, and Flynn’s at the wheel, pulling away from the curb and into already-building traffic.

“The hair suits you,” he says when I yank off the sun hat. “Not that the blonde didn’t, of course, but you can pull off both.” It sounds a hell of a lot like a genuine compliment, but isn’t that what he’s supposed to do, as my handler, to establish trust?

Like me, Flynn’s also changed outfits. No more Mr. Tight Black Shirt. He’s wearing a tailored linen suit, cream-colored, like he’s off to a high-society wedding. He doesn’t look bad. In fact, I wish he looked much, much worse.

One hand on the wheel, he reaches into the passenger’s seat, picking up an iPad and handing it back to me. “Code’s 1-2-3-4.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It actually is. It’s so obvious, no one will guess it. Top folder on the right, you’ll find a condensed list of facts about the prime minister, her policies, and people she comes into contact with on a monthly basis—friends, special advisors, parliamentarians. She comes from this big political family; everyone’s wrapped up in the government somehow. Next folder, I’ve put together a video compilation for you to watch. Press conferences, speeches, interactions with the public, campaign materials. It’ll help you cement her mannerisms.”

“And this folder?” I ask, after typing in the code on the tablet. “The one labeled A ?”

“All the hit men working in the area,” Flynn clarifies, sliding off his sunglasses. “ A for assassin .”

“So the darker cousin of A is for aardvark .”

Flynn chuffs. In the rearview mirror, I can see the reflection of his mouth, quirking up.

“Are you making fun of my elaborate filing system, Max?” He strokes his chin for a moment, a different kind of look passing over his face, before coming out with, “God, this is surreal. You and me.”

I swallow in a way that I hope is unnoticeable. “I think the word ‘surreal’ was invented for this exact scenario.”

“Look,” Flynn says, folding his sunglasses and hooking them in the V of his shirt, “before we dive into all this, I think it would be a lot better if we could figure out a way to be friends.”

“Friends,” I repeat, dubious.

“Yeah.”

“Friends don’t throw your name in the pot for potential death missions,” I say, keeping my voice jokey, “then show up unexpectedly in a foreign country. A mac and cheese gift basket doesn’t fix that, even if one of the boxes is truffle flavored.”

“You are absolutely right,” Flynn says, matching my tone.

“Don’t agree with me,” I say, choking on a laugh.

He’s the one to laugh now, although it’s strained. “I’m not allowed to agree with you?”

“You are, but I’m just…honestly not sure if you mean it.”

He exhales slowly. “I do mean it, Max. Lying to people on the job is shit, and I feel like shit when I do it. And I know I shouldn’t correct you right now, but—this is absolutely not a death mission.”

“I have a folder in my lap,” I say, pointing to the iPad, “of literal assassins.”

Flynn looks like he’s about to refute this but can’t, so he stops, glancing between the back seat and the road. On all sides of us, taxis weave across twisted streets. Bundles of fresh parsley and rutabaga spill out of corner shops, and chalkboard signs advertise the daily specials in swirly, white cursive— Bottarga, osso buco alla milanese, risotto di seppie alla veneziana . The language tastes as good as the food.

“Just tell me how this can work,” Flynn presses. “Please. Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

“Okay…” I begin, heart rate ticking up. “Here’s the thing. I think it’d be best if we had a few set-in-stone rules. Like, we probably shouldn’t talk about the past. No reminiscing. Pretend that I’m just a regular asset, and we don’t have any history together.” Should be easy for you, as you’ve mostly been doing that anyway.

Flynn snags my eye in the mirror. “You sure?”

I think about the last time we saw each other in person, at the end of summer, how he kissed my open palms and said we’d meet again for Thanksgiving. He left me with the fleece sweater he wore for sailing, and for a week, I clutched it as I slept, the scent of him making its way into my dreams. I literally counted down the days until we saw each other again, scratching them off on my wall calendar.

Right before Thanksgiving, though, he called and said he wasn’t going to be able to make it. That ticket he thought he’d be able to afford, he couldn’t. Soon after, the email arrived. Please believe me when I say that was the best summer of my life, but this is going to be really hard if we can’t see each other. I just want you to be happy, Max. I truly just want you to be happy . I’d stared at Flynn’s letter, unblinking in the darkness of my childhood bedroom, and thought that breaking someone’s heart seemed pretty damn antithetical to bringing them happiness. Maybe I should’ve replied, but what was there to say? It was so clear that he’d already made up his mind.

“Very sure,” I say to him now. “So no nicknames. No Starfish .”

He started calling me Starfish halfway through the summer, when we found one on a beach walk. Just like you. Happiest in the water. I told him I was happiest in the kitchen—the ocean was a close second—but the nickname stuck.

“Okay.” Flynn presses his lips together. “Okay, I hear you.”

“And no physical contact,” I manage.

“Can’t say I’m going to stick to that if I have to pull you away from any threats,” he says, rolling down his window a sliver, summer breeze in his hair. “Otherwise, understood.”

The warm air makes its way to the back, tickling my face. I try not to dwell on what those threats might be. “We should also have a code word for uncomfortable situations. If one of us is breaking the rules, or—I don’t know. If we need a reset.”

“Did you know,” Flynn says, weaving around a tourist bus on the narrow road, “the CIA hasn’t used code words since the 1960s?”

“Well, we’re bringing them back! How about—?”

Flynn snaps his fingers. “ Pesto. ”

“Are you suggesting a code word or thinking about lunch?”

“Both, now that you mention it. Trenette al pesto was on the board we just passed. Why, do you have something against pesto?”

“As a sauce and as a code word, they’re just fine.”

Now that I’ve laid some easy ground rules, best not to linger there; instead, I refocus on the tablet in my lap, clicking on the A folder. Inside are pictures, profiles, data. “Michelangelo DiNicco,” I read, selecting the first black-and-white photo. My stomach lurches at the image: a white guy with unfriendly eyes and a semi-vacant smile. He looks like a late-night TV wrestler, crossed with a bulldog. Or a plunger. Not an appealing combo, especially in a man who might try to kill me.

Now that I’m actually here, with this folder, my argument to myself—that I’ve never been fitter in my life—seems paper thin. In retrospect, it’s like saying I’ve taken a few Pilates sessions at the local YMCA, and now I’m ready to summit Everest. (No offense to the Pilates people; they have killer thighs.)

“I thought you said it was only one assassin?” I ask. “?‘The Producer’?”

“That’s who the Halverson family used on the first go-around,” Flynn clarifies. “Allegedly. But we want to cover all of our bases, on the off chance they hire someone different for a second attempt.”

“ Super ,” I say. “One assassin wasn’t enough. Okay, tell me about Michelangelo.”

“Thirty-seven years old,” Flynn says, switching into more of a robotic mode. “Notice the scar. Over his lip on the right side? It’s from a botched job in Brussels. Tried to take down a UN ambassador’s aide after some fight over hot dogs on social media.”

“I don’t even want to know,” I mutter.

“You’re right. You don’t. You’d be surprised how quickly things can devolve from GIFs of the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. Anyway, DiNicco’s much more accurate when it’s a contract kill and he isn’t emotionally invested. The ambassador’s aide, he tried to do ‘for fun.’?”

“He should try Scrabble. Seems healthier.”

“Or pickleball,” Flynn suggests with a slow blink. “People get so into that. It’s like a cult. Did you know it’s the fastest growing sport in America?”

“I actually did. My parents play.”

“Richard and Denise?” Flynn says, not missing a beat, shocking me. Does he remember them from before, or from my CIA file? “They should join my team.”

“You play?”

“Religiously.”

“So that’s what CIA officers do on the weekends,” I say, cautious, censoring my emotions. I wonder how the hell he even ended up in intelligence services. Last time we spoke, he was mapping his solo journey around the Horn of Africa and planning his future as a sailing instructor, literally teaching kids the ropes.

We go over six more names, six more profiles, from an elderly Lithuanian duo to a former orthodontist from Latvia, before I notice, “There are no women in this file.”

Flynn flicks on his blinker. “Correct. Generally speaking, women aren’t assassins.”

“What about Killing Eve ? Villanelle?”

“One in maybe a hundred assassins are women, but only six are actively working in Europe at the moment. Another option,” he says, literally switching gears, his hand gripping the shift, “is that someone from the Halverson crime family might accept the job. Keep it close. It’s personal with them.” At the next stop, Flynn reaches back to enlarge a black-and-white group photo, the scent of his cologne hitting me: spice, bourbon, woods. Not a trace of the sea, of the salt that used to cling to him. “If anyone’s going to do it themselves, my bet’s on him. The youngest Halverson brother, Aksel. Good news is, he’s tall. Almost six-six. Easy to spot in a crowd.”

“It says here that he”—I squint, wondering if I’m interpreting this right—“ only eats meat?”

“Yep. He’s on something called ‘the lion diet.’ Beef tartare, rib eye steaks, pork chops. No vegetables, no fruit, no bread.”

That legitimately makes me shudder. “I’m not sure I could live without bread.”

“I know you couldn’t,” he says as we burst onto the highway, picking up speed, sun streaming in through the bulletproof glass. Flynn closes his window and turns up the blowers, cool air blasting against my skin. “Memorize their photos the best you can. The hotel and the surrounding area will be crawling with the PM’s security, Italian police, and CIA, but you’ll have an earpiece and a small microphone by your neckline. If you see anyone who even slightly resembles them, tell me immediately.”

I fidget in my seat. I didn’t know that Flynn would literally be in my ear.

It’s fine. That’s fine. Purely professional, remember?

“It’s weird to think that some of them probably go home to their families at night,” I say, clicking back through the photos. “Or is it more of a lone wolf sort of thing? I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m kind of fascinated. Aren’t you? About what kind of person would sign up for something like this?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Flynn says, rearing his head back a little. “The psychology of it. I’m also curious about what kind of person would do something like this .” He tips his head at me, the body double.

“The broke kind?” I say flatly. The desperate kind?

“And no part of you thinks this is a bad idea?” he presses.

“It’s not the worst idea,” I volley back. “It’s not—I don’t know—sleepy chicken.”

He throws me a confused look. “What’s sleepy chicken?”

“Know what? Forget I mentioned it.”

“Max,” he says, deadly serious, “you have to tell me what sleepy chicken is.”

“Pesto.”

“Nuh-uh,” Flynn says. “You don’t get to code word this. This is not code word territory.”

I blow out a breath that fans out my bangs. This whole conversation, we’ve been treading too close to friendship. “It’s one of those social media cooking trends from way back. You marinate chicken cutlets in NyQuil and then bake them in the oven.”

Flynn’s face reveals the appropriate level of disgust. “No. No, that isn’t a thing.”

“It is if you want to poison yourself, trip out, and get two servings of protein at the same time…Seriously, though, we should get back to work.”

“We should,” Flynn says, clearing his throat. Something about the way he’s pressing his tongue against his cheek tells me he wants to add more, go back to This is a bad idea, Starfish . Instead, he twirls his finger in the air. “Turn up the volume on that video compilation. We’ve got two hours to Positano.”