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J ACKSON DOESN’T HESITATE. H E RISES TO HIS FEET.

When I place my hand in his outstretched palm, he half pulls, half helps me up. I giggle loudly, drawing the notice of the entire compartment. Handsy American teenager—the easiest cover I’ve ever had.

Jackson presses his kiss to my smile, and his hand slides into my back pocket.

Laughing, we stumble down the center aisle.

I pretend I don’t notice Tom stand from his seat at the other end of the carriage and glide toward us, using Jackson’s and my unabashed display to draw every gaze away from the fashionable figure’s approach.

Rounding my eyes with fake excitement, I gaze up at Jackson. “I think the first-class carriages are private ,” I speculate.

We’re earning the impatience of the compartment’s other riders— hmph s from elderly couples, indignant glances from parents with young children. Here on personal travel, I expect, not professional. Not on December 26. Families off to spend an afternoon in the city or continuing on to flights home.

Not us.

Our mark doesn’t react. He continues reading his newspaper, no doubt convinced of his concealment.

He’s probably hoping we’ll steal into a first-class cabin and get caught. It’d make his job easier. Across the table from him, his seat partner sleeps, beanie pulled over his face.

Jackson pretends he’s considering my indecent proposal. My scandalous suggestion looks like the portrait of spontaneity. “Aren’t you worried about getting thrown out?” he finally asks.

I lean closer. Look up with invitation-heavy eyes. Press one hand to his chest, my French manicure tips matching the winter white.

“The risk only makes it better,” I exhale.

Lies and truth. Meeting like strangers in the dark.

Jackson’s smirk re-forms slowly. It’s dangerous what the expression could do to me, honestly.

“What are we waiting for, then?” he asks, his voice humming deep in his chest.

We continue forward until I pretend to stumble with the train’s movement, catching myself on the table of the middle-aged couple seated in front of our mark.

When my hand hits the plastic, the man’s wine—one of the expensive miniature bottles of Chasselas or Genevan sparkling wine I’ve noticed everywhere in Switzerland—spills.

The man cries out. He stands, shouting irately at me in French.

I chose him perfectly, I compliment myself. He’s snapped at his wife three times since we left Zurich.

“ So sorry,” I drawl, careful to look carefree. “Whoops! Clumsy Americans!”

The response, designed only to provoke him further, does. His volume rises. The pink color in his cheeks would have me concerned for his blood pressure if I weren’t pleased with the proceedings. In my periphery, Tom has positioned himself a few rows back, where he waits.

Like clockwork, Jackson intercedes.

“Hey, back up, bro,” he orders. I nearly laugh. Bro? The bullish frat-boy inflection isn’t Jackson. He’s embracing his role the way I did. Playing defensive of his ditzy girlfriend, he steps up to the passenger. “Chill out,” Jackson says. “It was an accident.”

When the passenger redirects his ire to Jackson, Tom moves.

With the eyes of the entire compartment on Jackson and me, he slides up to the man shadowing me, seated just behind the now-drenched Frenchman. Tom drops one shoulder with smooth grace—and deposits something neatly into the coat pocket of our mark.

Perfection.

The moment passes. Jackson, guiding my elbow, withdraws from the yelling husband, who eventually sits down, grumbling ferociously.

In the back of the train, Tom’s retaken his seat, eyeing the icy splendor of Switzerland while the train continues cutting a scar in the snow. I walk with Jackson into first class.

We slip into one of the private cabins, where I sit with a view through the half-open door of the compartment we just left. Next to me, Jackson looks exhilarated, his face flushed.

Through the cracked-open door, I watch the plan progress.

Next to my father’s spy, his seat partner starts waking up. The mark panics—for he’s just now recognized Deonte Jones.

While I can’t see Deonte’s face, he’s removed the gray Stone Island beanie he pulled down while he pretended to sleep. I can’t hear their conversation from here, but I’m pleased watching the mark’s frantic replies, until finally the man falls silent. Decision forms on his face.

He rises reluctantly to his feet, and Deonte ushers him forward.

Heading for us.

Only while they advance down the aisle do I notice someone else. Across the aisle from Deonte and my mark’s vacated seats sits a man in a dark, exquisite suit. Nothing flashy, just elegant, modern lines. Under his steel-flecked light hair, his face is neutral, revealing nothing.

His eyes meet mine, shrewd and empty.

Then our door opens, and Deonte pushes the mark inside.