Page 37 of Love at First Sighting

Carter

As the sun sets over the California desert and we drive toward Brazel Airfield, all I can think is that I’m not ready for this.

Marcus’s meeting with Ian Forte has hung over my head for two weeks, and I could forget about it for brief moments when I was consumed by my growing love for El, but it was going to sneak up on me one way or another.

I secretly hoped I’d misread the appointment or that I’d get some other kind of answer that’d make all this negligible, but that never came.

And sure enough, Marcus was out of the office all day today, just as he’d marked on his calendar.

I knew it was coming, but I hoped somehow I’d been mistaken.

“We’re just a few minutes away now,” El says.

I’ve never been to a private airfield before, but I imagine it’s a little different from a normal airport. I don’t think we’ll encounter check-in and security lines or an off-brand Chili’s.

“We’re going to park in the lot, cover up the car,” she says, walking through our plan. “Then we’re going to sneak around the outside and make our way across the tarmac to the hangar.”

“Yeah, the two of us sneaking across a whole tarmac. That’s going to be fun,” I grumble. I think we might be in over our heads, but what other choice do we have?

“We’ll figure it out,” she assures me.

El’s been particularly close and attentive today. I learned years ago that crying and wishing things were different wouldn’t bring my dad back. It wouldn’t change that I’d never see him again, and I’ve gotten so used to a lack of real affection that I don’t exactly know what to do with it now.

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with the way she plays with my hair or how she always seems genuinely excited to see me.

I come home from work and she’s already figured out what we’re having for dinner, has a list of ideas for what we can do that night ready to go.

So I let her, and day by day it gets easier.

It won’t change the fact that tonight could break the already-fragile parts of me.

The sun’s gone down and there’s nothing but our blinding headlights and the moon to give us light until we approach the airfield. El reaches across the console and grabs my hand. Her painted nails dance over my stark white knuckles before I surrender and weave my fingers with hers.

El swings the car into a spot. A tall air traffic control tower watches over the tarmac like a prison guard. We’re going to be ants under a microscope out there. El sheathes our ride under a dark tarp and rounds it to me.

She’s dressed in a pair of casual black jeans, a dark jacket, and our matching black Converse.

I could have dressed down, but I figured if PIS agents aren’t completely unusual around here, my uniform might help me out.

El slides her hands around my waist and I let out a shuddering breath into her hair.

“It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay,” she says. “You good?”

No . I want to turn around and forget I was ever looking for answers, because it’d be easier that way.

If I quit now, though, El doesn’t get her answers, either. So, for her, I nod.

El caresses the side of my face with her thumb. “Let’s go.”

We skirt around the side of the building, ducking behind the bushes separating the open desert from the airstrip.

We crouch down low and peer over the top of the plants.

The airfield isn’t super active at this hour, but there’s still a flurry of airline workers driving luggage carts and golf carts across the landing strips.

Air traffic control has a clear view of the tarmac, so we’re going to need to stay out of sight as best we can.

“All right,” I say, surveying. “We’re going to want to keep to the shadows, hide behind those crates, behind cars. Stay out of sight. First cover—that car.”

There’s a truck parked a few feet away from the bushes.

“Then what?”

“One step at a time, Agent Ariel. Let’s get behind cover.”

El nods, pushing her way through the sparse bushes and stepping onto the tarmac. A branch swings back and pokes me in the side.

“Ow,” I mutter.

“ Stealth , Agent Carter. Stealth. ”

“I know ,” I snap back.

She keeps low and tugs her sweatshirt hood over her head and is about to slide her sunglasses on.

“El,” I whisper.

“What?”

“Too much stealth.”

“Sorry.”

El scurries across the concrete and slides behind the tire of the truck.

I look both ways and join her. El does an honest-to-god roll across the ground to reach the other wheel so we both have cover.

If we weren’t potentially going to get arrested, I’d be blushing.

Stealth El is really damn cute. In fact, she looks anything but cool and picture-perfect.

I think she’d like what she sees in this new look.

Voices echo across the tarmac and walkie-talkies beep, and they’re getting closer. I raise one finger to my lips and press myself hard against the wheel.

“Forte’s expected here within the half hour. Is his lounge prepped?” one of the workers says.

“Yep,” a walkie-talkie voice answers.

“Stocked with the new vodka?”

“… Shit .”

“Hang on,” the worker says. “I’ve got an extra bottle in my car. I’ll go grab it.”

“You didn’t drink it?”

“Would you ?”

“Fair, dude.”

I sigh in relief and peer around the wheel of the car before motioning toward a stack of crates. Walkie-talkie guy has his back turned, so El dives out first and I follow. She halts in place, knocking me back onto my ass, and a golf cart whirs by a moment later.

“Too close,” she says, keeping her voice low. “What now?”

I look around us for opportunities. There’s a luggage cart that’s covered by a curtain within reach. There’s a label on one of the visible pieces of luggage.

It’s going to a hangar.

“El…” I motion toward it.

It’s a safer option across the tarmac than we have otherwise, so we tread carefully, each step and breath full of dread. I like to think that for amateur super spies, we’re doing a decent job, but it isn’t helping my heart rate slow at all.

I go first, checking for eyes on us, and silently push the curtain open. El climbs in and minds the luggage strewn about inside. There’s a large stack on one side and a space along the other wall where we might be able to fit. I pile in after her, and we squish into the space.

I let El crawl into my arms, shielding her with my jacket and the brim of my hat. The cart’s motor roars to life and jerks us to the side. I hold on to El tightly as the luggage cart drives across the tarmac.

“We’re going to be okay,” she whispers.

I nod. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

There’s no way the driver can hear us over the thrum of the motor.

Each ridge in the tarmac makes the cart rattle, and at one point, a suitcase tumbles onto our heads.

I shield El with my body and take a duffel bag to the gut.

When the cart jolts to a stop, we wait to find out what our next steps are.

The curtain slides open with a harsh shriek of metal.

It opens on our left, and we hide to the right, shielded by luggage.

One of the workers grabs a suitcase near the far end of the cart and pulls it out.

There’s a momentary glimpse of my sneaker visible as it pulls away.

I yank my foot back, nudging another suitcase.

El’s hands shoot to grasp the handle and keep it from toppling over and exposing us.

“Trust me.” She slides to the other side of the cart, carefully hugging the shadowed perimeter, and hides behind the curtain in the moments between unloading. The workers won’t be able to see her from that angle. She’s safe.

I, on the other hand…

Another suitcase slides over, slowly chipping away at my cover. When the worker leaves, El wiggles out from behind the curtain, drops to the ground, and disappears. I follow El’s route out of the cart and land right behind her, hoping the coast is clear.

I straighten up and look at El, who has found a reflective vest and directional wands. What? I don’t get what she’s doing.

“Hey!” Someone shouts.

Shit .

“Sir, what are you doing here?” It’s an airport worker, wearing the same vest as El.

I freeze. Think . We’ve come too far to get arrested now.

El clears her throat and steps in.

“Sir, you’re looking for the Terra hangar, aren’t you?”

It’s a risk. A huge risk. But if PIS has been having their agents come around here lately and in the past, I must fit right in. The worker in front of us narrows his eyes, trying to place me, but I stare back with confidence. El glares, too.

I straighten the lapels on my suit and secure my hat. “Yes, I am. Sorry. Got a little turned around.”

“Hangar two,” El says.

“It’s three, actually,” the worker corrects.

El nods back. “You’re so right. Thank you. I’ll show him the rest of the way.”

The worker watches us warily as El takes me by the arm and guides me toward hangar three, just a few yards away.

“You are fucking brilliant,” I sigh.

“I know.” She beams.

Each hangar is its own behemoth. There are huge doors that open and allow the aircraft out, but getting in through the front is not an option.

We’re going to have to go around. We dart down the alleyway toward a door at the end of the hangar.

I don’t spot any cameras, but I’m sure there will be some inside.

Or not.

Who knows how many secrets Ian—or Marcus—truly wants to keep?

Thankfully, there’s no biometric scanner or key card swipe, so El reaches into her back pocket, then jimmies the lock open with a pin. The door pops with a mechanical hum and we slip inside. The motion sensor lights flicker on as we enter.

Except there’s no plane in here.

But there is an entire weapons workshop.

There are several workstations for in-progress rockets, drones, and other technology I can’t identify. Based on PIS’s categorizations, these are Type I crafts—small and unpiloted. Each one is marked with Terra iconography rather than PIS’s logo.