Page 4

The salon smelled of hairspray and citrus shampoo. The walls were painted a nauseating shade of pink, and a chandelier made of plastic crystals dangled precariously overhead.

Tommy sat in the chair, scowling at his reflection as the stylist—a stout woman with expertly dyed blond and purple-streaked hair—clipped away at his overgrown locks.

“Not so short,”

he snapped, wincing as she ran the clippers close to his ear.

“You are lucky I don’t have to use my garden shears,”

she snapped back in a thick accent.

“Stop being a baby,”

Tessa said. Inches of his hair fell to the floor. She paced behind him, her mouth quirked to one side in thought. He saw her chewing the inside of her cheek as she strategized their next move.

It was sexy as hell.

She might claim that she hated the spy world and wanted nothing more to do with any of it, but she was damn good at this stuff. She had connections Meg didn’t. She knew how people thought and how to manipulate them without violence or threats. At least, nothing directly threatening. She liked it when people owed her favors. When they felt indebted.

He wondered how much he would be indebted to her when this was over.

If I get out alive, I’ll give her anything she wants.

Was it too much to hope that she wanted him?

Not as a friend. At least not only as one.

Fantasy, that. She was older, wiser, and saw him as nothing but a kid. Jessie’s little brother. He’d never shake that label.

Not that he wanted to. Jessie had been his hero growing up. They’d survived so much together—losing their parents and being shuffled around from one foster home to another. Jessie had made sure they were together more than they were apart, but there’d been times when even she couldn’t override the system. She’d gotten good at running away, though. Running away and finding him.

Throughout it all, she’d brought him books, games, and food. She’d insisted he read philosophy, poetry, and history. Most of it he hated, but he would’ve done anything to make his sister proud.

Now, he wished he could thank her. Tell her how much he appreciated what she’d done for them, for him. Just to see her one more time, put his arms around her.

Sorina finished with his hair but refused to spin him around so he could see himself in her mirror. “Da?”

she said to Tessa, gesturing at him with her dagger-like nails. “Better?”

Tessa eyeballed him. “He looks… Older. Smarter. I’ll get him some glasses.”

He tried to pivot in the seat, but Sorina blocked him, picking up a different pair of scissors. “Now that disgusting beard.”

He threw up a hand to block her. “I need to keep some facial hair. It’s part of my disguise.”

“Your disguise is blown after the embassy riots,”

Tessa told him. To the stylist, she said, “Trim it down to a ghost layer. Keep it neat.”

“As you wish,”

the woman replied.

He flinched as she went to work again, her sharp scissors barely missing the end of his nose.

“Why don’t I get a say in this?” he asked.

“You’re the one who let your beard grow out like a mountain man,”

Tessa said, leaning against the checkout counter with her arms crossed, unamused.

“Still lucky I don’t need my garden shears,”

Sorina said, not hiding her amusement as she whacked away at his cheeks and chin.

The minutes dragged as he forced himself to sit still. Sorina traded the scissors for clippers, the buzz filling his ears while Tessa regarded him without sympathy.

When the stylist finally stepped back, she rotated the chair, and Tommy blinked at himself. It was a shocking change to see the sides of his head trimmed close with only a few longer locks left on top. His beard was nothing more than a shadow on his jaw.

“Holy shit,”

he muttered. He hadn’t looked this clean and upstanding since he’d posed for his State Department photo.

“You look like a respectable human being again,”

Tessa said, tilting her head as she examined him.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I look like me again. If they catch me on camera, facial rec will ID me.”

Tessa went behind a screen, and he heard her rummaging through drawers. She returned with a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses and a small tote. When she opened the tote, he saw it contained a myriad of makeup and silicon facial features—eyebrows, cheek ridges, and chins. In the right hands, his face could be transformed.

Apparently, Tessa had the skills to do it. “Just some subtle tweaks,”

she said, winking at him. “If we change your brow bone, lower your earlobes, and thicken your cheekbones, that should be enough to fool most facial rec systems. You’ll wear a cap and these glasses, too.”

By the time she finished, he looked like himself—except not. She’d used makeup to blend in the artificial enhancements and added wrinkles, making him look at least ten years older.

She put away the case, tipped Sorina handsomely, and signaled him to stop gawking at himself in the mirror. “Time for your photo shoot.”

Returning to the souvenir shop, Tommy stood where he was told to let the man snap his picture. Vasile angled the camera so that Tessa could peer at the photo.

She examined it with a critical eye. “You clean up well,”

she said. Vasile had her veil wrapped and ready to go. She scooped it up. “We’ll be back in two hours.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He waved her off. “Get out of here so I can work.”

The rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and heavy. Tessa checked her watch. “Lunch?”

“Is it safe to be seen with me?”

Her critical gaze ran over him again. She touched one of his brows as if brushing off a stray hair. “I think you’ll pass, Professor.”

“Professor?”

“Yes. A distinguished college professor—that’s what you remind me of.”

The way she said it, as if the idea verged on a racy fantasy, made him stand a bit taller. “Of what? Philosophy? History? Science?”

he asked, playing along.

“Literature, I think.”

“Boring,” he said.

“Sexy,”

she countered.

She didn’t take him to any of the popular tourist hotspots. Instead, she led them into a tiny café on a side street, its windows slightly fogged from the warmth inside. They ordered bowls of soup and a plate of grilled meats, which arrived steaming and fragrant.

Wiping the moisture off the window with a napkin, Tommy scanned the street outside. He kept running a hand through his short hair and wondering how to make casual conversation. It had been too long since he’d had to act normal.

Tessa simply regarded him while she ate, seeming content with the silence.

The place was nearly empty. The gal behind the counter kept giving him flirty glances and even winked. He ignored her, watching the street for any sign of danger.

“You’re paranoid,”

Tessa said, dipping a chunk of bread into her soup.

“Paranoia has kept me alive.”

She nodded. “Relax. That’s my job for now.”

But halfway through their meal, his vigilance paid off. Across the street, he saw movement that made the remaining hair on his neck stand up. “Down!”

He yelled just as a crack rang out and the window spiderwebbed.

Tessa hit the floor, and for half a second, his heart stopped dead in his chest. He thought she’d been shot, but as he joined her, pulling her to him, her eyes were wide, and she blinked at him.

Another shot punched through the remaining glass, embedding itself in the wall.

With barely a thought, he jerked her onto her hands and knees and shoved her forward. “Go,”

yelled. “Back door!”

She grabbed her backpack. The other patrons were screaming, and the girl behind the counter had disappeared. He couldn’t take time to check and see if any of them were hit, scrambling to get Tessa to safety.

She shoved the back door open, and he saw a small gated area with a dumpster and two cars packed into a tiny patch of concrete. The vehicles had to belong to the waitress and the cook.

When he went to grab Tessa and head for the locked gate, she pointed. “Fire escape.”

She was on it and climbing before he could argue.

As they scrambled to the roof, a bullet pinged off the metal steps below. Whoever was shooting wasn’t far behind, but when he glanced down, all he saw was a hooded figure taking cover near the dumpster.

“What’s your plan here,”

he said as they hit the roof, “bodyguard.”

“Shut up and run,”

she snapped, tugging him toward the edge.

He didn’t like where this was going. “You can’t be serious.”

But she was. He watched with a mixture of shock and fascination as she launched herself off the building roof and onto the one next to it.

She fell into a controlled roll and bounced back up on her feet. Blood covered one of her arms. She had been shot.

“Coming?”

she called. Was that a challenging grin on her face?

Gritting his teeth, he ran for the ledge and leaped.