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“So…we’re not discussing what I walked in on?”
“Nothing to talk about,” I returned as I hitched my pack over my shoulder.
With a shake of his head and a grin that clearly said he wasn’t buying my bullshit he opened the door.
“The St. Regis. And before you ask, he booked it in his name.”
“He wants her to know he’s here.”
My statement was met with my teammate’s agreement, “Yup.”
Fucking hell.
It was time to talk with Nebraska.
“Anna?” Smith quietly asked before he exited the room, holding the door open for me.
One word, not that I needed more to understand what he was asking.
“We wait.”
Smith’s sharp shake of his head spoke to his disagreement.
“Is it smart to start, whatever it is you’re starting on a lie?”
I could pretend I wasn’t following his logic but Smith had already let my subject change slide; he wouldn’t allow it a second time.
“Probably not, but the mission has to come first.”
As soon as the sentence left my mouth it felt wrong. So wrong, my gut clenched and my feet stopped moving.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Smith rightly noted my unease. “Don’t sit on it too long, Easton. Or there might come a time when she won’t be able to forgive you keeping something as important as this from her.”
I knew he was right. But telling her too soon could be just as bad.
Before I could respond—not that I had much of anything to say about Nebraska’s mother being alive besides Charlie being a spinless asshole for not telling her himself—Smith turned his head and looked down the hall.
With a lift of his chin he greeted, “Good timing.”
“Ready?”
I watched Smith crack a smile and shake his head, clearly not taking offense to her snappy tone. He also moved out of the doorway so I could move out into the hallway.
The only question Nebraska asked on our way down to the lobby was if we needed to call a taxi or if we had a rental. Once Smith told her we had a car, she looked away and kept her expression neutral as we made our way to the car park beside the Ritz. She only mumbled thank you when I held open the door for her as she slipped into the backseat. She didn’t speak again until we crossed over the 6th of October Bridge to the West Bank of the Nile and entered Giza.
“Has Maddon checked into the St. Regis yet?”
Her question had me turning in the passenger seat to stare back at her.
We hadn’t told her where Maddon was staying.
“What makes you think he’s at the St. Regis?”
With an uncharacteristic roll of her eyes that communicated she thought I was an idiot, she went on to use words to convey her sentiment.
“If Maddon is in Cairo he always stays at the St. Regis. He’s here and he wants me to know he’s here, so he won’t deviate. If he wanted to fly under the radar he’d stay at Zuberi Shamel’s compound in New Cairo City just outside of District 5.”
“Why do you think he wants you to know he’s here?”
