Page 47 of Only the Hunter

Peppy, and freshly charmed by a woman in a fitted uniform, no doubt. I don’t need help with my wheeled carry-on, so I simply step forward, holding onto it with a clipped, “I’ve got it.”

I hear the edge in my own voice a half-second too late to do anything about it. It’s not really about the suitcase.

“I actually slept. I don’t usually do that. The reclining seat makes a big difference.”

“Yeah. I don’t always…” My words trail as I read the customs signs, telling us which line to access based on country origin.

It’s easy to sleep well, apparently, when there’s a pretty flight attendant refilling your water every twenty minutes. I don’t say that. It’s petty, and worse, it’s not even his fault I didn’t sleep.

He doesn’t ask me to finish my sentence, and since I was basically about to explain myself for no reason, I let it drop.

We fall into the customs line. Conversations hum around us in a myriad of languages. The group in front of us is a family, and a line of business travelers fall into place behind us.

Gabe’s reading something on his phone, as serious as ever, and I’m reminded of the flight attendant’s laughter.

“Did you get her number?”

The question sounds more abrasive out loud than it did in my head.

He looks up from his screen. “What was that?”

Heat creeps up my neck. I shouldn’t have said anything. I swipe my phone screen, bringing it to life. Given I’m on leave, I no longer have access to my work email and have no messages. I gave my personal information to my team; seems they haven’t needed me.

“Number? Whose?”

“Nothing. Forget I said anything.” I’m sort of mumbling as I click on the weather forecast icon to see if anything’s changed since yesterday.

The line moves forward and Gabe’s attention returns to his phone.

It was a stupid question and I shouldn’t have asked.

The customs line moves quickly, and it’s not long before we’re standing in the queue for taxis.

I didn’t schedule any meetings for today. As someone who has experienced one too many flight delays, I like to build travel fiasco time into my schedule. I did reach out to Daniel Price, asking if he has a contact at the NGO. Unsurprisingly, he hasn’t responded. If he does, I plan on asking if he’s aware shots were fired outside his nondescript building.

Right as a taxi pulls up, my phone lights up with an incoming call.

Michael Harridan. Department of Justice.

Gabe must read the screen, because he opens the black taxi door and says, “Get in. Take the call. I’ll give the driver our address.” His hand at the small of my back is brief, professional, but I feel the pressure of it through my coat.

“Michael,” I say upon answering.

“Evie. Where are you?”

I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. The burn behind my eyelids is a reminder that while I might have slept on the plane, the quality was lacking.

“I’m on a leave of absence. Why does that matter?”

“What if my team has questions? You dropped⁠—”

“My team has answers. Is there something specifically you need?”

“Where are you?”

“Why?”

When I open my eyes, I catch Gabe staring intently at me. The driver is focused on merging into traffic. A horn beeps from an indiscernible direction. It’s the typical chaotic airport exit scene.