When the television changed, it took her a moment to realize what she was watching. It must have been some kind of surveillance footage because the picture was dark and grainy. It looked like some kind of fight. No. An attack. The word fight implies an even playing field, but this was one woman against a dozen men.
Except, Alex realized, the woman was winning. Punching and kicking and throttling men twice her size. What’s French for badass? Alex was just starting to wonder, when the picture froze and it was like an echo.
Because the face in the dark window blended with the face on the screen, like a before and an after. The hair on the screen was red—not blonde. She didn’t have any bruises and the clothes were different. But the face . . . the face was exactly the same, and for a moment, Alex couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. She couldn’t even think until her brain translated the words beneath the picture: Fugitive. Armed. Extremely dangerous.
And Alex said the only thing that made any sense at all: “I’m a spy!”
Chapter Three
Him
Jake Sawyer wasn’t a spy. He loathed that word. Hated it on three continents and in four languages. Because it was the word a child uses, a novice, a civilian.
Sawyer was an Operative. Capital O. He wasn’t some Hollywood actor with a stable of stunt doubles. He didn’t have a fancy car with an ejector seat. He’d never even worn a tuxedo. This wasn’t a facade for him. Not an act or a role or a persona. No. It was his actual, literal life, and he was tired. Of his life. And his job. And his missions and his enemies. And even his allies.
Especially Alex.
She’d looked half dead lying in the street, and for a moment, he’d thought he was too late. But then she’d stirred and looked up at him, squinting in the darkness, clearly concussed. And Sawyer felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Pity. Compassion. Warmth even though it was cold enough to freeze off some of his favorite parts of his anatomy.
He had known Alex, worked with Alex, trusted Alex for almost five years. But that was the first time he had ever seen her look like that, weak and defenseless. Fragile. And that was maybe the scariest thing of all.
He had to find her. The only thing that gave him any comfort was that if he couldn’t find her, then no one else could either. Probably. Hopefully.
She’d get to a safe house, lie low. Barricade herself behind a dozen walls and booby traps, because Alex was one of the most paranoid people he’d ever known. And he was a spy.
No. Damn it. Operative.
The snow wasn’t falling quite as hard, and, soon, the city would wake up and start digging out. Already, there were lights going on in bakeries, vents blowing out steam that smelled like fresh bread. His stomach growled, but his feet kept moving. And, for once, he didn’t bother checking his tail.
After all, if someone was back there, he’d already be dead.
Her
Sirens. Had they always been there, breaking through the chilly air? Alex wasn’t sure. So she kept her head down and her steps sure. Nothing to see here, her posture said. I’m no one to worry about.
I’m no one.
But the snow was so deep she missed a curb, and the ground wasn’t quite where she thought it would be, and that’s how she turned her ankle and ended up lying in the middle of the street. Again.
“Are you okay?” a voice rang out, and Alex pushed upright to see a man rushing down the sidewalk, heading toward her. The street must have seen some traffic at some point, because the snow was packed down, pressed into icy tracks, so she had to be careful as she climbed to her feet.
“Here, let me help.” Her first instinct was to scamper away, but her ankle hurt and her head swirled, and the man looked like someone’s grandfather—like he couldn’t wait for retirement so he could focus on his real passion: documentaries about World War II. “Are you lost? Can I call someone?”
“Oh, I’m fine!” （She wasn’t fine.） “I know where I’m going!” （She had no idea where she was going.） “I don’t need any help.” （She absolutely needed help.）
She knew how she looked—ripped tights and snow in her hair, bruise growing at her temple and bloody knees. But she was committed now. No backing down.
“Just kind of a klutz!” She pantomimed sliding on the ice—which made her actually slide on the ice, catching herself at the last possible moment.
“I’ll walk you wherever you’re going,” the man said helpfully. “You shouldn’t be out here alone in this.”
But she wasn’t alone. She had a tube of lip balm and four euros; a soggy tissue and a voice in the back of her head—warning bells that were starting to quiver.