Chapter Twenty-Eight

Red

Red held off calling for an ambassador because it was all just so stupid.

Elena's tactic had been a surprise. And Red was begrudgingly impressed.

It could have backfired on Elena. It could have gone very much against her. It was probably against some law to make a false bomb accusation. Things could have snowballed if Elena had been traveling on a fake passport.

But they hadn't. And Red was tucking this experience into her mental file of desperate escape plans.

Despite rescuing Elena twice last night, apparently Elena didn't buy Red's cover story of working for Kamal's security.

As Red had navigated the new twist with Amsterdam airport security, her team, of course, knew what was happening. Even when handcuffed, she was able to tap the panic button on her phone, which opened her phone's mic to her support. They had listened in from the point that the guards marched Red to their offices.

Color Code didn't send anyone from State, so they must have wanted her to handle the situation on her own.

Red had been detained for hours now.

Hours.

She'd missed her plane, though she was assured that her luggage had made it through.

The guards found her suitcase and brought it into the interrogation room, where Red followed the instructions to open it and remove every article. Tampons be damned. Everything went through machines and scanners. Gloved professionals wiped down the contents with towelettes to find explosives residue. Dogs were sniffing through her stuff, and one of them locked onto her personal toy—which, granted from a dog's point of view, probably looked like a throw toy—but, still, disconcerting as hell. I mean, what the actual heck?

They put her in a machine that blew air over her that would detect any explosives. Red considered the possibility. It was hard to get explosive particulates off the skin, even with soap and water. And there was that bombing just days ago.

Yes, saved by the stall. But still, explosive residue hovered in that cloud of dust. And she'd swum through that mess to check on Moussa.

The blowing air machine was the only time Red was mildly concerned since she couldn't use Lebanon as an excuse. There was nothing in her passport that would say that Lebanon was possible. If the blow test came back positive for explosives, she'd have to get the embassy involved.

She had been silent through it all, simply nodding or performing the commanded action.

The first rule when dealing with law enforcement was "zip it and keep it zipped."

At that point, her phone still had some juice. She could open her phone log to show the officials that no calls had come in or out since the day before, and that was from her cat sitter. There were no texts beyond the fake back-and-forth of pet videos, cookie recipes, and occasional haircuts or doctor's appointments. There was a group at Langley who had the job of populating burner phones this way.

Nothing on this phone supported what that woman was saying, and just like that, Red was free to go.

Meanwhile, Elena was flying over the Mediterranean, being served dinner.

Red was starving.

Once she was calm enough to sound professional, Red reached out to the team. "Do you have me on the next flight?"

"The last flight was booked solid. Overbooked," the voice at support said. There was no chance she was going anywhere tonight. They had her on a flight the following day. "Sorry about the seat. We have you booked into a hotel tonight. Sorry about that one, too."

"It's fine. Just message me the info. I'm going to find food."

Red was so damned pissed.

She drove the anger down her legs out her heels as they clacked over the terrazzo flooring across the expanse of airport corridors to the main exit. Overnight with only the things in her purse. She did a mental inventory—a water bottle, an extra pair of panties, a sweater. An extra-large T-shirt had multiple uses—a mini dress or pjs, a safe cover for a dubious pillow, or a pillow in and of itself if she stuffed it with her sweater. Toothbrush and toothpaste, comb. From a make-do point of view, she was set.

She pushed through a door marked "Ground Transportation" out into a pleasant night.

A gale would have fit her mood better.

Her ego bruised, Red's pissed-off meter was still ranging in the orange space.

She stood at the end of the taxi queue and read her messages about essential operational awareness for the city. There was a soccer match and not much else.

That must have been why they were sorry about the hotel; they were probably all full of fans.

Fleabag it is.

Red copied and pasted the address into her map's search engine. It was a two-star and not in the best part of town. Actually in a kind of shitty part of town, but beggars can't be choosers.

Red wasn't on her A-game. The illness, the fights, and this whole "you're being accused of terrorism schtick" had really drained her. Luckily, she was only a twelve-minute walk from the hotel. The taxi line was long. And people looked like they were fed up, which meant they'd probably been standing there for a while.

She'd hoof it.

Once she got there, she'd start with that longed-for shower she'd been promising herself, then find some dinner. She messaged in: Outside the airport. Walking to hotel.

The battery was red, so she quickly memorized the route before the screen went black.

Her power pack was devoid of juice.

It was fine.

It should be fine.