After we both sat and let some of the stress out, Whisper said, “Sorry you two, but I gotta sign off now. It’s been thirty-two hours, and I'm absolutely knackered. I’ll sign back in after a few hours' sleep, but I gotta wrap this up soon. Got other jobs waiting, customer first and all that.”

  I said, “You went way above and beyond. I owe you. If I can ever return the favor, say the word.”

  “Mate, now that I know you’ve got all these James Bond skills, I may have to take you up on that. Maybe a bit of a diamond heist in your future—if you can squeeze it in between chasing international arms dealers.” His tone was ced with sarcasm, but the weariness was just underneath.

  We were both worn out, but Luanda was still moving, checking windows and exits. I just watched her from the couch, letting my body sag into the cushions and hint at more pain tomorrow.

  Someone had probably built this townhome illegally, splitting a normal one into two. It was too narrow to make design sense—three stories tall, a fancy spiral staircase jammed in the corner, probably vioting every fire code. A single bedroom on each floor, a great room and kitchen filling the main one, with custrophobically close walls throughout.

  The ‘yard’ in the back fell off at a steep angle; mostly just ground cover and retaining walls. It provided a secondary exit with an excellent view; if police started working to surround the pce or were going from building to building, we would have some notice.

  Luanda had me help move the furniture, jamming the long couch at an angle against the front door, the other end braced against the wall. She found a couple of rubber doorstops somewhere and wedged them under the frame for good measure.

  We moved the table and chairs near the back windows where we could see out, but without being close enough that people could see in with the lights out.

  When we finally sat down at the distressed white table, Luanda started taking things out of the green and bck tote Griss had given her. It was a bottomless pit, with various organized packages emerging. Mostly what you’d expect—cash, hygiene kit, charger, protein bars—but some of it screamed survivalist more than woman about town.

  Then she pulled out the tiniest handgun I’d ever seen—almost smaller than my hand.

  “Is that real? Can something that small actually kill someone?”

  “Griss must have dumped half my go bag in here, but yes, the LCP’s plenty deadly. Shoots 380. Not much good past thirty yards, so it’s my gun of st resort. I shoot a few rounds every month just to stay sharp, but it’s my least favorite.”

  As she spoke, she pulled out a rge multitool, then a bck case that she held up and tilted back and forth for me to examine. “Real lockpicks, no more sharp-edged finger destroyers.” At the same time, her other hand mysteriously produced my credit card picks and set them on the table.

  The next thing caught my eye: a clear passport holder with a dark green passport inside—and some extra papers. At a gnce, it looked good. Really good. I leaned forward, my inner forger coming out.

  “Wow. That passport’s top tier. Can I see it?”

  She hesitated, her brow furrowed, and then said, “Sure, but I want to see yours too.”

  Fair enough. I handed her the three fake IDs I was carrying. She passed me the passport.

  “Why do you have three IDs on you? Aren’t you worried about getting caught?” She asked, flipping through.

  “Each one’s tied to a different account. If I burn one, I swap. Getting caught with one fake ID or three doesn’t matter. If a cop checks these too hard, the photo won’t match what they pull. So I just try not to get checked.” I shrugged. “One time I got pulled over, I told them I forgot my ID. I got a ticket, but my real name’s clean.”

  I flipped through the documents she gave me. Nigerian passport. Nigerian driver’s license. International driving permit.

  All looked perfect.

  Genuine documents have a feel that fakes can’t match—and these felt real.

  I looked up. “Are these real?”

  “According to Griss, they’ll check out at any port of entry. But the name’s fake. I’ve never used it.

  “Yours look real too,” she added, examining the IDs. “You sure whoever made them won’t give you up?”

  “I buy them in bulk from China. I keep one from each batch; sell the rest to other people. The biggest danger is the pickup. All the data is real except the photo.”

  “So you are not Ethan Hayes, age twenty-five, or Caleb Garcia, age nineteen, or Dyn Walker, age twenty-two? I kind of like Dyn. Can you be Dyn?” She held up each ID as she spoke the name, and the smile was the first one I’d seen on her since Stillpoint, even if it was small.

  “That’s the problem. I keep a file with all the details, but sometimes I forget who I’m supposed to be.” I chuckled, half embarrassed. “When I met you, I panicked. Trey’s my real first name. Gdwell was random.”

  I waved the passport. “So you aren’t really…” I paused, reading the name aloud. “Aisha Bello? Aged twenty-three?”

  “No. Luanda is how I think of myself, it’s as much of a name as I feel I have.” Her face was sad again, and somehow I felt I had ruined a moment.

  I wanted to lighten things up a bit, so I pointed at the TV that took up half the wall and said, “Wow, that's a stupid pce to put your computer monitor.”

  Luanda grabbed the TV controller and turned it on. “It’s a TV, idiot.” I caught the tiniest fraction of the smile again. It was a lot nicer than her scowl.

  She flipped through until she found a local news channel. Some old rerun was pying—a fat wyer yelling at a judge—but across the bottom scrolled a bright yellow alert: “Suspects are considered armed and dangerous. Do not approach, call 911.”

  We spent the next hour flipping between local stations and saw the same warnings: “At around 11:05 AM, a KCCF prisoner escaped custody with help from another suspect. A stolen car crashed into an unmarked police vehicle. A state police detective was shot and pronounced dead at the scene. Another man was hospitalized.”

  When the real news coverage started, it was worse. Our faces were everywhere.

  "They're painting us as cop killers,” Luanda said ftly. “Of course they are. Policing 101, grab up anyone involved, and if the truth is sitting in front of you, take it; otherwise, go with whatever is easiest.”

  “Our only hope’s to bury Nick and Jacob in so much evidence they can’t ignore it,” searching for the right way forward. "Until then, unless we stay invisible, jail time may be the least of our worries."

  Luanda looked at me, regret and uncertainty visible in the wrinkles around her eyes. She touched one of her long braids thoughtfully. "Invisible?" she echoed.

  She turned towards the TV and she breathed in deeply.

  "It's hard to be invisible when your hair looks like this." She gestured vaguely towards her head.

  "These have to go, and it's going to take hours."

  She met my eyes, no hesitation. "I'm going to need some help with my fucking hair if we want to get it done today."

  We spent thirty minutes hunting for supplies. No luck—until we found a cleaning closet. Locked with a padlock.

  Luanda’s eyes perked up at the possibility of a challenge, but when she saw it was a number three, the look of disgust on her face was so potent the lock almost opened itself out of sheer embarrassment.

  The jackpot was a bin of leftover traveler stuff—a trove of shampoos, conditioners, and half-used hair products. Nestled inside was a purple bottle with bold letters decring it “Silkwood Slip Cream.“ Luanda’s eyes closed, and she let out a whispered “yes” when she found it. The second win was a bck-handled pair of grooming scissors.

  We sat down in chairs in the main room, the TV on, watching periodic live updates and gncing out the window. The process was straightforward but not easy.

  Luanda snipped each braid about two inches above where the synthetic ended and her real hair began, her movements steady despite the fatigue in her eyes.

  After cutting, she wet the short braids down with water and slip cream.

  The rest was painstaking handwork—unwinding, untangling, easing her real hair free with occasional assists from the rattail comb in her purse.

  She took one side, I took the other. When I got near the roots, she’d swap in and finish the base. It was slow, finicky, frustrating work—each braid a miniature project.

  After the fourth cut, I asked, “Wouldn’t it be easier to just chop these way shorter?”

  Her eyes locked on mine like a sniper scope. “Six fucking years. I’m not losing that just because we’re tired. We have all night and probably through tomorrow to be here unless Koko comes, and maybe even then. Suck it up soldier."

  My hands went up, signaling defeat.

  My phone pinged a few minutes ter, and I dried my hands and read the Session message from Koko aloud.

  “Hey, gd you guys made it to Safe House Charlie. Sorry for the dey, I had to fake unconscious to sell the crash, so they have me here on observation.

  “Cops already interviewed me. I pyed it dumb—bmed a dog in the road, let them think I was texting, and wyered up after that.

  “I only now got my phone back. I’ll get a ride back to my pce in a bit to get one of my other cars.

  “Griss called from the jail. They’re keeping him overnight on resisting charges, but he thinks they’ll dismiss them or offer him a plea to a civil ticket in the morning.

  “I’ll bring you guys a care package as soon as I can, including a set of wheels. Let me know what you need, and I’ll get it.

  “Stay put unless we get a hint they have a clue where you are. Whenever Whisper wakes up, we’ll have him keep tracking you. Don’t stress the cost; I got it. He’s a shit ton better than anyone Griss or I know.”

  Luanda’s reaction was instant: “Tell her I need the whole fucking pharmacy. I’m not looking forward to the aftercare on this,” she said, gesturing at her head.

  We compiled a list—food, haircare, extra clothes. I couldn’t wait to ditch the fancy clothes. They fit. They were comfortable. But they weren’t me. Silk shirts went with fancy watches and thick rings on thick fingers. Nothing good.

  After we finished chatting on Session, I got back to work helping with her hair and asked, “So what’s your beef with Sophia. Honestly, she seems great to me.”

  She hesitated so long I thought she wouldn’t answer, but then she did. “Sophia’s got money. I mean real money. She’s a particur kind of adrenaline junkie, and that’s why she likes Griss. She wants to get as close to that fme as she can, and it makes her dangerous.

  “I don’t want to see her hurt Griss.” Her eyes didn’t track mine as she said it.

  I got it, but it sounded a bit too rehearsed. I nodded along and said, “I can see that, but I’m gd she is on our side.”

  People with money could be crazy in weird ways. I’d poked into a bunch of their lives as a hacker, and sometimes I didn’t like what I found. Some were perfectly great, but some of them were a facade over a nasty mess.

  I waited to see if she wanted to eborate, but she let it drop, and so did I.

  We kept working in mostly silence for the next two hours. My fingers were cramping. My back ached. But we were making progress.

  She let out a sigh and said, “Let’s take a break. My adoptive mom used to help me with this—but she was awful at it. Thanks for helping. I wasn’t looking forward to doing it solo, especially starting so te in the day.”

  We spent three more hours unwinding her braids. When we finally finished, my fingers were dead and Luanda’s hair was free. She was clearly itching for a shower, but we had to wait for Koko.

  When she showed up and we got the door unblocked to let her in, I immediately had a few more guesses about why Luanda might have issues with her.

  Sophia stepped inside, pulling off a rain-slicked hood. Early thirties, maybe, with short, bck hair, dyed with streaks of silver. Her skin tone was deep, even darker than Luanda's—and marked by an intricate web of scarring starting halfway up her right cheek and disappearing below the colr of her jacket. The damaged skin was paler, almost pearlescent in pces, and red and dark brown in others. Traced within and around some of the lighter areas were impossibly thin lines of tattooed fmes that were so well integrated you almost didn’t notice them without focusing.

  She carried herself with an easy confidence and an inviting grin.

  When Sophia pulled off the expensive mauve raincoat, and Luanda saw the tight-fitting and clearly custom-tailored clothes underneath, her eyes rolled.

  I knew I was in for an interesting evening.