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 at some point, I gotta call this deal done. I’ve been sitting on a couple of other jobs, and the customer comes first and all that.”

  I said, “Yes, for sure. You went above and beyond for us, and I owe you. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, let me know.”

  “Mate, now that I know you have 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 find the time from going after international arms dealers and all that shit.” His tone was laden with sarcasm, but the weariness was just under the surface.

  We were both worn out, but Luanda got up and started checking windows and exits. I just watched her from the couch, moving around the townhome.

  The likelihood is that someone had built this townhome illegally, splitting off a single townhome into two. It was too narrow to make sense design-wise. Three stories tall but with a spiral staircase in the back corner to save space. There was a single bedroom on each floor, and a great room with a kitchen on the main floor. The walls were almost close enough to be claustrophobic.

  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 place or were going from building to building, we would have some notice.

  Luanda had me help her move the furniture so that the long couch abutted the front door at an angle, with the other end against the wall, then she took two rubber door jambs she had found somewhere and forced them under the bottom.

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

  We sat down at the distressed white table, and Luanda started taking things out of her purse. It felt like a bottomless pit, with various organized packages emerging. While much of it is what you would expect—a wristlet for cash and cards, personal hygiene items, a cellphone and charger, and a bag with protein bars—other items didn’t seem as likely to be in a purse.

  When she removed the tiniest handgun I had ever seen—it was almost smaller than my hand. I asked, “Is that real? Can something like that actually kill someone?”

  “The LCP is cool; it shoots 380. I wouldn’t try to hit anything past 30 yards, but it’s deadly enough. Kind of a gun of last resort. I put in a few rounds every few weeks just to keep a feel for it, but it’s my least favorite gun regardless of the convenient size.”

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

  The next thing she took out of the purse was a see-through passport holder with a dark green passport and some additional papers. At a glance, it looked genuine, and as a connoisseur of fake IDs, I really wanted to look it over. “Wow, that looks like an outstanding job on that passport. Can I see it?” Somehow, the possibility that it wasn’t fake hadn’t entered my mind.

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

  I gave her the three IDs I had on me, and she gave me the passport case. “Why the heck do you have three IDs on you? Aren’t you worried about that looking suspicious?” She asked.

  “Each one has a different account, and if I do something to compromise one, I can swap out. But getting caught doesn’t matter much. If a cop checks any of those IDs too closely, the photo won’t match what they can pull up, so I try not to get asked for them by cops. The one time I got pulled over, I told them I forgot it and gave them my real name. I got a ticket for it, but my real name and record are clean.”

  I was looking at the Nigerian Passport she had given me. It was immaculate. Every detail looked authentic; it even had the ePassport page with a chip. The Nigerian driver's license and international driving permit also appeared authentic. Of course, I didn’t know the exact specifications for any of them, but genuine documents have a certain quality that is frequently missing in fakes. I suddenly realized that this could be her actual real identity. “Are these real?”

  “According to Griss, the passport is perfectly good and will check out at any port of entry, but the name is an alias, and I’ve never used it. Yours look real too, is there any chance whoever you get them from might give all your aliases to the police, or do you make these yourself?”

  “I buy them in bulk from China. I get one for myself with each batch; the rest get sold to other people. The biggest danger is picking them up in the first place. All the data is real except the photo.”

  “So you are not Ethan Hayes, age 25, or Caleb Garcia, age 19, or Dylan Walker, age 22? I kind of like Dylan. Can you be Dylan?” She held up each ID as she spoke the name, and the smile was the first actual one I’d seen on her since Stillpoint, even if it was small.

  “That is the problem. I sometimes forget the names. I keep a file with details on all of them. All of those are real people, and the information matches them. The only difference is the photo of me. When I gave you a fake name, I was so flustered at seeing Dave with the gun that I gave you Trey, which is my real first name, but Gladwell was random.”

  I waved the passport, so you aren’t really…” I paused, reading the name aloud. “Aisha Bello? Aged 23?”

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

  Launda 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.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  She flipped through till she found a local station. It was an episode of an old show with a fat lawyer making speeches in front of a judge, but the important thing was the yellow alert scrolling across the bottom. “Suspects are considered armed and dangerous. Do not approach, call 911.”

  We spent the next hour or two just flipping between the local stations, watching them all display police reports and warnings. The tickers all announced some variation of this: “At around 11:05 AM, a KCCF prisoner escaped police custody with the help of at least one other suspect. The incident took place near Fifth and Battery when a stolen car crashed into an unmarked police car that was transporting the suspect. A state police detective was shot and pronounced dead at the scene, and another man, whom police are not yet describing as a suspect, was taken to the hospital.”

  When the actual news came on, we realized how bad it was. They displayed our pictures the whole time they talked. Eventually, Luanda said, "They're painting us as cop killers. 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 real hope here is to drop so much evidence against Nick and Jacob in the cops' lap that they have no choice but to see you as the victim and not the perpetrator," I said, 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, her voice flat, as she turned towards the TV. Her lines faded, and her mouth tightened with resolve. "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 gaze directly, her expression leaving no room for argument. "You're helping me with my fucking hair."

  We spent the next 30 minutes looking for supplies to help take down her box braids. It wasn’t looking good until we came to the cleaning closet. It was locked with a padlock, and 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 big win came when we found a bin of leftover items from previous travelers. It was like a trove of shampoos, conditioners, and other haircare products. Nestled inside was a purple bottle with bold letters declaring it “Silkwood Slip Cream.“ Luanda’s eyes closed, and she let out a whispered “yes” when she found it. The second win was a small black-handled pair of grooming scissors.

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

  Luanda snipped each braid two inches from where her real hair met the synthetic, her movements precise despite the fatigue in her eyes. With her hair shorter, she would wet it thoroughly with water and then use the slip cream. After that, it was a matter of unwinding the braid using our fingers, with some occasional help from the rattail comb she carried in her purse.

  She worked on one side while I worked on the other. When I would get close to the base of her hair, she would take over and work out the area near the scalp. Each braid was time-consuming and detailed work.

  After she had cut the fourth braid, I asked, "Wouldn't it just be easier to cut these a lot shorter?"

  Her eye turned on me like she was looking at me through the scope of a rifle. "Six fucking years. No way I am losing that just because you'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.

  We got a ping on my phone a few minutes later, and I dried my hands and picked it up. It was a Session message from Koko, so I read it aloud. “Hey, glad to see you guys made it to Safe House Charlie. Sorry for the long delay, I had to pretend to be unconscious to sell things, so they have me here on observation.

  “The cops already interviewed me a couple of times, and I just gave them the lie within a lie act. I told them I was distracted by a dog near the road and didn’t notice the traffic stop ahead. When I did, I lost control of the car. They assumed I was texting while driving, but when they implied it, I just shut up and told them I had to talk to my lawyer.

  “I only now got my phone back. I’ll get a ride back to my place in a bit to get one of my other cars. Griss called from the jail and left a message. They’re keeping him overnight on resisting charges, but he thinks they’ll dismiss them or offer him a plea option to a civil ticket in the morning.

  “I’m going to 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. It’s best if you 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 worry about the cost, I’ll pay whatever he needs if you can’t. He’s got a lot better intel than anyone Griss or I know.”

  Luanda’s reaction upon hearing about the care package was immediate. “Tell her I need the whole fucking pharmacy. I’m not looking forward to dealing with this after we finish.”

  We compiled a list of all the essentials, ranging from food to hair care to extra clothing. I was looking forward to getting out of these fancy clothes. They fit, and were comfortable—other than the shoes—but they weren’t me.

  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.”

  It took her a second, and I thought she wasn’t going to answer, but then she did. “Sophia’s got money. I mean real money. She loves doing dangerous things, and that’s why she likes Griss. It’s like she wants to get as close to that flame of danger as she can, and it makes her dangerous. I don’t want to see her hurt Griss.”

  Honestly, I got where she was coming from, but I didn’t think that was all there was to it. It sounded a bit too rehearsed. I nodded along and said, “I can see that, but I’m glad she is on our side right now.”

  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. Mind you, some were perfectly great, but some of them were just a facade over one or another kind of mess. I waited to see if she wanted to elaborate, but she let it drop, and so did I.

  We had been working at it for probably two hours in relative silence, other than the give and take of the task, but it felt more like a year to my fingers. She let out a little exasperated sigh and said, "Don't take this the wrong way, but as good as your fingers are at picking locks, you are almost as bad at this as Mom is, and I don't even let her help anymore."

  "Well, if I have my way, this will be as good as I ever become because I just don't see myself ever doing this again," I said.

  Her tone rose a tiny bit. "I don't think so. Keep improving, because we aren't even halfway done yet."

  We worked for another three hours before we got the rest of her braids down, and my fingers could not be happier. Luanda’s hair was out all the way, and she clearly was anxious to hit the shower, but we had to wait for Koko to show up with the supplies.

  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, black 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 collar of her jacket. The damaged skin was paler, almost pearlescent in places, and red and dark brown in others. Traced within and around some of the lighter areas were impossibly thin lines of tattooed flames 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-designed clothes underneath, her eyes rolled, and I knew I was in for an interesting evening.