Zombie had everything ready for a clean exit.
Her make-up turned Ashur into a polished academic: light brown hair, green contact lenses, black frames, a white shirt and a chocolate-brown tie. Even so, his height and muscle still drew eyes.
The airport was packed. It was odd that they hadn't put us on a private jet to Tokyo—but that worked in my favour.
Ashur stood beside me; he'd shadowed every step and refused to drift even an inch away. He knew exactly what I was thinking, which was irritating—and a little comforting.
A few minutes in, I edged towards the toilets and said, flat, cool,
"I need the toilet."
Then I smirked. "If you're worried I'll run, you can always come in with me."
He caught the jab, but his expression didn't move. He pointed at my suitcase and said, ice-cold,
"I'll hold your bag."
I raised a brow, not surprised. I offered him the handle, took a step back. "You're ridiculous."
Even with the green lenses and glasses, his blank, icy stare cut straight through me. He leaned closer—close enough to breathe against my ear—and murmured in that terrifyingly soft way,
"Watch yourself."
My heart dropped. My lungs stalled. I only remembered how to breathe when he eased away.
"Sure," I muttered, pressing my lips together.
I turned and headed in. Long strides. A cubicle door. Click.
For a few seconds I just stared at the grey metal, breath skittering. Then I yanked open the buttons of my beige trench coat and slipped out of the long black shirt dress underneath.
I had a burgundy vest and a black leather skirt on beneath it. Good thing Emily and I were only one size apart. I bent, pulled sheer black tights from the trench pocket, sat on the tiles, and wriggled them on.
Up again. Boots back on. I balled the trench and the black dress in my fist, slipped out of the cubicle and crossed to the mirrors.
I stripped off the burgundy wig. From under my clothes I pulled the short black wig I'd stashed and jammed it into place.
A cubicle door opened; a woman stepped out. I fixed the hair quickly.
I tugged my second passport from the neckline of my top. Ashur thought my documents were in the suitcase; I didn't actually need it.
In the mirror, I took my burgundy lipstick from the waistband of my skirt, swiped it on—and last night flashed back: just before I left the shower I'd written across the steamed glass, "I have to run. I need spare clothes and new ID."
When I told Zombie there was a flaw in her make-up, she checked the mirror quickly; by morning, on the same fogged glass, she'd drawn an arrow towards the wooden towel basket. Under the towels: extra clothes, fresh IDs. There wasn't time to thank her. She just winked on my way out; I gave her a smile.
I lowered the lipstick and aimed it at the mirror. A woman at the sink watched me wash my hands. I wrote, in Russian: "Hope we never see each other again, Piranha—" and sketched a smiley beside it.
One last smirk at my reflection. I pulled a beige drawstring sack from the trench pocket—the kind you wear like a backpack—stuffed the trench and the dress inside, cinched it tight and slung it over my shoulder.
I waited for the middle-aged woman and her little girl to leave. Then I moved with them, heart beating against bone.
The corridor stretched on forever. Everything depended on whether Ashur was posted ahead.
I let my hair fall across my face and hunched a little. Over the woman's shoulder I caught his profile: suitcase in hand, brows knotted, standing guard at the side of the hall.
Right then, two elderly women and a younger girl entered and cut his line of sight. I slid past. I felt his gaze land—too late. My back was to him, and with the hair and the clothes he wouldn't clock me.
Heels ticked on the stone. I glanced back—no Ashur. He'd probably gone into the toilets to check.
I pushed through the crowd. I checked the departures board for my gate. I wasn't going to Tokyo; on the ticket Emily had booked for me, my destination was France.
Noise rang in my ears. My chest rose and fell too fast.
Everything came down to today.
Everything.