She spent the rest of the flight sleeping, or at least pretending to. It was a safety mechanism. A buffer that kept things between them safe and detached. When their conversation dipped into something too serious, or even something too casual and familiar like the old days, a creeping awkwardness came over her. It would start with the warm sensation of blood at her face—embarrassment, almost. And then a burning at the tips of her ears, until they felt so hot she imagined them lit like embers. If she and Tucker could just stay in that middle ground, not too cold and not too warm, they’d be fine.

It was that damn warmth she’d felt all morning. Warmth from the sun coming through the window, and warmth with Tucker. She was almost surprised each time she woke and found him still with her in a private jet, surprised with each of her discoveries that the whole thing hadn’t been a dream.

If they could just keep things nice and simple, and cool, until Johannesburg. And then, until United States. If she could get there in one piece, a single solitary human with no attachments . . . Maybe then, she could properly start over.

“Good afternoon lady and gentleman.” It was the radio-voice of the pilot coming through to the cabin. “Please prepare for landing.”

Macy buckled her seat belt. Her hands gripped both armrests. When she looked back to Tucker, he hadn’t moved, his seatbelt still undone. He was leaning back into the headrest, his muscled body looking loose and easy. His eyes, closed. He was almost smiling.

* * *

Tucker seemed to know where to find his people, weaving through the crowded Johannesburg airport with Macy’s backpack on his shoulders, and his own two bags slung over his arms. Always the gentleman, even looking back at her every few seconds. He didn’t have to be so nice, did he?

“Come on,” he said, smiling back at her. “Don’t make me hold your hand.”

It was a smart move on his part, the threat propelling her forward. She stayed close, nearly attached to his heels as they needled through the crowd. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like if they’d touched. Even just their hands, for the briefest of moments. So far, contact between them had been all eyes. Not that that made it any less intense. On the plane, especially, there had been something very tactile, very hungry, with the way his gaze fell on her.

Tucker’s friends, in contrast, seemed to barely notice her. Or if they had, they made sure to hide it with wavering eyes that looked mostly everywhere but at her. It gave Macy the impression that she had been the topic of a lot of conversation. No matter what the topic had really been, she didn’t like it.

Tucker directed her to two men, one of whom she recognized from pictures as Kyle, the American oil worker an Angola. Her last-ditch effort to get home, her one-time enemy who had unknowingly trained her assassins in Syria. “I have to be honest with you,” he said with a pained expression. “This is a little awkward.”

“Yes,” Macy said. “Yes, it is.”

“But I’m glad you made it.”

Macy nodded.

“I’m glad you made it to Johannesburg,” Kyle said. “But I’m also glad you made it out of Syria. Whether it’s appropriate or not, I’d like to apologize for my role in the whole—”

“No, no,” she said, cutting him off. “Please. It’s not necessary.”

Kyle’s chest heaved as he took a deep breath.

“Maybe not even appropriate,” Macy said. “But thanks.”

A weak smile crossed Kyle’s lips. And then he looked away, his face covered with guilt.

“For whatever it’s worth,” she said, “I accept your apology.”

“You guys were both screwed over pretty equally,” Tucker said. “Well, maybe not equally, but . . .”

“It wasn’t equal at all,” Kyle said. “I’ve been taken care of. I’m over here working and living in a nice house. She’s here just trying to survive day by day.”

“We should get going,” said the third man in the group. His head, full of red hair cropped to the side, was nodding back toward the huge expanse of the airport parking lot. “We’ll have plenty of time for apologies and all that later.”

“No, we’re done with that,” Macy said, looking at Kyle. “Right?”

Kyle nodded and stuck out his hand. And that was it, a quick and firm handshake settling the nightmare of Syria. It was way more than she’d expected. Her whole point in tracking Kyle down was to ask for a little help. She didn’t even think about apologies. What good would they do her now?

But at the end of the day, Tucker was right, at least with the part that they’d been both screwed over.

Jasper, the ginger, sat behind the wheel and sped the car down the busy highway. Next to him was Kyle, who was flipping through something on his phone. And next to Macy was Tucker. He was sitting still. No phone to distract him. He wasn’t even looking out the window, but straight ahead. Macy glanced over to him again and caught his gaze. The faintest lines gathered in the corner of his eyes, a hint of wrinkles, hints of time. Crow’s feet. He wasn’t the fresh-faced police recruit any longer, the onetime object of her desire. The onetime frustratingly unavailable man. He was just Tucker now, whoever that was. Whoever he had become. Single, solitary Tucker. Here in South Africa. And she had him all to herself, if she still wanted.

* * *

Macy locked the door, slowly, gliding the deadbolt through the latch. She turned and the crossed the room—her new room—in a five-star luxury hotel. It was cleaner, more spacious—and safer—than she’d ever known since her journey began in North Africa. She was at the window now, looking out at the approach of evening. The shadows stretched long across the sky, already turning a deep blue beyond Johannesburg’s skyscrapers. Macy felt it coming. Night. A shift, a break in the pattern. She welcomed it.

Still looking out the window, but now through a soft opaque curtain, she reached down to unbutton and unzip her pants. With a long, glorious sigh, she tugged her jeans down and stepped out of them. She turned around to face the bed. It was empty.

That much hadn’t changed.