The relief that washed through her was irrational and undeniable. The man had been about to blow a hole through her skull—he deserved to die. But not at Taka’s already bloody hands. “Good,” she said. She pushed her hair back from her face, knowing she looked like hell, knowing she needed a bathroom, knowing none of that mattered to Takashi O’Brien. “Then let’s go.”
He’d stopped shaking. He couldn’t remember ever shaking in his life, but in his rush to get to Summer, with the adrenaline spiking through his body, he’d been positively quaking by the time he saw them disappearing down the rampway. Quaking both with relief and fury.
It had been a close thing. If he’d been clumsy, or too fast, the man would have shot instinctively, and there would be two bodies lying on the ground in that deserted corridor. If Taka had been too slow it would have been too late, as well. As it was, he picked his moment perfectly, and the Brother had gone limp as the bullet nicked his spine.
He’d probably die, a fact that bothered Taka not one bit, but he’d lied to Summer, anyway. She’d had just about more than she could take, and another corpse might send her into hysterics, when he had to get her onto the plane as calmly and discreetly as possible.
So much for his idea of a shower and clean clothes. They were going to be stuck on a jet for thirteen hours smelling like smoke and chemicals, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
For once Summer was silent and obedient, keeping up with his long strides as he headed for the Oceana Air terminal. He didn’t even blink when Ella bumped into him, passing him the new papers before moving on, trundling her little suitcase behind her. Good thing Ella liked to fly; her current cover as a flight attendant was extremely useful.
“This way,” he said when Summer started to veer toward security. She followed him to the private elevator, and he pushed the button to close the doors before anyone could get on, then stopped it between floors, using one of the buttons programmed into his mobile unit. Very useful little gadget, and no one would notice the lift was out of commission for an hour, longer than he needed.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. She was as far away from him in the tiny elevator as possible, which wasn’t far at all.
“Checking the papers,” he said calmly.
“Where did you get them?”
“Trade secret.”
He pulled out the pack of documents Ella had given him and opened it up. Two passports, one Japanese, one American.
He looked at his likeness in the Japanese one. Hitoshi Komoru, age thirty-two. Complete with business cards from the Santoru Corporation—someone’s idea of a joke. Santoru’s was owned by his grandfather, who considered him a mongrel stain on the family honor. Takashi wasn’t amused.
He opened the American passport, trying not to show his dismay. They’d made it for Susan Elizabeth Komoru, his twenty-six-year-old wife, and in the photo Summer was smiling. He stared at it a moment, distracted. He hadn’t seen her smile the entire time they’d been together. Not surprising—he hadn’t given her much to smile about.
“What’s wrong?”
He handed her the passport. She stared down at it. “How’d they get that picture?” she said finally.
“I never ask. Does it matter?”
She said nothing for a moment. “Who’s Susan Komoru?”
“My wife.”
She looked as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “You’re married?”
An odd reaction for someone who hated him. “I mean you’re posing as my wife. I’m Hitoshi Komoru, you’re my American wife.”
She just stared at him, as if all this was too much too assimilate. He turned his attention back to the papers as he stuffed them back in the envelope, so she wouldn’t see his eyes. Not that she’d be able to read them—she seemed completely clueless as far as he was concerned.
He wanted to cross the tiny elevator and pull her into his arms, press her head against his shoulder and tell her it would be all right. He wanted to comfort her, when she was trying so hard to pretend that she didn’t need comfort.
He never should have kissed her on the island. It had thrown him off his game, when his resolve had already been wavering. He could have gotten the information out of her in other, more unpleasant ways, and while he might be inconvenienced by guilt, it would be nothing worse than the guilt he was already feeling.
Particularly when it had turned out that he wasn’t pretending at all.
He switched the elevator on again, and it began to move upward with a little jerk. Getting her on the plane would be simple, and once they were in the air he could finally relax. For twelve hours he wouldn’t have to think about who he was or what he was doing. For twelve hours she’d be completely safe. For twelve hours he could sleep.
First class on Oceana Air was about as good as it got. Free-flowing booze, seats that turned into beds, in-flight massage therapists. He got Summer planted in her seat, a glass of Scotch in her hand, and stood over her until she drank it all and accepted a second, grimacing as she did. He didn’t want to drug her with an audience around them, even though the flight attendants were the epitome of discretion.
Besides, he’d miscalculated the last time, when they’d flown to Bainbridge, leaving him stuck with her in his arms for long hours until she came to. Long hours as the plane rocked on the water and he held her close. Hours to think, when that was always a danger. He didn’t want to take that risk again. When they landed at Narita they needed to be ready to move. The Shirosama had more followers in Japan than anywhere else, and they’d all be looking for them.
No, he just wanted her calm and docile for the flight across the Pacific. And maybe he could let himself sleep, as well.
She was trying to stay calm, but even with the whiskey in her belly he could see that her fear of flying was kicking in.