Jason adjusted his tank top, the fabric clinging uncomfortably under the plane’s stifling air. His posture remained rigid—a habit from years of training, not the gym. Across the aisle, a German Shepherd’s ear twitched toward a shrieking child. Stay focused, he reminded himself. The K-9 was here for show, but he was here for the girl in 12F.

Ruby.

She shuffled down the aisle, clutching a backpack like it held the world’s secrets. Which, in a way, it did. Her cheek bore a faint bruise—courtesy of her father’s Glock during the raid, his team had said. She’d been quick, he’d give her that. Twenty hours to vanish, but not quick enough.

She eyed him as she crammed her bag overhead. He kept his gaze on his phone, crunching a protein bar loudly. Play the part: gym bro, oblivious, harmless.

“Would you—please—mind getting that for me?” Ruby’s voice was honey laced with venom, nodding to the fallen earbud near his feet.

“I would,” he said, savoring her flinch. Let her squirm. Let her slip.

She lunged, knee jabbing his leg as she strained for the earbud. He nudged it farther with his shoe, just to watch her grit her teeth. Slippery, he thought. But not slippery enough.

“Why are you being a dick?” she snapped.

“I don’t like strangers,” he lied. He loved strangers—their tells, their tremors, the way Ruby’s fingers now dug into her jacket’s lining. Right where the USB was stitched.

“Maddie!” she blurted, a name as flimsy as her alibi.

He smirked, balling up his protein bar wrapper. “Smooth, Maddie.”

When she reached for the sanitizer, her hand lingered too long over her left pocket. There. The USB’s outline pressed against the leather. His intel was right.

“Looks like you’re running from something,” he prodded.

“Maybe someone,” she deflected, but her pulse jumped in her throat.

He leaned closer, feigning casual curiosity. “Why Indonesia?”

“A little of both,” she said, echoing his earlier jab about love and money. Her nails whitened around the sanitizer bottle.

Enough games.

As the flight attendant passed, he flashed his badge discreetly. “Seatbelt check,” he murmured, then turned to Ruby. “Let me help.”

His fingers brushed the buckle—click—and her breath hitched. “Crazy you got it past customs,” he whispered, pressing his inked wrist against her jacket. The tattoo, fresh and deliberate, matched the syndicate she’d stolen from. A perfect decoy.

“It’s here, isn’t it, Ruby?”

She froze, all fight draining. “The Shepherd’s a K-9,” she realized.

He nodded. “And you’re a terrible damsel.”

The plane door hissed open. Two agents waited on the jetway.

Jason stood, offering a mock salute. “Next time, pick a better alias.”

Ruby glared but surrendered, the USB burning a silent confession in her pocket.

Delusion, he thought, tucking the evidence into his vest. Hunters always know.