3
“What the hell?” Luke flapped his carboard sign at DeMille as she breezed off the plane in the Blaise Diagne International Airport in Dakar, Senegal. No mistaking her, there couldn’t be two people like her on the plane—or anywhere, for that matter. Petite, blonde, outrageously flamboyant in bright yellow clothes, and a smile bigger than should be physically possible.
“It means precisely what it says. And hello to you too, Luke.”
He flipped the sign to look at it again, as if it would make more sense this time. It didn’t. It had been included along with his plane ticket and false ID that had already been waiting at Bagram Airfield by the time he got out of Pakistan and back into Afghanistan.
Zoe DeMille, Personal Assistant. In large black letters.
“Not your goddamn ass—”
“Keep your
