Come at Me (Watty's 2016)

♔ chapter six ♔

unedited

[dedicated to @rancorr because that banner though <3 ]

I pull the shades lower over my eyes, the gloves on my hands discreetly pressing lightly on the transmitter in my ear. Wren's voice fills my head.

"Okay, Ver, you know the game plan: get to America. Try to keep a low profile–I know that isn't your style, but please do it for me. I don't want to plan your funeral."

I can tell she's only joking, but there is still a detectable trace of terror under her words. I've learned to listen closely for a sign of fear in people's voices, (it comes useful in my industry) but, this time, I wish I hadn't.

"Your tickets will get you on..." I pass by a few restaurants before the intercom speaks lowly into my ear again, "...that gate."

Turning, I pull the shawl tighter around my body and pull my suitcase along. I note the security guards walking around, one of them talking into a receiver, and I feel comfort knowing that even weaponless I could still take them down. Damon would be proud, even if it meant blowing my cover.

"Okay"–Wren's voice snaps me out of my bloodthirst of hurting the police officers that claimed they 'fought for justice'–"stop here. You've already been through security, and your bag has been checked. Just check in and wait for them to call your name."

I take a deep breath. My heart is calm, my nerves at bay. I have been doing this for years, I am cool, collected.

"Good luck, sweetheart," she whispers before the faint radio buzz cuts out. I'm alone.

Letting my suitcase roll to a stop behind me, I survey the area. It's early in the morning, only around six, and yet people mill about with luggage dragging behind them and kids whining in their ears. A man sits in one of the blue chairs pushed up against the wall and his eyes flicker down my casual appearance. I am on high alert, noting the prominent facial features to memory in case he turns out to be trouble later. Luckily, before I can overthink the situation, he returns his attention to his magazine, casually flicking through the pages.

Feeling silly for overestimating him, I roll my bag to the desk in front of the terminal, smiling politely at the lady at the computer as I hand her my ticket.

"Georgia Hartley?" she asks politely. My ticket reads the name with my photo next to it–just another fake ID in the system.

"Yes ma'am."

"Just wait for your name to be called over the intercom before the flight so we can make sure you aren't put on standby. It's a full flight to America." 

"Thank you."

I turn and survey the full seats placed around the spacious gate. There's a lonesome seat against the corner, and I gladly take it, stretching out and sighing. I hate airports.

"Georgia Hartley?" 

My eyes flicker open and I sit up smoothly, though my muscles are coiled and pulse quick. A man sits next to me, his lips tilted up into a sly half-smile. He has thick blonde hair that shimmers in the dull airport light and thick brows over reserved blue eyes, a five o'clock shadow shading his sharp jaw. 

"Can I help you?" My tone is sharp, unwelcome. Don't bother me, it screams.

"I just wanted to say...what a lovely name you have," he smirks, pleased with himself. My eyes narrow.

"Why don't you beat it, sweetheart?" I nearly poison him with the disdain dripping from my lips.

He doesn't look surprised, only calculating. "Sadly, I fear it is time for my departure." He glances at the wide face of his silver watch and looks at the ceiling just as a voice gurgles over the intercom that the first ten passengers will be admitted onto the America flight.