A Gray Llove

Debts

Two weeks later...

Agent Sierra Six touched the gun hidden in his light silver jacket as he swung out of a small plane's door. The Croatian air was thick in the late summer heat and, far beyond the trees surrounding the small paved airport, the sky was a swirl of purple and pink. With insects cheeping in the vegetation beyond and the entire runway empty save for one silhouette waiting for him at the end of the stairs, the coast appeared clear. Six tried to make himself relax and trust that it really was. After a day spent running from the CIA and only just making it on this private flight across the ocean, he was – understandably – still tense as he began descending the steps towards the tarmac.

Behind him, Claire Fitzroy poked his back impatiently. "You're going too slow," she teased him. "What, did you forget your pain meds back at Langley?"

"Yes, yes I did," Six deadpanned back with a groan. "And don't touch that spot. Still got a rib loose there." He played the part of a grumpy guardian but didn't mind that Claire was in high spirits. It had certainly taken her long enough to come out of her relieved tears on the flight over. He thought she still must be grieving for Fitzroy, too, because even her caustic humor was a touch more grim than normal. But Six could understand that. He missed his old boss, too. It was good to be in the company of someone who first, didn't want to arrest him, but also, second, could appreciate a bit of his experience for the first time in a long, long two decades of work. He could see himself looking out for Claire for the foreseeable future with no problem – they got along well. The real problem was going to be keeping them both away from the CIA's seeking eye.

And that was part of how they had come to this remote airstrip in the middle of a serene Croatia forest. Six didn't mind being a fugitive, but he knew that traveling as a refugee with a child would be a whole different ballgame. (And, after what happened last time, he didn't like remote airstrips half as much as he used to.) Unless he taught Claire to operate a gun and equipped her in a full-body bulletproof snowsuit or something, they would have to hide more than run. He hadn't been sure where to start with that. With Miranda caught up in the CIA investigation following the whole Lloyd-counterintelligence debacle —which looked like it was ultimately just all going to be hushed up — and Suzanne busy with her promotion and generally hating Six, he hadn't expected help figuring it out.

Then he had remembered someone who had told him that she owed him a favor.

Six had made a call while speeding toward the coast of the continental United States. This small white jet had been ready for him and Claire by the time they reached a tiny podunk airport somewhere in rural South Carolina, easily distinguished from other puddle-jumpers by the Croatian royal crest topping each of the plane's wings. Their ride had been fully fueled and stocked with food, to boot. To maintain top security and ensure no double-crosses, Six had piloted the craft himself. He noticed that while Claire had her pick of seats in the passenger section of the plane, she had chosen to curl up in the copilot's chair next to Six and hug her knees tightly as they took off.

The flight had taken them through the hot midday sun and hours of tensely scanning radio channels to listen for news of the CIA on the hunt. Claire had only ventured as far as the refreshment cabinet and back throughout the entire journey. Once Six entered Croatian airspace, he did a few extra zigs and zags to confuse potential trackers before ultimately landing at this destination. He hoped his contact here had taken similar measures to keep them off the radar in the first place.

This all led to the present moment – a beautiful evening back in Croatia with Six parading down the steps, Claire still snickering and poking his back, towards the figure who awaited them below. It was Sasha Lewellyn, his unexpected helpline. In a pair of demure but commanding heels, a navy power suit with pearls, and her tanned skin looking clean and flawless, she was every inch a descendant of the royal family. The casual pistol in her left hand was characteristic of a CIA operative, though, and that was what made Six feel safe enough to keep walking.