“You’re in luck.” She reached into Luc’s go bag and pulled out a small, metal tin.
“You’re kidding? Who packs olive oil in his go bag?”
“A Frenchman,” she deadpanned.
She leaned against the counter and watched him work, his movements economical and practiced. The simple domesticity of her brewing tea, him baking bread in the middle of a crisis should have felt absurd. Instead, it steadied her.
While the bread baked, she pulled out the compact and flipped it open.
Nothing. The mirror stayed dark. No lights. No message.
She pressed the button. Waited. Still nothing. Snapped it closed, and then open again. No lights.
“Dead?” Omar asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Completely.”
“Could the commando team have disabled it?”
“They’d have to know about it.” She met his eyes. “And they’d only know about it if someone inside Potomac was dirty.”
The words hung between them, heavy with implication.
“We don’t know that,” Omar said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“We don’t know anything anymore.”
Terror settled on her chest like a weight. They were alone. Cut off. No team, no backup, no way to call for help. And somewhere out there, a commando unit was hunting them.
The timer on the stove beeped. Omar pulled out the quick bread, golden and steaming. The savory smell that filled the small kitchen was comforting, promising safety. But she knew that promise was a mirage.
They took their tea and a plate with the bread to the small living room. A worn sofa faced the window that looked out over the hills. They sat side by side, keeping watch even though no one could have followed them here.
Right?
Marielle sipped her tea. The warmth spread through her, but it didn’t touch the cold knot of fear in her stomach.
“We’ll figure it out,” Omar said quietly.
“Will we?”
“We have to.”
She nodded, too tired to argue. Too tired to think. The adrenaline that had carried her through the night was gone, leaving her hollowed out and heavy.
She felt herself listing sideways, her head finding Omar’s shoulder. She should stay awake. Keep watch. But her eyelids were so heavy.
Omar’s hand moved to her hair, stroking gently. His touch was warm, steady, anchoring her.
“Sleep, Elle,” he murmured. “I’ve got watch.”
She wanted to argue. Wanted to insist they take shifts, that she could stay awake. But it was futile.
The last thing she felt as she drifted toward sleep was his lips press against her forehead in a gentle kiss.
Eleven
Omar didn’t sleep until the sun was high over the fields and Marielle insisted he go to bed.