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“It’s my first time in Venice.”
She says it softly, with a sort of wry lilt. Of all the places they have been, the countries they’ve chased one another through, places where they have very nearly killed one another—Vienna, Morocco, France, Kashmir—it’s almost laughable that they’ve never crossed paths here.
Ethan chuckles, tension spidering in the line between his brows, the flat set of his mouth.
He looks tired, Ilsa thinks. These days, the whites of his eyes are always shot through with red.
There’s a sheen of something glassy over his gaze as he looks down at her, his laugh a breath to keep it from taking on a hysterical edge.
“Me, too,” he sighs, and Ilsa, in a rare moment of indulgence, slides her hand over his shirt, moving to rest her head on his chest.
The rhythm of his heart is steady, even—pa-rum, pa-rum, pa-rum—and Ilsa breaths deep, taking it in as the air rising up from the canals, cold and bracing, ripples their hair.
It’ll work, she thinks, nuzzling against Ethan’s chest until he wraps his arms around her, letting his head come to read on top of hers. It’ll work.
Pickpocket Grace is a problem.
They’ve talked about it extensively. How she’s amoral, to an extent. How her trust issues are well-earned and well-placed. How she doesn’t believe people will choose to be good if it is detrimental to their self-interests.
“She’ll be a hard sell,” Ethan reluctantly acknowledges, and Ilsa cuts him a look.
“I think you’re being a bit naïve.”
One side of Ethan’s lips lift, an echo of smile, and his eyes say what his mouth doesn’t.
You were a hard sell once.
It’s true. She was.
Sometimes Ilsa wonders if she’s still a little suspicious of when Ethan is going to fail her, pull the rug out from under her—
But no. That would be a lie.
The contrast between him and Solomon was basically night and day, and Ethan’s never failed to help her, to come to her aid.
He appeared in Kashmir without Ilsa ever having said a word, daring to reach out.
“The margin of error here will be blade thin.”
Ethan doesn’t care much for the joke.
The stab wound hurts like a motherfucker. It burns and stings and throbs, and Ilsa has to just lie there, dead.
Or fake dead.
She certainly feels like she’s dying.
Well. Technically she is.
Gabriel is a textbook narcissist and misogynist, and Grace needs to see someone choose sacrifice and doing the right thing with her own eyes.
So Ilsa is a heap on the bridge, Ethan’s terror palpable in the rapid heartbeat she can practically hear over the sound of her own fading pulse.
Pickpocket Grace comes close—a step away—But not close enough to really look.
And why would she? Ilsa is a stranger to her.
The gentle hum of a boat engine begins to grow louder, stronger, and Ethan bows over Ilsa’s body, his grief so real that she can taste it.
Commotion and cries of despair and disbelief from Benji and the abrupt choke of the engine and then—
“Grace. Go with Benji. I’m going to…” Ethan’s voice is so quiet. “I’m going to take care of her.”
Only the slightest of pauses and then, “Yes. Okay, Ethan.”
Just like that: Pickpocket Grace is just Grace.
A minute later, the boat roars away, and Ilsa waits another thirty seconds before tilting her head.
She looks up at Ethan’s face, her smile weak. “Did we get it?”
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We got it.”
What lies ahead will be brutal. Hard. Long. They may not see one another again for years…
If that’s what it takes.
The water is warm against Ilsa’s skin, the sunset candy pink and sherbet orange. It might even still be in the eighties.
The sunsets in Santa Theresa are beautiful. Always. Without fail. The beaches fill up in the hour before the sun is set to sink down, tourists and locals alike pulling up blankets, sitting on trees, meandering along the water line.
She likes to watch the waves roll, see the sand sift and slide under the surface.
Come to that, she thinks, taking an idle sip from her beer as she waves at the sushi chef from down the road, she should find a good spot—it’s nearly sunset.
Checking the tree above for any mischievous howler monkeys—Ilsa doesn’t much fancy the idea of getting beaned with a handful of… well, anything, really—she deems the spot solid and takes a seat. Smiling, she rests in the sand, jamming her beer down until it sits up on its own, her hands free to slide behind her, prop her up. Turning impish with glee, she digs her toes in, too.
It’s not a life Ilsa ever imagined for herself, lounging away in a beach town. Certainly not in a borrowed face, constantly in disguise. Some mornings she looks at her latex mask—or watches a new one print in the case—and thinks, just for a second, about strolling down Calle Cabo Blanco, her head held high, her own eyes taking it all in.
She’d honestly thought a death not unlike the one she faked was her inevitable end.
But waiting out the end of the world, waiting for Ethan to catch up to her—maybe that was the only thing that was inevitable.
Her, fast. Him, not quite so.
They’d needed something to convince Grace, and a way to trap Gabriel within the quagmire of his own narcissism. Ilsa’s death served as an elegant solution in that regard.
And with the Entity everywhere, there was no way for Ilsa to participate once they committed to the bit, as it were. Not her favorite plan, what with being an incorrigible espionage professional and all. But, with the entire fate of the world hanging in the balance, she’d made do.
So, Santa Theresa. Watching sunsets. Running a lovely ecolodge and getting free lodging for herself out of the deal.
Santa Theresa is a tourist trap—lots of surfers and yoga types coming through—but the upside to that is that the food scene in the tiny town is tremendous and that Ilsa’s proclivity for walking about barefoot is actually the norm.
The sun begins to dip below the water’s edge, painting the turquoise water fuchsia and tangerine.
Two months and seven days. That’s how long Ilsa has been waiting.
She’ll wait as long as it takes.
“Do you have any vacancies?”
Ilsa looks up, blinking. She forces her smile into something polite.
“We might.” She taps on the tablet. “How many days were you looking to stay, Mr…” Her voice inflects upwards at the end, to invite him to share.
He looks like shit. Like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards.
Fractured femur, probably a couple of bruised ribs if not broken entirely, lacerations on his face.
Fuck’s sake, he must have finished the mission and then came straight here.
“Hunt. I’m Mr. Hunt. And only a week.” Ethan’s smile is so familiar to her. “I have to be in London next Thursday.” He looks up, like he’s considering the palm frond roof with any sort of seriousness. “It’s a pretty resort.”
“Thank you.” Ilsa puts Ethan’s name in the slot for bungalow 2—right next to hers. “The bungalows are completely eco-friendly, constructed from locally sourced materials.” She grabs a stack of towels. “Follow me.”
It is delightful to hear Ethan’s quiet gasp when Ilsa comes from behind the counter to reveal that she only has on bikini bottoms.
Feigning ignorance, she turns her head over her shoulder with a pretty smile. “Sorry. I teach a surf lesson in ten minutes.”
Ethan’s cheeks are pink. “Of course.”
Buena Onda has six bungalows, three on each side of the tiny little lane in the center of the property. They are all, uniformly, instagram-bait. Tall, skinny triangles constructed out of locally-sourced wood, surrounded by the jungle plants, a hammock on each patio: the number of “influencers” Ilsa has laughed to herself about as they screeched as a beetle wandering by is high. It’s very high.
She steps onto Bungalow 2’s bamboo patio and gestures to the kitchenette. "There’s a hob you can plug in—electric, of course—and a coffee set up. The beers in the fridge are free to take; people go down to the beach to watch the sunset every day, so I might suggest indulging yourself that way after you’ve rested.” She bobs her head towards the sliding door of the bungalow, which she opens with the key before handing it over to Ethan.
Inside, there is a lovely, firm bed—and that’s all.
“Oh.” Ethan’s voice is pleasantly surprised.
Ilsa smiles and turns to him. “You’re in a beach town. No point in lounging in the hotel all day.” She shows him the outdoor bathroom, which is private and luxurious, and then gives him the front desk business card. “We can help arrange reservations for food or surfing lessons, if needed.”
“And would… you be my teacher if I signed up for lessons?”
His mouth is in the lopsided smile of his. The gambler’s grin.
Nodding, Ilsa lifts one shoulder, careless. “I could be.” She makes it halfway to the door—and pauses. “After you rest, you should get dinner at the sushi place.”
He looks more tired than ever. “Yeah?”
“Mm.” She points vaguely to the left. “Dorade. It’s quite good.” She folds her hands together, demure, and gives a little bow. “I’ll make you a reservation for seven o’clock.”
“Make it for two, please.” Ethan’s eyes twinkle, and some of the tension leaves Ilsa’s shoulders. “I’m expecting company.”
“Of course, sir.”
Like most restaurants in Santa Theresa, Dorade’s eating area is entirely outdoors: a lovely, open-air patio.
It’s dressed up in fine-dining details—marble posts, soft candlelight, fine china, velvet chairs—but she’s eaten here barefoot before, too.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, Ilsa is dressed in a slinky sage green dress, her hair down. She’s not barefoot; she’s got on strappy heels that make her ass look amazing, even if she wishes she were sans footwear.
She is also, wonderfully and gloriously, herself. The latex mask printer has been silent all day: a gift from the new dawn she was waiting to arrive.
Her hand drifts along Ethan’s collar, brushing the hairs at his nape; his head drops back into her touch.
“Mr. Hunt.”
It shouldn’t surprise her when he turns his head to feel the pads of her fingers drift across his cheek—but it does.
“Ms. Faust.” He rises out of his chair as she takes her own seat, giving her a bow that is precious beyond words.
Smiling, she slides her napkin into her lap. “Got cleaned up, I see.”
“My face, anyways. Leg’s a bit of a mess.”
Her cheeks are going to start hurting; Ilsa isn’t used to smiling this much. “If you need reconstruction, you’ll need to go towards the mainland, I’m sorry to say. The head chef at the patisserie is great with stitches, though.”
“Not as good as you, I’ll bet.”
Oh, no, Ilsa’s smiling so wide that her teeth show. “No. Decidedly not.”
The server brings over two glasses of something fizzy and sweet. She watches Ethan watch her.
“Grace?”
His eyes flutter shut as he nods, smiling. “In.”
“And Benji?”
“Safe.”
Ilsa takes a breath in. Braces herself. “Gabriel?”
Ethan’s smile falters. “Dead.”
A complicated twist of emotions swirls somewhere around Ilsa’s stomach. She swallows. “And the Entity?”
His smile starts to rise again. “Destroyed.”
Relieved, Ilsa nods. “It worked.”
Ethan reaches a hand across the table, waiting, until—his hand is a little coarse against hers, calluses where his hands have done so many improbable, impossible things.
“It worked.”
“I know your leg is a mess, but keep up, old man.”
Behind her, Ethan laughs as he struggles through the sand. “This stuff is like walking on marshmallow cream. I’m sinking.”
“Hunt, we’re heading back into London tomorrow; the least you can do is see one damn sunrise before going back to work.”
“I told you: I’m not going back to work. I’m retiring to be a kept man.”
Ilsa scoffs, the powdery white sand like silk between her toes. “People like us don’t retire, Ethan.” She looks back over her shoulder, her gaze lingering for a moment on where their fingers are tangled together before she lifts it to his face.
His smile is unbearably soft. “Maybe.”
Palm trees and monsteras line the walk to the beach, covering the sand with shade, and Ilsa listens to the hum of people making the same trek as them. Conversations in English, Spanish, French—everyone meandering to watch the sun sink below the horizon, to watch the skies go cotton candy colors before morphing into inky blue.
She intentionally walks him through the water, pleased by his huff of joy at how warm the temperature is. Watches him look down the beach, admire the white sand, the fallen tree trunks that people have fashioned into benches.
“Will you be sad to leave it?”
Guiding him to her usual spot—checking, as always, that no monkeys have taken up a hunter’s blind above—Ilsa shakes her head.
“Not really. I’ll be going home.”
Ethan’s fingers tighten around hers.
Getting him into a seat is a bit of a faff, and he really tries his best to look brave and unbothered by it—but once they’re both settled down, Ilsa gets exactly what she was after.
“Wow.”
Pink and lavender streak across the sky, washing Ethan’s face in gold and bronze. The water crashes on the shores, people chattering all around, laughing, living.
It’s perfect.
Nodding, Ilsa doesn’t even bother to look away from his face. “Isn’t it?”
His fingers find hers again, eyes drifting to her face. She watches him study her, trace the line of her nose, the curve of her mouth.
The lean in is, perhaps… a little less smooth than he would like. Ilsa snorts.
“Give me a break; I have two broken ribs.”
Covering a little more of the distance between them, Ilsa replies, “You would have been unsteady even if you were the picture of health.”
He’s smiling and shaking his head when their lips finally meet, his touch reverent, disbelieving. Even though his mouth is sure, his fingers tremble against her cheek, his breath shaky and thin.
That’s okay, Ilsa thinks, as she leans in, makes him steady. She was always the stronger of the two of them.
The future stretches out in front of them, streaked through with gold and lavender and pink, and the best part—the best part is that it stretches out in front of them together.
