Sweat drips down my forehead and spine, and the harsh fabric of my shorts chafes painfully against my skin.

Fuck you, Tommy.

The anxiety curdling low in my stomach worsens the closer I get to the meeting site in Denpasar. The heavy bag of passports sitting on my shoulder acts as a constant reminder that one wrong move, and I could be worse than dead. I’ve seen and heard what he and his family were capable of—all the lives lost over slight inconveniences, all the rumors about what they’ve done to people who pissed them off.

After emptying out Tommy’s safe, I went to his company’s office building, made a copy of the microchip research I did, patented it, then systematically deleted everything from the server and every single one of their backup servers.

The last thing I did was hop on a plane and got my ass out of the country.

Overnight, the Gallagher family lost millions of dollars’ of information, and it felt fucking good.

Tommy’s family almost found me when I was hiding out in China, and then when I stupidly thought it would be smart to hide in Dad’s hometown in Thailand. Indonesia is by far the best location for me to be utterly forgettable. With so many tourists around, no one blinks twice about the fact I can’t speak a lick of Bahasa, even if I might physically pass as a local.

A car suddenly pulls out in front of me, and I squeeze my brakes hard, giving myself whiplash. Asshole. I hit the horn and yell a string of profanities at them before continuing like nothing happened.

Driving here isn’t for the faint of heart. I’ve almost died at least fifty times trying to navigate the nonexistent road rules and reckless drivers.

With traffic, it takes a little over an hour to get to the stall where I’m meeting Budi, a guy who’s been working with Deedee and Natalie long before I got here. He’s a fencer of sorts. We aren’t friends, but if I die, he dies too. It doesn’t make us BFFs or anything, but mutual trust is important.

The heat hunkers down on me as I come to a stop in front of a food stall on the side of the street. I tug the helmet off. The rush of air is absolutely heavenly. The thick coat of sweat makes my hair stick to my scalp and across my face. Summer in San Diego was barely tolerable; this makes drowning in the cool sea water sound like a dream.

My knees threaten to buckle when I drop to my feet, and the world tips slightly as dizziness rushes through me. It’s gone as quickly as it comes.

Fanning myself, I bend beneath the tarpaulin awning to approach the man behind the portable kitchen, scanning the area to make sure no one is watching me. His attention snaps up to mine, and he wipes his hands on his jeans.

“Apa kabar, ibu,” he greets without smiling, brows pinched against the blaring sun.

“Baik.” I offer him a curt nod, unclipping my backpack to wear it in front of me to fish out my wallet. “Enam sate ayam sama Badak, donk?”

Six chicken kebabs, and the drink that’s a million times better than Coke, please. The extent of my Indonesian vocabulary is ordering food.

Deedee introduced me to this place. According to her, it’s rare to find Badak on this side of the country, so snagging a bottle during these meetings is like microdosing happiness. I consider it a little treat for not getting murdered or dying from a stress-induced heart attack.

Awareness prickles at the back of my neck. I whip around to the busy street, eyes darting between passing motorbikes, tourists walking in and out of shops, patrons and vendors around the street. No one pays me any mind.

You’re imagining it. Get your ass out of the open.

He takes the cash and hands me the change from his pocket. Another thing I love about this place: cash is the main currency. I flew into Jakarta with a fake passport and a couple grand—both thanks to Deedee—took a bunch of different trains and buses to get to Bali, and then we sourced a place for me to stay using that accepted cash.

I grab a seat on one of the plastic chairs under the shade and place the helmet on the narrow table. Nobody gives me more than a cursory glance as I check my phone for messages, the cameras at home, the microchip lab, and the factory where we print the books.

The biggest thing with a heartbeat near my property is a stray dog. In the factory, Deedee checks paper stock while Nat operates one of the machines at the lab, wearing a pristine white coat, hairnet, and mask as she works her artistic magic.

I tap my thumb on the table, periodically stopping to check my surroundings before going back to the footage of my cabin, flicking between frames so I don’t miss a thing. A text pops up on the screen from my group chat—I see both girls check their phones on camera.

Deedee: Tell Budi he still hasn’t paid up for losing that bet last week.

Nat: OMG, he has to pay me too. The guy gambles too much lol. It’s always stupid bets too.

Deedee: He’s single handedly making me richer. U kno he bet 100ribu he can do a backflip.

Nat: Well, can he?

Deedee: Guess.

Nat: *Laughing face emoji*

I’m too wired to joke around with them, and like hell am I about to tell Budi any of that and prolong our conversation more than necessary.

My spine snaps to attention the second our fencer steps in, my grip tightening around my phone like it’s a weapon. Flip-flops, shorts, a sweat-stained T-shirt.

Potential threat, my brain registers.

“Sup,” Budi says.

I flinch when he holds his hand up for a fist bump. It’s a harmless gesture, but the thought of skin-on-skin makes me want to puke. Just suck it up and do it. I quickly tap his hand with mine, feeling another layer of sweat building along my forehead.

He drops down across from me, half-heartedly casting his dark eyes around the little food joint. The only person left is a guy chipping away at his noodles while watching a video on his phone with the volume all the way up. Probably not a threat, my brain registers.

“How’s it?” Budi raps his knuckles on the table.

Carefully pulling the tote bag out of my backpack, I slide it across to him. “Turkish, German, and Canadian are in there. You can tell Harta twenty Australians and thirty Americans will be ready in a month. A machine broke, so we’re slow going.”

Budi quickly shoves the product into his own bag without bothering to check the contents—it’s idiotic on his part. I could’ve lied about the number of passports in there, then come knocking on his door asking for payment.

Any artist with the right printing facilities can make the passport book. The hardest aspect isn’t perfecting the paper weight or the nuances within the designs.

The real art is in the RFID chip.

A fake passport is only good if you don’t get caught.

The microchip was the one part the Gallagher’s shady company couldn’t nail down until I came along. My degree and naivety made me the perfect employee who could be easily controlled.

Tommy wanted a microchip that would pass all the tests to better establish their family, and I cracked the code three days before I killed him, though I never reported my discovery.

Now, all the information is with me.

The lab manufacturing process isn’t perfect, but with more time, resources, and research, it could be.

Nat and Deedee already had an established gig going before I stepped in to improve their product with the research I stole from the Gallaghers.

After Deedee finishes printing, Nat and I step in to add the microchip. She works on production while I deal with the serial number and placing it into the book—on my good hand days.