Sullivan pressed the button on the side of the unit.

“Go ahead, Miller,” he said.

“Target is at Terminal Two, international departures,” the voice said.

“He just approached the counter for Lufthansa.”

“He is trying to book a flight to Frankfurt.”

I held my breath, staring at the small black device.

The smell of antiseptic in the room seemed to grow stronger, suffocating me.

“Is he alone?” Sullivan asked.

“Yes,” Miller replied. “He has one carry-on bag.”

“He just handed the agent a passport.”

“Our contact at the desk says the name on the ticket request is Michael Vance.”

“It is a fake ID,” I whispered.

Sullivan held up a finger, signaling me to remain quiet.

“Has he presented a form of payment?” Sullivan asked into the radio.

“He just handed over a platinum visa,” Miller said.

“Wait.”

The radio went silent for several seconds.

The only sound in my room was the steady, rhythmic beep of my heart monitor.

I squeezed the bedsheet with my uninjured hand.

“The transaction was declined,” Miller’s voice returned, louder this time.

“The target is arguing with the agent.”