Masks (Out of the Box Book 9) by Robert J. Crane

of a giant tin can that was going to be propelled through the sky by explosive jet fuel, but at least I got upgraded to first class. I found my seat by the window and stowed my carry-on bag, which had enough clothing to last me for a few days, plus a couple cycles of accidentally burning it off, a perpetual hazard of my job. I also had eight burner phones packed as well as some additional credit cards and a couple forms of ID, which probably made me look like a terrorist, but this was all standard traveling gear for me nowadays. Joining my new organization had made my life easier in most ways, but standing in line at security checkpoints while the TSA ran a wand over me was still a pain.
    I was sitting in my seat, staring out the window at the workers tossing suitcases out of one of those luggage cars, when I heard someone step up next to me and start going through the standard traveler motions. Grunts and a low clearing of the throat told me this guy was about to hoist a carry-on bag up to put it in the overhead bin. He made kind of a big production of it, and I heard him say, “Excuse me,” to someone trying to get around him. He sounded way too peppy.
    I kept my head riveted on the goings-on outside my window. I had some reading material for the flight, which was two hours from Minneapolis-St. Paul to LaGuardia in New York. I could have made the jump myself in about an hour or less if the stupid FAA hadn’t revoked my cross-country flight privileges when I left government service. I kept telling myself I had to take the good with the bad, but fortunately New York had given me blanket clearance to fly subsonic all over the state. I doubted I’d need to jet up to Poughkeepsie for any reason, but it was nice to have the option. Luckily Minnesota had already granted me the right of flight in-state, but I didn’t exercise it as much as I had before because I didn’t want to piss them off and risk them revoking it.
    “Excuse me,” the guy next to me said as he grunted his way into his seat. He hadn’t touched or disturbed me, which made me wonder why he was excusing himself. I turned around and confirmed what I’d already suspected when I’d caught a glance at him out of the corner of my eye: he was a salesman, and he likely wanted to network or connect or something. I could tell by his grin.
    “You are excused,” I said and turned back to the window. I cursed myself for even saying that much a moment later when he took it as a license to engage.
    “Heck of a summer so far, isn’t it?” he asked, peppy, peppy and more peppy. I wondered idly if he’d guzzled ten Five Hour Energy shots before getting on the plane or if this was just his natural state.
    “It’s all right,” I said, trying to skirt the line between being rude and giving him an opening. I’d had a great summer so far, not that he needed to know that.
    “Hard to believe it’ll be Labor Day in a couple weeks,” he said with a low, fake chuckle. “It’s all gone so fast. We’ll be up to our eyeballs in snow here in just a few short months!”
    “True statement,” I said, and turned to look at the guy. I held in a big sigh and watched as his eyes got big as he recognized me.
    “You’re her!” he said, his enthusiasm impossibly bumping up a few levels. And I thought he’d already reached his ceiling.
    This happened a lot; people were perpetually recognizing me, but then they couldn’t remember my name or called me by someone else’s. One time someone—some beautiful someone, who I will love forever—thought I was Anne Hathaway. That made my day, because I’ve looked in the mirror, and Anne Hathaway’s figure I do not have.
    “I’m her,” I said, my own enthusiasm muted somewhat by the fact that this shit was old. Like, super old. Like Janus old.
    “Did you see that thing that happened in New York this morning?” he asked, like I was just jetting to the Empire State for shits and giggles and maybe Hamilton . He lowered his voice