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Elayne finished checking the rear cabin while they were still taxiing. There were almost a hundred seats in the area formed by the very top of the hull.
There were no windows, and several of the lights were broken; it was a dull, dreary place for a flight. About a third of the seats had slipcovers that said the seat was broken.
Row by row.
It was like stalking in a shooting gallery during training—each corner could hold death. She’d always loved the high adrenaline charge.
And when she did stalk a target, they were never Special Operations. Political and rebel leaders were her normal fare.
Stalking a former SASR was such an adrenaline high that she could taste the bitter-metal of it at the back of her throat as she moved silently on her toes.
This was the most likely hiding spot,
