Megara Ruth Brandon didn't have the type of problems that most people usually had. With all her personal information being unlisted and having a nonexistent social media presence, former classmates never invited her to tedious baby showers, wacky essential oil demos or insufferable Fourth of July cookouts. And this was definitely fine by her.

Thanks to CANDY, Meg instead got the VIP treatment at Comic Con and Queen Bey concerts without having to get up at two in the morning to stand in a virtual line along with ten thousand other fans hoping to grab a ticket. She also wasn't tied to a desk and was basically her own boss most of the time. But the travel perks were definitely the best part of her job.

Sure, she spent at least two hundred nights a year away from her own bed and bad guys sometimes shot at her, but at least she got to see Antarctica in April, Lapland in September, and the Galapagos in January. She also no longer had to deal with TSA assholes who reveled in "accidentally" touching a boob during security check. It was mind boggling what people who were given a little power thought they could get away with.

Yeah, Meg didn't miss her pre-CANDY life at all. But her mother being threatened by a Slavic thug? That was definitely a new type of threat. And how did an undercover secret agent make sure that her closest relative stays safe while she was on an international mission?

Take her along, of course!

So with just a couple of hours left before wheels-up time, Meg convinced Barb that, in fact, she had always meant to take her on a mother-daughter work trip to the Balkans, and all that nonsense during their lunch date was just to make the ultimate revelation even grander.

"Surprise!" she had exclaimed with fake enthusiasm after catching up with Barb on the corner of Ninth and Constitution Avenue immediately following a quick chat with Finn about the unexpected wrinkle. "You didn't think I was serious, did you?" Meg asked her unusually stupefied mother. "Of course I'm not going on this trip alone. You're coming, too."

Barb blinked in confusion, but with that, it was settled.

Nine hours later, their C-130 turboprop transporter that had departed Joint Base Andrews with five crewmembers, eighty combat troops, and the two Brandon women landed at Alexander the Great International Airport in Skopje. Only the latter disembarked, while the rest headed toward the latest active warzone in the Middle East.

"Does that hotshot boss of yours always make you fly so . . . humbly?" Barb asked, struggling with her rolling luggage on the uneven tarmac.

Walking up front with much more purpose and grace, Meg rolled her eyes. She knew that the question—and others just like it—would come as soon as they disembarked. The Hercules wasn't made for luxury, and thanks to the greater than usual cabin noise, regular conversation wasn't practical even when their military travel-mates weren't busting into enthusiastic a capella renditions of "Old Town Road." But she could only delay for so long and now had to do what she did best: lie.

"Of course not. But Congressman Wilde is here in a diplomatic capacity and snagging a couple of seats on a military transport is often the most cost effective way to go," Meg said, building on her lie.

Barb laughed. "As if the US government cares about saving money."

Meg sighed, but she failed at a more appropriate comeback.

It was funny how with anyone else she always knew what to say, whether it consisted of dry sarcasm, witty banter, or straight up factual rebuttal. But with her mother—the person she'd known the longest and arguably the best—words often eluded her. Thankfully, she was on a mission and the clock was ticking for her to dwell too long on unresolved mommy issues.

Taking a quick visual assessment of their surroundings, she noted the utilitarian glass and concrete terminal building ahead while recalling the top-secret information in her departure brief. If she was right—and she usually was—then they needed to go . . ..

"This way," Meg said, finding her mark and dragging Barb away from the gaggle of passengers from a just arrived commercial flight heading into the building.

"But it says 'Passport Control' right there," Barb objected, waving at the large, multilingual sign looming above a doorway that was now increasingly far away.

Meg grinned at the opportunity to impress her mother. "I have a better idea."

Speeding up her steps, she took a sharp right along the back of the terminal before gently bumping into a local official standing guard at corner. In a swift movement that was too smooth for even Barb to notice, the burly man slipped a bulky envelope into Meg's hand.

"Are you sure this is the right way, sweetheart?" asked the oblivious Barb as they walked toward a row of parked cars. Only a chain link fence separated the area from Skopje proper.

Ignoring her mother while ripping the envelope open, Meg produced a key fob. As she aimed it at the assortment of Audis, BMWs and Mercedes, a white sedan on the end clicked to attention.

"Son of a bitch!" Meg exclaimed, eyeing the boxy piece of Russian manufacturing that should have died with the demise of the Soviet Union.

"Megara!" Barb scolded. "I hope you don't use language like that around the Congressman."

"The who?" Meg asked absentmindedly, already thinking about how to get back at Agent Finn for finding her such a pathetic ride as she reluctantly headed toward the Lada. She'd been dying to drive the new S-class Mercedes, and he gives her a forty-year-old clunker? That misstep will definitely deserve at least a clever piece of malware on his private network.

"Your boss, Megara," Barb said, idling over to the passenger side and trying the handle. "It's stuck, honey. Can you ...?" she trailed off and instead waved her hand around at the side window.

Meg sighed again and got into the driver's seat. Leaning over, she tried opening the passenger door from the inside. The first tug was fruitless, but after a couple of shakes of the metal handle, the heavy door swung open.

How embarrassing. She could have killed Finn for this.

After throwing their bags in the back seat, Meg started the engine. The sound could have only been compared to an old water heater that was on its last legs.

No, death was too good of a punishment for Finn. He deserved slow and painful torture.

Pulling out of the parking spot, Meg headed toward the closest visible exit. A small guard's station stood next to more of the chain-link fencing. After coming to a stop at the lowered gate rail, Meg grabbed the envelope again and pulled out a wad of cash before handing it to the uniformed guard. He took it without a word, returning to his hut to raise the barrier.

"That's it? He didn't need to see our passports? Don't I get a stamp or something?" Barb asked in quick succession, craning her neck backward to look at the guard now in the distance as Meg sped away.

"Nope. That was the diplomatic exit," she said while trying to keep a straight face.

"Oh," Barb exhaled.

With their first obstacle out of the way, Meg took the adjacent roadway following a sign toward 'City Centre.' The sparse houses soon turned into bigger and denser buildings as they headed into the Paris want-to-be, post-Soviet chic with a dash of Istanbul city of Skopje.

"What's with all of the statues?" Barb asked as the urban scenery whizzed by.

Meg slowed before gunning it into a roundabout. "I dunno. You can ask the concierge. We're almost at the hotel anyway. I'll drop you off and—"

"What do you mean drop me off? You don't intend to abandon me all by myself in a foreign country just minutes after we arrive?" Barb asked, laying on the guilt as effortlessly as though she hadn't just travelled across half a dozen time zones.

Meg clenched her jaw to hold back her preferred response and took a few calming breaths. "I just thought you could relax a little bit, maybe check out the spa and then later we can go visit the Mother Theresa Museum," she said, hoping that confinement to the hotel would keep her mother safe from would-be assassins.

"Why would we do that?" Barb asked, pulling her brows together with genuine perplexity.

"Because she was born here and—," Meg repeated part of what she'd learned from her country on-board session, but cut off. Her agnostic, art history professor mother obviously couldn't care less about the childhood of a famous missionary. Maybe if she mentioned the statistics regarding the insane amount of tobacco and heroin the country produced . . ..

Meg shook her head. "Never mind," she said. "I hear there is some great gold shopping, too."

"Ooh, well that doesn't sound too bad," Barb agreed just as Meg's phone buzzed.

After quickly entering and just as aggressively exiting another traffic circle, Meg picked up the device, read the incoming text and hit 'delete' before coming to the next intersection.

"Pick me up something pretty," she said to her mother with a smile as they pulled into the drop-off zone of the Hotel Intercontinental.

Barb waved off the porter who'd immediately jumped to open her door. "You're still not coming with me, then?" she asked, pursing her lips into a disapproving scowl.

Meg shook her phone in emphasis. "Can't. Just got word that I'm needed at work," she said, feigning regret.

"At the St. John the Baptist monastery?" Barb asked, puckering with greater ferocity.

Meg gasped. "How did you—?"

Her mother laughed. "I read the screen when you were so recklessly changing lanes."

Meg took a deep breath and turned away. Looking out the driver's side window, she contemplated her options. It didn't take long since she didn't have many. And judging by her mother's frighteningly good ability to access top-secret information, she probably couldn't be trusted to be left alone.

"Fine," Meg said grudgingly. "I'll take you with me to the monastery. But stay out of my way, okay? I've got work to do."