“Then we’ll die together,” Mya finished, her sea-storm eyes unblinking. “Which is more honest than most partnerships, don’t you think?”
But she was a professional. And professionals knew that trust was a luxury, but a common enemy was a currency. abby winters mya
Abby’s blood chilled. Her handler, a man named Sterling with a face like a cracked leather wallet, had been adamant. Black market antiques. Destabilizing regional powers. Intercept or destroy. “Then what is it?” “Then we’ll die together,” Mya finished, her sea-storm
Abby felt a familiar prickle. Mya had a way of making every sentence sound like a key turning in a lock. “You said you had a location. For the shipment.” Abby’s blood chilled
Abby didn’t touch the napkin. “I don’t pay for confessions.”
Abby pushed the door open, a small bell jingling a tinny alarm. She slid into the booth across from Mya. The air smelled of burnt espresso and old wood.