pte

The Sh

herself in the bar staring down Fred's sulfuric smirk, she'd uncovered a classified report buried deep in the Bureau's secure network. The file was flagged for deletion. It referenced "Project Red Wipe" a name that mea

of a pulp thriller. Printing counterfeit currency with retrofitted iron-bar machines. Trafficking children through Eastern European and Middle Eastern corridors. Selling organs on the black market especially

fronts, but for his uncanny ability to rewrite the narrative of every investigation that came close to pinning him down. Witnesses disapp

chameleon in designer suits, hiding the same cold-blooded instincts beneath a charming veneer. While Don specialized in u

he'd found the thread to unravel him. But the Bureau didn't bite. Instead, she was told to drop t

hen she m

asily. After breaking things off, she lived with a kind of duality: terrified of being found, but tired of hiding. She was somewhat p

d found

e: the bar, the hea

a's breathless anxiety wasn't just fear it was memory. And Kelvin, the one-eyed Gulf War veteran known only as the Snake, had sensed it

ld see the room breaking apart. The patrons leaving. The DJ paralyzed.

to say much. His

y. You can't walk awa

to her side-just beneath the hem of h

acies weren't mea

n, held together by the fragile restraint of each person in the room. Rebecca's hand hovered near her concealed firearm, her e

ed. The Snake disliked being held captive. And Fred, whether he knew it or not

of Fred's threats from years past soft, sugar-coated, and

s now was no lo

ough her. A decision.

d, voice flat but fire-bright, "I