June 3rd, 2014 - Paris, France.

Rather than making her way directly back to the apartment, Sabine had instead spent an hour ensuring that she was completely free of any forms of surveillance. The incident had Edwards’ place had already made its way onto the local news, but so far, she had seen no indication that anyone was connecting her to the event. That did not, however, mean that she was out of the woods either.

The incident had made one thing abundantly clear: She was running out of time before the entire Agency circus caught up to her. There was no doubt that Edwards would suspect Ryan Knight of the break-in; it made total sense. Her current appearance might throw him off for a short while, but it would not last for long. That meant that any actions she needed to take had to happen sooner rather than later if she wanted to find anything useful.

The first thing that Sabine did was to find a car rental company and secure herself transport. With a clean cover identity, it made the process relatively smooth. After a little paperwork and a minimum of questions, she soon found herself in possession of a new Renault sedan. 

Having a car was important; it allowed her to be more mobile and less dependent on public transport to get around the city. Keeping a low profile was of lower importance now that she was this close to the end of things; what mattered the most was expedience. In addition, it meant that she was capable of transporting equipment with greater ease and subtlety. That equipment, however, was going to be the more significant problem.

Without access to Agency resources, Sabine was entirely reliant upon herself and whatever Claire could manage to scrounge up. Naturally, this was never going to be enough. If Edwards’ people or the Lebanese knew that she was coming, she would have to ensure that she did not disappoint them. That meant she would need to be better equipped than she had been at the apartment if she wanted any chance of success.

Sabine took the exit off the autoroute and turned into an industrial park located under the flightpath of Paris’ Orly airport. She was down in the south of the city to visit someone who could help her to solve her equipment problem. Someone without the checks and scruples of a more legitimate dealer who could get her what she needed with a minimum of questions.

While organisations like the Central Intelligence Agency existed to protect those who lived in the light. They accomplished this goal most often by operating in the shadows with other far less noble groups and individuals. Often, this included the world of organized crime and those who orbited it. While there were many occasions where they directly targeted such groups, there was often an uneasy truce where it became mutually beneficial to turn the other cheek. Sometimes, however, the Agency and other such intelligence groups would use underworld sources for untraceable requests.

The man that Sabine was looking for was a Ukrainian named Gregory Komorov. A retired Colonel from the Soviet era, the man had set up shop as an arms merchant who served anyone with no questions asked. To Komorov, it did not matter if you were employed by a mob, a terror cell, or a government; if you had cold, hard currency, he would provide his wares with a smile.

Turning into a lane, Sabine slowed down as she approached the gate to a scrapyard. As she did so, a large man wearing a coat far too heavy for the weather looked up from his newspaper.  Waving her forward, the man heaved himself out of his deckchair and trudged over to her open window.

“Here to see Monsieur Komorov.”

“Oh yeah, is he expecting you?” The man asked, leering as he looked Sabine up and down with interest.

The man’s question was something that Sabine had wrestled with since deciding to visit Gregory Komarov. She knew that the arms dealer was a careful man and not one to deal with total unknowns. The underworld operated on recommendation and reputation; Without any, you were a nobody. Successful criminals were careful; sloppy criminals ended up in jail or dead.

“Tell him that I work for Francesca Ricci.”

The man looked up, suddenly regarding her with more interest. While it was likely that he did not know the name himself, by dropping a name, she had motivated the man to consider her a potential someone. Pulling out a handheld radio, the man muttered into it in rapid French for a moment. After listening to the response, he waved a hand in the air towards a CCTV camera mounted on the rusting metal fence. As he did so, the large metal gate began to slide open behind him.

“Go through, you park in the back,” The man replied, standing up straighter.

Sabine acknowledged the man and drove forward into the scrapyard. Passing between lanes of stacked vehicles, she pulled the car around the rear of the main building and stopped beside a stack of crushed vehicles.

Shutting off the engine, Sabine removed the pistol from her waistband and stuffed it down into the driver’s side door pocket. While a gun was never a bad idea when meeting people like Komorov, having one just complicated matters more than necessary when you needed them to like you. Realistically, she was one woman vs an entire army; even if she wanted to shoot her way out, she was far too outnumbered to make it worth the attempt.

Getting out of the car, Sabine closed the door behind her and set off toward the main building. As she did so, two men stepped out of the cavernous garage doors and stood waiting for her to approach. Both of the men had automatic weapons that hung casually by their sides, and unlike the gate guard, they were watching her hands rather than her body.

As she got closer, the larger of the two, a tall man with a shaved head and a large gold chain over his skin-tight black t-shirt, nodded in greeting, “Mr Komorov is keen to meet you, Madame. First, however, he would ask you to permit us to search you for any weapons.”

Sabine considered making a quip about bringing a gun to an arms dealer, but held her tongue. Nodding her understanding, she raised her arms to permit the men access. Considering what she knew of the man’s reputation, this sort of thing was an unusual layer of caution for Komorov. Admittedly, she herself would be more cautious in the wake of a high-profile shooting not twenty kilometers to the north.

 The men searched Sabine quickly and professionally before stepping aside and leading her towards the building. Following the men, Sabine was escorted through a workshop filled with cars and workmen who were stripping them of any useful parts. She knew from intelligence material that Komorov kept operations at the salvage yard entirely above board to act as a smoke screen for his less legal operations. It was a smart move; the French police were extremely vigilant of matters surrounding auto theft and chop shops. Little did they know about the arsenal stored behind the tired Renaults.

After passing through the workshop, Sabine was led to an office at the rear of the building that overlooked the main floor. Inside, a man in a business suit was seated behind a desk that was piled high with paperwork. He was talking on the phone as they arrived, and one of the men knocked on the door to alert him.

The man had dark hair and a bushy moustache that wobbled as he spoke on the phone. He was in his late fifties, from what Sabine knew, and it looked as though he dined extremely well on the cuisine of the French capital. Looking up, Komorov waved them in as he stood, the phone still held to his ear, “Ciao Signora, it's good to hear from you. You may call me any time.”

“Checking my credentials?” Sabine asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nobody can be too careful in this line of work,” Gregory Komorov replied, walking around his desk and flashing Sabbine a broad smile. “When a beautiful lady arrives at one's doorstep unannounced, it is only good business to check her references. Who knows if she is carrying a dagger to drive into my heart? What is it that I may do for you?”

“What did Signora Ricci say?”

Komorov smiled devilishly, “She said that I was to provide you with any service that you requested. Her name carries weight in my world. If she speaks for you, then I am at your service, Madame.”

Sabine extended her hand, which, to her surprise, Komorov took gently before raising it to his lips, kissing the back, “The pleasure is mine, madame.”

It was long known that Gregory Komorov had a reputation as a ladies' man, but Sabine had never expected to face it head-on. She was more than surprised to realize that the Ukrainian was indeed incredibly charming. Being treated this way by a man, being touched by one at all, was something deeply uncomfortable for her.

“I ah, I’m here for business,” Sabine explained, recovering her footing after the surprise gesture. “I need weaponry, ammunition, body armor, and climbing equipment. I’m also interested in whatever drone technology you’ve stolen from anyone of importance.”

Komorov raised an eyebrow, “Who are you planning to kill? It is not anybody that I know or care about, yes?”

“Nobody, if it works out,” Sabine smiled thinly. “Even if it doesn’t, I’m reasonably sure you won’t mind.”

“Criptic,” the man acknowledged with a chuckle, stepping towards his office door. “I can accommodate this, of course. Please, if you will come with me, I can show you my humble wares.”

“Do you normally ask what people want your merchandise for?”

“It is true, I do not normally ask,” Komorov admitted as they walked. “It does, however, pique my interest when a beautiful woman comes to me with a very specific shopping list. Especially one who works for Signora Ricci. You are not the type of girl who I imagine works for a woman like her.”

“Because I am not a prostitute, do you mean?” Sabine frowned.

“No, I… well, forgive me, but yes,” Komorov admitted with a hint of regret. “I know the world she moves in and the company with which she keeps. One as beautiful as you, I would have imagined had easier ways to earn a living.”

“That isn’t as easy as you imagine,” Sabine replied quietly as they walked. “It carries a different kind of price.”

Komorov nodded slightly but had the good grace not to reply to Sabine’s inference. It was obvious that he had understood her remark and possessed enough tact to avoid the subject. Sabine did not hold the implication against the man, after all, she had used Francesca’s name as a matter of convenience. It was easier to involve her than to invoke the Agency’s name and the subsequent issues that it might hold for her. While Komorov was a businessman, he was not beyond betraying a government for the right price, as they were far less likely to cut off his toes.

Unlocking a door at the end of the corridor, Komorov guided Sabine inside. Unlike the somewhat timeworn and greasy workshop, the space within was lit by recessed LED lighting in the ceiling, and the walls were painted black. Each of them was lined with racks of weaponry and equipment of various sizes and shapes. At a glance, Sabine saw every sort of weapon imaginable, from pistols to shotguns, and from sniper rifles to heavy machine guns. With the contents of the room, it would be possible to equip a reasonably sized insurgency with the latest Western military hardware.

Komorov smiled and waved a hand theatrically in the direction of his wares, “My supplies are currently well stocked, as you can see. I am sure you will find what you need here. If not, I have other material stored at alternative locations should you need something more specific.”

Sabine nodded, eying the racks around her, “I think this will do nicely, thank you. What about the drone?”

“It is funny that you should ask,” Komorov smiled mischievously. “I have a shipment of Russian ZALA 421-08s that have come into my possession. As you know, in Russia, things like this have a way of falling off the back of a transport for the right price. While they are too small for munitions, they are capable reconnaissance platforms. I’m not sure if that will suit your purpose?” the man fished.

“That’s exactly what I’m looking for,” Sabine nodded. “I’ll take one, I have cash.”

“Not necessary,” Komorov shook his head. “Signora Ricci told me to put whatever you needed on her account.”

“She has one?”

“She does now,” The Ukranian grinned wolfishly.

Sabine sent a silent prayer of thanks to the woman who had already given her so very much since their return to her life. If she survived this mess, she made a promise to return to Milan again and spend more time getting to know her mentor. Firstly, though, she had a job to do.

Walking across to the far wall, Sabine lifted a Heckler and Koch MP7 submachine gun off the wall and checked the weapon over. “You have suppressors and optics?”

“Ah, the Heckler and Koch, a fine weapon,” Komorov nodded approvingly at Sabine’s choice. “I can provide any and all accessories to your specification, just say the word.”

“Like Walmart for guns,” Sabine grinned.

“Wal… oh, like America?”

“Old habits,” Sabine shrugged. “This will do just fine. I’ll need a vest, trauma plates, ammunition, magazines, and that rope. Night optics, too.”

“You intrigue me more and more,” Komorov shook his head as he withdrew a notepad from inside his suit jacket and began scribbling notes. “The beautiful assassin, sent forth to exercise her mistress’s will: You are a great deal more interesting than most of my customers.”

“Have you had any from Lebanon in the last few months?” Sabine queried, glancing across at the Ukrainian as she examined a Glock pistol.

“I do not discuss my clients,” Komorov shrugged apologetically. “That would be so bad for business.”

Sabine decided to hedge her bets and take a page out of Tom Spencer’s playbook. She could afford to push the man a little, but she had to be careful to press in the right places. “I know you’ll sell to anyone whose cash is the right color, but I know that you also have a moral compass. At least, you do somewhere inside that lump of coal you call a heart.”

Fixing Komorov with a serious expression, she went for broke, “A gang of terrorists blowing up city streets and killing women and children; not exactly something that you want your brand attached to, is it?”

“Blyat,” Komorov cursed. “That business in Nice, it is connected to…?”

“I don’t need names or locations,” Sabine held up a hand, “Just an idea of what I might face.”

Komorov made a face and shrugged, “I sell to a group of Lebanese men some months ago, they buy what you might expect: plastic explosives, Kalashnikov rifles, ammunition, and hand grenades. All fairly standard material. They did not offer information, and I did not ask for any.”

“They say anything at all?”

Komorov shook his head, “No, nothing that would help you. They seemed like a run-of-the-mill terror cell to me. As long as they do not blow Gregory up, it is none of my business what they do with such hardware.”

Sabine nodded. “How much plastic?”

“Three of four kilos; enough for a mess, but not enough for anything catastrophic.”

Sabine bit her tongue and quietened the intelligence officer on her shoulder. Now was not the time to concern herself with the man arming random terror cells at will with enough explosives to take down a building. What mattered was that her targets were likely reasonably well armed, and there was the very real potential for there to be boobytraps at her target.

“You really do intrigue me, Madame,” Komorov repeated, looking at Sabine with more respect. “You are not at all what I expect when I speak with Signora Ricci.”

Sabine smiled ruefully, “Don’t worry, I’m surprising myself every day.”

 

 

Sabine made it back to the apartment at a little after three that afternoon. Once business with Gregory Komorov had been concluded, she had taken the opportunity to do a little reconnaissance down at the port. While she had not approached the warehouse itself, she had at least gained a decent lay of the land. It would make visiting later that evening considerably easier.

After her day’s activity, Sabine found that her hip was hurting quite significantly. She had managed to conceal it during her meeting with Komorov, but after climbing the stairs to the third floor of Claire’s building, she was hobbling fairly obviously. When her friend opened the door to let her in, she found herself enveloped in a hug that knocked the wind from her lungs.

“God, I’m so glad that you’re ok,” Claire gushed as she squeezed Sabine tightly. “That was a little too exciting for a simple recon mission.”

“Yeah, I must have screwed up somewhere,” Sabine sighed, returning the hug before limping painfully through to the kitchen. “I missed something, but I didn’t have anything to sweep properly.”

“I did some looking around after you were safely out of there,” Claire pointed out. “I found strong EMF interference coming from an apartment across the street. Chances are pretty high that they had someone watching the place, so it wasn’t your fault at all. This guy is seriously paranoid, and he’s got the manpower to keep it that way. He’s got to be a fairly major player in whatever he’s involved in.”

Sabine shook her head as she unbuttoned her trousers, examining the angry bruise forming on her hip with a grimace,  “It’s good to know that I’m not slipping, but it was a dam mess all the same.”

“Two dead, two arrested by the Gendarmarie,” Claire shrugged. “You cleaned up pretty good for spur of the moment.”

“You’re back?”

Sabine smiled as she spotted Amélie lurking in the living room doorway, “Hey there, Chérie. Yeah, I’m back.”

“Did the bad men hurt you?” The girl asked, spotting the bruise.

Sabine shook her head as she rebuttoned her trousers before kneeling down stiffly to give the girl a hug, “Nobody hurt me, ok? I fell over, and it wasn’t anything to worry about. I was a bit silly, and I landed on my butt. When you get older, you don’t bounce so easy. How was your day?”

“I’m ok,” Amélie shrugged, “Tante Claire has been letting me watch cartoons.”

“Not all day, I hope?” Sabine grinned at her friend. “That’s not good for you.”

“No, I did another drawing too!” Amelie announced proudly.

“Oh, really? Want to go get it?”

“She has been as good as gold,” Claire offered as they watched Amelie scamper off to retrieve her artwork. “She’s a good kid, that one.”

“She is,” Sabine smiled. “I can’t wait till she can have some normality after this is all over.”

“Keep talking like that, and you’ll be walking her to school in a few years.“

“Yeah,” Sabine sighed wistfully. “That doesn’t sound too bad, if I’m entirely honest.”

“But you’re scared that if you do make it out to the far end, they’ll take her away from you and break your heart, huh?”

Sabine swallowed and nodded, “I told myself that this was temporary, that this was just my duty to protect her. I don’t know how, but I just can’t stop thinking about her, Claire. Every time I tell myself that it’s temporary, it hurts all the more. It feels insane; it’s been a week, and I have no right to care about her this damn much.”

Claire smiled knowingly, “She loves you, you know that, right?”

Sabine’s heart clenched, “She told me in Zürick that she wanted to stay with me, forever. How do you get over that sort of thing?”

“You don’t,” Claire smiled. She looked past Sabine, and her smile broadened, “Look, here she is!”

Sabine turned around and found Amélie holding a piece of paper nervously. “What you got there, Chérie? Can I see it?”

Amélie nodded uncertainly and held out the picture for her to see. Taking it from her carefully, Sabine gazed down at the picture and found herself lost for words. While it was certainly no Rembrandt, this one image somehow meant more to her than every single painting that was housed in the Louvre.

“That is you and me,” Amélie pointed at two figures in the foreground, standing in front of a house with a surprisingly reasonable attempt at the Eiffel Tower beside it. “That’s the train from Swizzyland, and the big bank, and Milan, and Nonna Francesca,” she explained excitedly, pointing at different figures and images across the picture.

“And here,” the girl added, pointing to a group of figures standing on a cloud at the top of the image. “That’s my Mama and Papa and Martin with your Mama and Papa in heaven. They’re watching over us and will protect us from the bad men.”

Sabine felt tears welling up in her eyes as she gazed down at the picture in her hands. She ran her finger over the two figures that represented her parents and smiled sadly, “It’s beautiful, ma choue, my little mouse; trés magnifique.”

Amélie beamed. “That’s us, and our house, and that will be my room,” she added, pointing at one of the windows.

Sabine wiped a tear from her eye and noticed that Claire had beaten a hasty retreat at some point. Wishing her a silent thank you for the privacy of a personal moment, she hugged the child tightly and kissed her forehead. In that moment, she didn’t give a damn about the risk; somehow, she would find a way to make it all work. They had made it through so much together already that there was no way she could quit now.

“Some day, some day soon, I promise.”

 

 

January 5th, 2008 -  Langley, Virginia - United States.

“Enter,”

Ryan Knight stepped into the boardroom at Central Intelligence Agency headquarters and stood rigid while he waited to be addressed. He was up in the rarefied air of the seventh floor at Langley, home to the big shots of the Agency and not a place that any junior field intelligence officer ever really wanted to find themselves. To be there meant that you had either done something incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, and neither generally ended well for the officer.

“Ah, good, Mister Knight, take a seat, please,” Christian Rawlings, the Director of Operations, smiled politely as he gestured towards the long table that occupied the center of the boardroom. Seated beside him were Henry Johnson, Ryan’s direct section chief, and the Agency’s Deputy Director, Michael Aston. Seeing such senior figures at the meeting did not fill him with confidence.

Ryan unbuttoned his suit jacket and took a seat as instructed at the opposite end of the table from its other occupants. As far as he knew, he was not in any trouble, but that knowledge did not serve to set him at any greater ease. Anything that brought you to the attention of the bosses had better be stellar, or it tended to impact one’s career further down the line. As far as he was aware, there had been nothing stellar about Operation Orsino.

Rawlings smiled again, “We’re glad to see you’re getting yourself settled in back here stateside. I hope the holidays were good?”

“It was quiet, sir,” Ryan offered flatly.

“Just so,” the man agreed, his eyebrows quirking briefly. “I suppose we should get on with things, yes? Easier on everyone.”

“You’re terminating me?” Ryan blurted out, unable to keep back what he had been dreading since he had been notified of the meeting.

“Good heavens, why would we do that?” the Deputy Director balked, almost spitting out the coffee he had been sipping.

“Orsino, Sir?”

“Was that whole mess a total balls-up?” Rowling’s asked rhetorically. “Yes, a monumental fucking mess, if you pardon my French. I am looking for heads, but that certainly does not include yours, Knight. I read the after-action reports and, as unconventional as this particular operation was, you performed your duty with…” the man hesitated, seeming to color for a moment. “Well, you did your job, more than your job, in fact. To be quite frank, you went far beyond what any of us had any right to expect from you.”

“We asked you here to talk about your future,” Aston explained. “I have the reports from your doctor. She says that you are still dealing with after effects from your experiences. ‘Layers of buried trauma,’ she wrote here.”

Ryan blushed furiously, “If that is what she wrote, Sir. I would argue that anyone in my position would be dealing with some aftereffects. It won’t impede my work, I can promise you that.”

“Honestly, I’m shocked that you’re this together after an experience like that,” Rawlings offered with a frown. “One major surveillance cock-up and you ended up paying a damn heavy price. You have my word that we will be looking to make sure that this can never happen again.”

Ryan knew that the man meant what he said, but it did nothing to dampen the shame he still felt. What had happened to him, what he had experienced, had fundamentally changed him at a level that he was yet to fully comprehend. It was more than a policy revision or doctrinal update could possibly serve to correct. Deep down, he knew that it had hurt him in ways that he might never manage to recover from.

“You are wanting to stay with the Directorate of Operations, yes?” Aston queried.

“Yes, Sir,” Ryan replied quickly. Almost too quickly, but he had come here expecting to be reassigned or discharged from service. That he was even being offered a choice had not factored highly in his expectations.

“I expect you do,” the Deputy Director nodded. “Obviously, there’s some work to do yet before you get there. You do understand that, yes?”

Ryan nodded but remained quiet. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he felt his best option was not to help steer this ship off its miraculously correct course.

“Obviously, we can’t put you straight back into the field, not while your doctor is still working this problem with you, but I can see us doing it in perhaps six months to a year.” Aston held his hands up in surrender. “I know, I know; that seems like forever to a young gun like you, but we cannot rush these things. A clean psych eval will be vital, especially if you want to operate in stressful environments again.”

“We appreciate what you did, Mister Knight,” Rawlings added. “Henry, Michael, and I all want to keep you operating if it’s what you want. We want to make sure you don’t push yourself beyond your limits; If you can get a clean bill and ride a desk at an embassy for a period of time, we can look at getting you back out there again.”

Ryan wanted to sing for joy. The news that he had a path back into the field was more than he could have possibly hoped for. That it could be years away did dampen that feeling somewhat, but it was still a chance, and that was enough. He could keep quiet and bury his feelings enough to convince the doctor that he was fine.

He had finally managed to bury Alessandra. It had been painful but necessary. His newly cut hair still left his head feeling cold in the winter air of Virginia, but it was a price worth paying to put that episode behind him. Ryan Knight could find a path back to operational status and he would prove to them that this had not burned him beyond usefulness.

Despite his certainty, Ryan could not help but feel a deep sadness at her passing. For a brief time, Alessandra had been exciting, fun and freeing. She had felt special, right up until the moment that she had been ruined forever. What those men had done to her, what she had suffered; there was no way she could survive. Ryan would mourn her, and he would go on.

 

 

June 3rd, 2014 - Rue de Reims, Paris, France.

“What do you have?”

Claire pulled up a set of schematics and satellite images on her computer monitors and moved aside for Sabine to see, “This is the Exportations Parisiennes warehouse at the address you found. 78,000 square feet, two floors on the southern end with more modern additions to the north. Not a lot of vehicle traffic at time of imaging, but that doesn’t tell us a great deal.”

“Best ingress?” Sabine asked, her eyes scanning the image. “Waterfront, right?”

“Probably,” Claire agreed. “Lots of parked vehicles and obstructions around. It’s probably fairly easy to park somewhere nearby; there’s a lot of transient vehicle traffic.”

“No idea what’s inside?”

“None,” Claire shrugged. “I can’t work magic, and it’s got very little to go on. I did pull financials on the company, but it’s a total shell, just as we expected. The money is in the Caymans, which makes sense since the Swiss tightened their regulations on financial obscurity.”

“And they probably know that I’m coming,” Sabine made a face. “That will complicate matters.”

“I did manage to get that Russian software worked out, so I can keep an eye on you from above,” Claire offered. “All you need to do is launch the drone on location, and we’re all good.”

Sabine nodded. “I should be able to manage that. I got everything I needed from Komorov, so I’m about as prepared as I can be.”

“I’m worried,” Claire admitted, reaching out for Sabine’s hand. You’re going in alone, and as you said, they know you’re coming. It makes me wonder if it’s really worth it? Edwards owning a shell corp tied to a shady company in the docklands is probably more than enough to make Langley question his bullshit.”

Sabine sighed and shook her head, “I wish it were, but with him pinning Tom’s death and more on me, it needs to be air-tight for them to take me seriously. Remember, I’m damaged goods already; the story of me snapping is an easy sell for Edwards.”

“You’re not damaged,” Claire smiled sadly. “You’re so damn strong, I really mean that.”

“They don’t see it that way, you know it,” Sabine sighed. “When they see me like this, Jesus, they’re going to think I’m even more fucked up than they already did.”

“What you are, is beautiful,” Claire pointed out earnestly. “I really mean that. Anyone who spends more than five minutes with you can tell that you’re exactly who you’re meant to be. Male or female, it doesn’t matter; you did the right thing, you protected an innocent, and you’re exposing a corrupt officer before he can harm the Agency. They should give you a fucking medal.”

“I don’t want a medal,” Sabine grimaced. “They gave me the Intelligence Commendation Medal for Orsino… well, they showed it to me and stuck it in the basement with all the others. I didn’t want it, and I certainly don’t want the reminder. I’m not doing this for glory.”

Claire shook her head, “That’s not what I mean. Anyone in their right mind upstairs will acknowledge that you saved their asses when it mattered. If they don’t, they’re idiots.”

“You have met our bosses, right?”

Claire rolled her eyes, “Good point, but still.”

“Either way,” Sabine shrugged. “I have to make it through tonight before any of that matters. Time is running out, and I either get something good from this place or we’re out of options. Edwards will likely be heading this way with the whole circus at flank speed; this is our last and only shot.”

Claire grinned and punched Sabine affectionately on the shoulder. “Then make it count, girl. Make it count."

Comments are the lifeblood of authors. Please leave a comment with your thoughts/feelings and I'll answer! Let me know what you think!