Page 127 of Dirty Game
She shakes her head, eyes gone icy. “You need me on comms. Those files aren’t finished. If the Russians wipe the servers, you lose the only proof of Mikhail's shipping warheads through Vancouver and the rest of Canada. You need my hands.” She holds them up, trembling a little. “Even broken, they’re better than yours.”
A rare thing happens. I almost laughed.
Instead, I nod once. “Fine. You come. But you listen to every word Cyrus says. You’re not expendable.”
She relaxes, just a fraction. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Korrin slaps a hand on her shoulder, a gentle giant for once. “You got a weapon?”
She taps her forehead with her forefinger on the hand that wasn’t touched, nodding. “I have a job to do.”
He tosses her a tactical earpiece.
She catches it, almost fumbles, but keeps her chin up.
I scan the room.
My team is the best—because they know how to listen.
“Everyone ready?” I ask.
They all nod.
We move to a room I like to call my armory, hidden behind some art piece I had Jensen buy a few years back.
In it is everything we need for a mission.
Once I’m inside, I take the bulletproof vest, heavy and hot, and put it over the dress shirt I never bothered to button.
I slide the gun into my holster, place a knife at the calf, and put a spare in the boot.
Cyrus loads the laptop, a backup drive, and half a pharmacy’s worth of pills just in case.
Korrin takes the shotgun, his favorite toy, and smears black grease on his cheeks like the animal he is.
Rosalynn follows us out. She has a phone, a notebook, and her mind. She doesn’t need anything else.
We pile into the elevator, the ride down silent except for the whirr of cameras tracking us.
At the garage, the cars wait—black SUVs, bulletproof, with a heavy tint.
My driver, a slab of flesh named Leon, opens the back door.
We slide in, Rosalynn wedged between me and Cyrus.
I catch her glancing at my hands, the tremor just under the skin. She reaches over, brushes her pinky against mine.
The touch is barely there, but it anchors me to the moment. I squeeze back, once. Then I run my thumb over her hand.
We ride through the dead city, the convoy a serpent winding toward the kill.
Nobody talks. There’s no need. All that matters is the target and the moment the world tilts.
Twenty minutes out, Korrin starts the music—old-school punk, all snarl and drums. It rattles the windows, filling the car so loud that I know none of us can even think.
Cyrus checks his watch. “About five minutes until we’re there.”
