HONEY AND KNIVES

The first rule of being a spy is: never bleed on the dress. The second rule is: if you do bleed, make sure it’s someone else’s. I smiled for the camera, tilted my head, and let the flash hit my cheekbones. “Zara! Zara, over here!” “Miss Cole, are you dating anyone?” “Honey,” I said into the mic. Sweet. Soft. Harmless. “I’m just here to support the Children’s Fund. And to look pretty.” The crowd ate it up. By day I’m Zara Cole. Model. Influencer. 2.3 million followers. Brand deals. Red carpets. The girl who posts latte art and puppy videos. By night I’m Agent Z-17. FBI’s dirty little secret. And tonight, I was here for Dante Moretti. The gala was at the Moretti Tower. Glass, gold, and too much money. Billionaire philanthropist on the invites. Arms dealer, trafficker, and king of the Northside Gang on the FBI files. My earpiece crackled. _“Handler to Doll. You have 20 minutes before he makes his speech. Get close.”_ “Copy,” I whispered, sipping champagne I wouldn’t drink. I moved through the crowd like I owned it. Because people like me are supposed to. Dress: red silk. Slit to the thigh. Looks expensive, hides 3 knives and a micro-transmitter. Clutch: tiny. Inside: lockpick, cyanide pill I pray I never use, and a lipstick that’s actually a taser. And then I saw him. Dante Moretti. 6'2. Black suit. No tie. Scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He wasn’t smiling. He never smiled in photos. He was talking to a senator, and two men with earpieces stood behind him like shadows. My pulse didn’t spike. That’s rule three. But my hands itched. _“Doll, be careful,”_ Handler said. _“Intel says he’s paranoid tonight. Someone tried to hit him last week.”_ “Then he’ll appreciate someone who looks like no threat,” I said. I cut across the room. Accidentally. “Ah!” I bumped into him. Champagne sloshed. Not on me. On him. Perfect. “I am so sorry!” I gasped, grabbing a napkin. Dabbing at his suit jacket. My fingers brushed his chest. Checking for a wire. Checking for a weapon. “Clumsy me. Let me get that—” He caught my wrist. His hand was warm. Calloused. His eyes were black. Not brown. Black. Like he hadn’t slept in days. “It’s fine,” he said. Voice low. He didn’t let go right away. He looked at me. Really looked. Like he was cataloging me. Threat assessment. Then he dropped my wrist. “Zara Cole.” He knew my name. Of course he did. My face was on 12 billboards in this city. “I’m Dante,” he said, like I didn’t know. “I know,” I said, and gave him the smile. The honey one. “It’s an honor, Mr. Moretti. Your foundation does amazing work.” He hummed. “Do you donate often, Miss Cole?” “Only to causes I believe in.” Liar. But I said it sweet. A server walked by with trays. I took two glasses. Handed him one. Our fingers touched again. This time I felt it. The gun under his jacket. Shoulder holster. _“Good. You’re 2 feet from him,”_ Handler whispered. _“Plant the bug in his lapel when you hug him for photos in 5.”_ 5 minutes. I could do 5 minutes. Dante’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it. His jaw ticked. “Excuse me,” he said. He walked away. Two shadows followed. That wasn’t in the plan. _“Doll, what happened?”_ “He got a message. He’s leaving.” _“s**t. Abort. We’ll try again—”_ Too late. The lights cut out. Not the whole building. Just this floor. Emergency lights kicked on, red. People gasped. And then I heard it. A pop. Not a balloon. Gunshot. Screams. People hit the floor. My training kicked in. I dropped too. Behind a marble column. Hand in my clutch. Knife out. _“Doll, status!”_ “Active shooter. I don’t see Dante.” Another pop. Closer. Footsteps. Heavy boots. A man rounded the corner. Ski mask. Rifle. He didn’t see me. Rule two. I moved. Knife across his throat before he could turn. Silent. Clean. He dropped. No blood on the dress. I dragged him behind the column and took his gun. My heart was steady. This was why they picked me. _“Doll, get out. Now.”_ “Not without the target.” I crawled. Low. Past bodies. Past people crying. And there, at the far exit, I saw him. Dante. He wasn’t hiding. He was standing. Gun in his hand. Firing back at two other masked men. Professional. Calm. One of the shooters saw me. Raised his rifle. “Down!” I yelled. Dante didn’t. He turned, saw me, and stepped in front of me. The bullet hit him in the shoulder instead of my chest. He grunted. Didn’t fall. Shot the man twice. Head and chest. Silence. Sirens outside now. Dante turned to me, breathing hard. Blood on his white shirt. “Are you hit?” he asked. First thing. “No,” I said. Voice shaking on purpose. “Are you—” “I’m fine.” He wasn’t. But he was lying. Just like me. His men were dead or gone. Mine were coming. We had maybe 30 seconds before this place was swarmed. He looked at me. Really looked again. “You don’t scream,” he said. “What?” “Everyone else is screaming. You’re not.” I forced tears. “I’m in shock.” He almost smiled. Almost. “Come on, Doll.” He grabbed my hand. His was bloody. Mine wasn’t. He pulled me through the service exit, down stairs, into a parking garage. A black SUV was waiting. No plates. “Get in,” he said. _“Doll, do NOT get in that car,”_ Handler hissed in my ear. _“It’s a trap or you’re blown.”_ Dante opened the door for me. Held out his good hand. Blood dripping down his arm. And he was waiting for me to choose. Honey gets you in. Knives get you out. I took his hand. Got in the car. As the doors shut, I felt it. The bug in my palm. I’d palmed it during the “hug” that never happened. I slipped it under the seat. Mission accomplished. Dante slumped back, pressing his hand to the wound. He looked at me. “I don’t believe in coincidences, Zara Cole.” “Me neither,” I said. The car pulled out. And in my clutch, the lipstick-taser was warm. Because the third rule is: If they think you’re honey... Let them. Right up until the knives come out. ---