The tallest of them spun a baton lazily in his gloved hand, his stance relaxed but calculated. Another had a gun holstered at his side, his fingers resting close enough to it that Catherine knew he was waiting for an excuse. The third one, shorter but broad-shouldered, had a jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw.
She didn’t react.
She just watched.
One of them crouched in front of her, tilting his head slightly. His breath smelled like cheap cigarettes and blood.
“You know, it’s funny,” he mused, his voice rough, indifferent. “You don’t look like much. But somehow, everyone seems to want you alive.”
Catherine stayed silent.
He smirked. “That’s the problem. When someone’s important, people get… desperate.”
The man suddenly grabbed her by the jaw, forcing her to look at him.
