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Even lying prone on the six-inch-wide aluminum top plate of a severed interior wall, my legs tense in full-on fight-or-flight. I’m breathing too quickly, as if the hot dusty air lacks oxygen, and my pulse throbs painfully against the throat mic.
Ayaka watched our elevator ride.
She watched us pop the hole and crawl into the plenum.
She waited until I hooked into her surveillance cameras, until we knew she knew, before showing her hand.
“Corrupt surveillance,” Deke and I say simultaneously.
“Delivered,” Sister Silence says.
So much for stealth.
My wrist buzzes again. RED CARPET IN 10 SECONDS.
My surprise congeals into anger.
She was playing with us. She’s still playing with us.
Freelancing is entirely about reputation.
Ayaka thinks that Deke and I are poor helpless youngsters
