The woman in the medical mask—Snowflake—was cursing Julian Vance to high heaven in the silent theater of her mind, yet her eyes remained pools of cool, professional detachment. Not a muscle in her face betrayed the revolutionary fire he felt radiating from her thoughts. Julian found it almost surreal.
Why are the best spies always the women? he wondered dryly.
The Milice agents waiting at the door of the infirmary saw that the stitching was complete and stepped forward. Their eyes flicked from the white bandage on Julian’s shoulder to his pale face.
"Mr. Vance," one of them said, his tone a mix of feigned respect and underlying greed. "Should we find you a room to rest, or are you fit for the interrogation block? The Director is waiting."
Julian stood up, testing the weight of his righ
