The safehouse’s medical wing was unusually silent, save for the soft beep of the heart monitor and the rustling of gauze.
Tricia sat on the edge of the gurney, her right arm bandaged from elbow to wrist, stained with faint pink where blood had seeped through the first layer. The pain didn’t register much anymore—not when her heart was thundering harder than the stab wound ever could.
“She was aiming for your throat,” Christopher said from across the room, his arms folded. His voice was tight, clipped, controlled.
“That close, huh?” Tricia tried to joke.
He didn’t laugh.
Instead, he handed her a tablet. “We ID’d her. She was one of Callista’s personal enforcers. Top tier. Trained to kill without emotion, hesitation, or evidence.”
“She failed.”
“She never fails.”
Tricia’s smile faded
