There is no better hiding place than the one in plain sight.
CAMERON
The alley where I had made my graceful landing is between the peeling red walls of the pizzeria and the smooth cream coloured paint of the jewelry store next door and the contrast between old and new is almost jarring.
How nice would it be if the jewelry store was the hotspot. But no, it’s too conspicuous and the CIA does not do conspicuous.
That’s the FBIs department.
One step forward and with a muffled squelch, my foot ends up in the mushed up mess of a rotten banana.
"Graceful, Cameron. Real spy material," I mutter, attempting to wipe it off on the harsh asphalt before slipping my heels back on.
The alley reeks of trash, broken dreams and the occasional urine as I step cautiously towards the road.
My heel slip
