4Yulia
“Yulia Tzakova?”
My heart leaps into my throat as I spin around, my hand automatically clutching the knife tucked into my jeans.
There is a dark-haired man standing in front of me. He looks average in every way; even his sunglasses and cap are standard issue. He could’ve been anyone in the busy Villavicencio marketplace, but he’s not.
He’s Obenko’s Venezuelan contact.
“Yes,” I say, keeping my hand on the knife. “Are you Contreras?”
He nods. “Please follow me,” he says in Spanish-accented Russian.
I drop my hand from the knife handle and follow the man as he begins winding through the crowd. Like him, I’m wearing a cap and sunglasses—two items I stole at another gas station on the way here—but I still feel like someone might point at me and yell, “That’s her. That’s the spy Es
