Page 155 of Broken Oath

One figure stepped onto the pier.

A woman.

Black jacket.

Dark jeans.

Baseball cap.

Snow swirled around her as she secured the line.

Nobody moved.

Months of warnings.

Months of questions.

A voice in his earpiece.

A shadow beside his hospital bed.

And suddenly she was real.

Not a photograph.

Not a message.

Not a grainy recording.

A woman standing less than fifty yards away.

Rook forgot the cold.

Dark strands of hair had escaped beneath her cap. Snow clung to her shoulders. A holstered pistol rested against her thigh.

She carried no visible rifle.

She didn’t need one to look dangerous.

Then she raised her face.

Her eyes found Rook immediately.

Not Sniper.

Not Cutter.

Not the weapons aimed at her from several directions.

Rook.

The force of her attention struck him unexpectedly.

Her eyes were lighter than he had imagined.

Gray, perhaps.

Or blue.