Page 31 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

"I need an encrypted uplink." The sniper's voice is flat. "Thirty minutes. Point-to-point routing. No logs."

The broker shakes his head, sliding a hand beneath the edge of the desk. "I say no. You bring blood into my shop, you bring the police. Or worse. Leave."

"Thirty minutes." His voice drops an octave. It's the same tone he used right before he snapped a man's wrist in the stairwell.

"If they ping my server, they kill me." The broker pulls his hand from beneath the desk, a snub-nosed revolver gripped in his palm. He levels it at the sniper's chest. "Get out."

The room shifts. The air pressure drops. Even the servers seem to go quiet.

I expect him to put his hands up. I expect him to negotiate, to reason, to explain that we need one phone call.

He does none of those things.

He doesn't so much as blink. The revolver is pointed at his heart, and he studies the broker with the detached apathy of an executioner examining a faulty mechanism.

He shifts his weight—a micro-adjustment, the subtle loading of energy into his hips. He's going to move. Disarm the broker, break his wrist, beat him unconscious to secure the terminal. Clear the room the only way he knows how: overwhelming force.

A gunshot in this confined space deafens us. It alerts the market above. It draws the Consortium.

I step forward.

No thought. Pure movement. Sliding around his frame, I put my body between the barrel of the revolver and the sniper.

His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my bicep to yank me back.

"Stop." I twist out of his grip, stepping closer to the metal desk.

The broker's eyes dart to me. He expected violence. A soaked ballerina stepping into the line of fire isn't in his playbook.

"You don't want to pull that trigger. It's messy." I keep my voice steady. The ballet studio taught me how to project calm while my muscles screamed. It taught me how to wear a mask of control. I weaponize that discipline now. "Give us thirty minutes and we're gone. In and out. Easy peasy." I flutter my lashes, selling the damsel.

"Move, girl." The broker's hand shakes. The gun wavers. "You're both dead if you don't walk out that door."

"If you shoot him, you bring the heat you're trying to avoid." I lock eyes with him. I look past the gun, straight at the greed sweating out of his pores. "A gunshot in here alerts the market. The police come. They confiscate your servers. They destroy your livelihood."

The broker swallows hard. The logic lands.

"I have a better offer." I reach up to my right earlobe. My fingers tremble as I unclasp the backing and pull the diamond stud free. Then the left.

My father gave them to me on my eighteenth birthday. Two flawless, two-carat, brilliant-cut diamonds set in platinum. He told me they were an investment. An insurance policy against a rainy day. I never understood how an accountant could afford them.

I place the earrings on the scarred metal desk. They catch the blue light of the monitors, sparkling with cold, undeniable wealth.

"Flawless." I slide them across the metal toward the revolver. "Worth ten thousand American. Untraceable. Portable. Yours."

The broker lowers the gun, but he keeps it in his fist. His eyes lock onto the diamonds, a cynical sneer twisting his pale features.

"Two stones for my life?" He scoffs, a harsh sound in the humid air. "Those could be glass. Even if they're real, fencing them in this city takes time. I need cash. Today. Not pretty rocks."

"They're flawless two-carat diamonds." My voice sharpens. I take another step forward and plant my hand flat on the desk. "They're worth ten thousand American, and you know it. You don't have time to haggle, and neither do we."

Behind me, the sniper takes one deliberate step forward. His boot scrapes against the concrete. The threat radiating off him fills the room.

The broker's eyes dart from the diamonds to the wall of Kevlar at my back.

"So here's the trade." I press the advantage, keeping my posture rigid. "Thirty minutes. You take the diamonds, you wipe the logs, and you never saw us. You get rich today, and you don't have to risk a bullet to do it."

Silence stretches in the humid air. The cooling fans whine.