If this was a scam—if they took her information and refused to pay, if they tried to pressure her into something she hadn'tagreed to, if this was some trafficking operation wearing a professional mask—she wasn't going to be a victim. She'd flash the badge if she had to. She'd make a scene. She'd do whatever it took to walk out of that building with the money they'd promised or a very clear understanding of why they weren't going to give it to her.
False advertising. She almost smiled at the thought. Detective Montecristo, pursuing a fraud complaint with a nine-millimeter.
But if it wasn't a scam...
What the hell could it be?
She ran through the possibilities as she drove. Mercenary work. Private security for someone rich enough to recruit through weird channels. Medical testing—there were always companies looking for bodies to experiment on, and military background might be a plus for something involving stress tolerance or physical endurance.
Contract killing.
The thought arrived unbidden, dark and almost funny. Some billionaire or cartel boss looking to outsource their violence to women who already knew how to pull a trigger and wouldn't be missed.
She laughed, short and humorless.
The worst part was, she wasn't sure she'd say no.
Not for herself. She wasn't that far gone, not yet. But for Aria? For Angelo? To wipe out that debt before her sister even woke up, to give her a future that wasn't already mortgaged to medical collections and student loans?
She'd done worse things for less.
She'd held a dying man's hand in an alley off Figueroa while the paramedics were still ten minutes out, and she'd lied to him—told him he was going to be fine, told him help was coming, told him his daughter would be okay—because that was what heneeded to hear, even though she knew he'd be dead before the ambulance arrived.
She'd looked families in the eye and delivered news that destroyed them, and then she'd gone home and poured herself a drink and done it again the next day, because someone had to.
She'd made her peace with violence a long time ago. The Marines had taught her that, and the job had reinforced it. Violence was a tool. It could be used well or badly, but it wasn't inherently evil. Sometimes it was the only thing that stood between the vulnerable and the people who wanted to hurt them.
If someone needed that tool, and they were willing to pay enough to save her family...
She didn't finish the thought. Didn't need to.
The building appeared ahead of her, exactly as she'd pictured it. Glass and concrete, four stories, anonymous in the way of buildings that didn't want to be noticed. A small parking lot in front, mostly empty. No signs, no logos, nothing to indicate what happened inside.
She pulled into the lot and parked.
For a moment, she just sat there.
The engine ticked as it cooled. Sunlight slanted through the windshield, warming her hands on the wheel. Somewhere nearby, traffic hummed on the freeway, the constant white noise of a city that never stopped moving.
She thought about Aria, still sedated in the ICU, breathing on her own now but not yet awake. About Angelo, keeping vigil with his bad heart and his guilt and his useless offer to sell the only thing he had left.
She thought about the ad.Female. Military. Unmarried. No dependents.
No one would miss her.
That was the truth of it, stripped of everything else. She had no husband, no children, no mortgage, no pets. Her apartment had burned down. Her cases would be reassigned. Her lieutenant would shake his head and say something about what a shame it was, and then he'd move on, because that was how it worked. People disappeared all the time. The city swallowed them and kept going.
She could disappear, and the only people who'd notice were already drowning.
But if she could pull them out first—if she could clear the debt and fund Aria's last year and make sure Angelo could afford his medications—then maybe it would be worth it.
Whateveritwas.
She checked her weapon one last time. Press-checked the chamber, felt the round seated and ready. Settled the holster against her ribs, adjusted her jacket to cover it.
Then she got out of the car.
The morning air was cool, tinged with exhaust and the distant smell of jasmine from somewhere she couldn't see. She crossed the parking lot with her shoulders back and her expression neutral, the walk she used at crime scenes—confident, unhurried, giving nothing away.
