She tilts her wrist, and the arrow charm catches the light like it’s hunting something. "Harmless," she repeats, amused. "You."
"Us," I correct.
She looks at my mouth like a woman checking a knife edge. "Don’t steal another kiss."
"Then stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to." I grin, all teeth, like a man who’s already lost on purpose. "And like you’ll hate yourself if you do."
She snorts at that. It makes her beautiful and dangerous. "Buy me another beer," she says. "And walk like a man no one would ever follow."
"Yes, Mrs. Abberdeen," I say, loud enough for the reflections.
She elbows me. I take it. We move the way tourists do—slow, stupid, in love with the city—down the arcade, past the butcher with the perfect apron, past the stacks of oranges piled like little suns. Our tails keep pace, patient and neat.
Cold metal brushes my hand when we enter another store, a stiletto knife. My eyes go down and follow Oksana as she pushes an identical blade into the waistband of her jeans. She nods at me. I take the knife and imitate her moves, allowing her to take the lead. I'm curious what my Russian assassin is up to.
She hands the proprietor a hundred-dollar note and whispers, "Exit?"
He palms the bill and jerks his chin toward a door in the back without acknowledging us. The door leads into a narrow alley that stinks of dog shit and trash. She nods at me to take position on the right side by the door whileshe picks the left. Looks like we're going on the offensive. The steel blade of her knife catches a ray of sun, and I pull mine.
Game time.
Not even two minutes later, the door opens. Lamp guy is the first. Without much fanfare, I pull him into me, while cutting his throat, not allowing him to utter a warning to Hat guy. Like trash, I push his body down and away from me, ready for Hat guy.
I should have known that she would be faster.
Hat stumbles at the threshold; the alley is too narrow for his hesitation. She moves like she’s been rehearsing this in her sleep—and it wouldn't surprise me if she had—a sudden, small hand on his wrist, a yank that turns his momentum toward the wall. I close the distance because it’s mine to close; instinct is a leash. He never sees the steel until it’s at his ribs.
Oksana presses the blade home low and hard, not slashing, not theatrically, just a neat, invasive shove into the soft space between ribs. He chokes on a sound that wants to be a curse and comes out wet and animal. She pins him against the brick with one arm and uses the other hand to tilt his chin up, keeping her thumb at his jaw like someone checking for a pulse.
"Who do you work for?" she asks, breath flat and businesslike.
"Fuck you," he spits, voice high and cracking.
She smiles without warmth, a quick sight that makes the alley colder. Then she gives the knife a small, teaching twist, enough to turn breath into ragged pleading.
"You can live for days like this," she says quietly. "The pain will increase, but you'll live. Who do you work for?"
"E—El Arquitecto” he rasps, as if the name itself might steady him. The syllables tumble out on a groan.
"Joaquín Beltrán also known asThe Architect,”Oksana fills me in. Of course she would know that. To give the guy credit though, even I've heard of him. He runs one of the most ruthless cartels in Mexico. They do any job that pays. From drugs to kidnapping. Rumor has it he's aligning himself with a high value man who is shrouded in secrecy. Then again, rumors are always running about men like him.
Her hand clamps harder on his jaw to muffle the sounds. He struggles, his knuckles are whitening, his eyes go wide and wet. They look to me, to her. I don’t look away from what she’s doing to him. There’s a clinical rhythm to it that’s almost beautiful: method, question, proof, repeat.
"Does he know who we are?" I ask, keeping my voice casual enough to be a threat.
He shakes his head so hard the motion could mean anything—fear, denial, confusion. "I have no idea who you are… Please. I just follow orders to keep an eye on suspicious tourists. That’s all. Please—please?—"
In response, she makes a small incision along his forearm, not deep, just enough to pull a sharp, involuntary intake from him. The noise does what she wants it to: it rearranges the truth on his tongue.
"Are you sure about that?" she breathes.
"Yes—yes!" he begs. "I swear! Too rich—looked too rich for the town—please, I swear!"
Oksana’s expression angles toward me, filled with contempt. I shrug, the casual gesture that says I’m no fashion victim.
