CHAPTER ONE
Noa
“Shit.”
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
I tossed my phone down on my bed and rushed into my closet, trading my silky pajama set for black skinny jeans and matching ribbed tank. Because you couldn’t wear baby pink pajamas when you were going to stop people from breaking into a building at two in the morning.
I shoved my feet into a simple pair of black sneakers—the kind that tied up because the last thing you wanted when you were in the middle of dealing with something wildly illegal and dangerous was to lose your damn shoe.
You learned a lot of interesting tips and tricks when you’d been in my line of work as long as I have.
I moved back out of my closet, ignoring my phone on the bed. It had to stay home. I liked modern technology as much as every other average overworked and overwhelmed person with mild mental burnout and no desire to actually shop for their own groceries or venture out to get their own take-away. But that shit brought down eight out of every ten criminals. Which was whyI yanked my smartwatch off my wrist and connected it to the charger on my bathroom counter.
I stepped in front of the mirror, reaching up and back, gathering up my wavy brown hair, and pulling it back into a high ponytail. Off next went my diamond studs and my necklace. My bracelet, though, stayed in place.
I pulled off the little golden under-eye masks I’d gone to bed with.
With that, I moved through my place, pausing just inside the door, weighing my options when it came to weapons.
In an ideal world, a gun wouldn’t be necessary for my job. But nothing about my work was ideal. Stupid-ass, selfish fucking assholes were always trying to get one over on me. Which probably had a lot to do with my gender, age, and the fact that they were all much taller and heavier than I was.
They didn’t take into account that my smarts were my real weapon. Just behind that in attributes was a fearlessness instilled in me at a young age. Followed closely by the confidence that came with being very, very well-trained.
I didn’t need brawn to stake my claim in a traditionally male-dominated world. I didn’t—usually—need to go hand-to-hand with anyone. And I’d only ever needed to actually discharge a gun twice in my whole career.
But I grabbed the gun.
Mostly because if these guys were still there, I knew exactly how many weapons were in their possession. And they weren’t going to like me thwarting their plans.
I wasn’t literally taking a knife to a gunfight.
As it was, the small handgun strapped to my ankle might not be effective enough if they all got trigger happy. If that went down, I’d have to hope my quick draw and good aim would be enough.
“Stupid fucking assholes,” I mumbled to myself as I made my way down the road.
Was it the smartest idea to walk down a less than stellar area of Miami as a woman alone at two in the morning? Maybe not. But anyone who came across me in this mood was going to regret getting in my way.
No one liked being double-crossed.
I especially hated it when it interrupted a hard-won REM cycle.
For someone with as debilitating insomnia as me, good, deep sleep was rare and precious. And absolutely unacceptable to interrupt. Over some stupid, petty shit like money.
“Hey, mama,” a voice called as I passed the diveiest of dive bars. The kind of place where the beer was warm, the floor stuck to your shoes, and the wrong kind of men felt right at home.
“Fuck off.”
“Well, I liked one of those words,” he said as he pushed off the building.
He carried with him the scent of cheap beer, weed, and cigarettes.
My nose curled.
“Yeah? Two blocks over, there will be three girls on the corner. Have fun.”
“Why would I want to pay them when I can have you for free?”
