Page 112 of Breaking Rosalind
My stomach plummets to the stone floor, and my lips form a denial. I clench my teeth, already knowing that lies at this stage are futile. The Montesano family already knows I work for the Moirai.
“Talk, bitch.” He gives my head a hard shake.
Every operative in the room lowers their heads. Throughout my ten years of being demoted, each one of them has derided me with ridicule, snide remarks, or direct insults. At least two have taken credit for my work, swindling me out of bonuses that could have paid off my debt.
I don’t owe any of them my loyalty.
A guard points his gun to the blonde. “Maybe you’re defending your colleague?”
“Don’t be stupid,” I snap.
He swings the barrel of his weapon at me. “What did you say?”
“A trained assassin wouldn’t identify themselves by rushing to my defense. She’s obviously a civilian.”
He flashes his teeth. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“Does she look like a trained killer to you?”
The man glances at the blonde, scowls, and lowers his weapon. He doesn’t speak, not wanting to admit he’s wrong.
“Why are you being so mean?” says a voice beside me that grates on my nerves.
I turn to find Greta hiccupping with tears. The assassin’s red hair is styled in a messy chignon with tendrils that barely conceal her black eye.
Greta graduated from the academy the same year as Britt and me. During the graduation run, when we had to compete for a paying job in the Moirai, she shoved Britt down a hole that led to the Beaumont City catacombs and left her there for dead. I saved Britt, making me lose the top spot and a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus that would have paid for Miranda’s education.
Glancing down at my lap, I force back a wave of resentment. Greta is always quick to take advantage of an opportunity. She never fails to discredit my contributions to her missions. If it wasn’t for her continued sabotage, Gunther might even have reconsidered my demotion.
“What are you trying to say?” the man asks. “That you’re an escort like her?”
Greta hiccups. “I’m a reporter. Just call my boss at the New Alderney Times?—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps.
My shoulders tighten. Greta doesn’t realize she just identified herself as one of the assassins. I glance around, trying to make eye contact with the others I recognize, but they avoid my gaze.
I grind my teeth. What are they doing? All five of us working together could break through our zip-ties, disarm the guards, and drive a vehicle through the gates. We even practiced situations like this at the academy.
“Four-two-seven-five,” I mutter the code under my breath, my gaze wandering around the room.
Branson, a dark-haired operative from the year below, offers me a subtle nod. I glance at Greta, who stares at me through wide eyes before blinking YES in morse code.
Over the next few minutes, I capture the attention of the other operatives, and each of them confirms they will execute the attack sequence. Greta even messages the name of their client, GALLIANO.
Heart pounding in anticipation of a fight, I twist within my restraints, trying to find the right angle to break free.
“What are you doing?” The scarred guard from earlier rushes at me with the gun.
“What does it look like, asshole?” I break my wrist free of the zip-ties, snatch his weapon, and shoot him in the thigh.
With a roar, he drops to his knees.
“Get her,” someone yells.
The rush of movement I expect from Branson, Greta, and the others doesn’t materialize. Instead, the Montesano goons surge forward, while my colleagues remain as stiff as tin soldiers. I swing the pistol toward the nearest guard. Before I can even think about firing, my ears ring with the sound of gunfire and my arm burns with white-hot pain.
Agony radiates across my shoulder and down to my spasming fingers. A massive body slams into my side and knocks me on the stone tiles with a painful thud.