Roman
“Leave the weapon,” I murmur before we get out of the car. “It’s a five-minute walk, maybe seven with commuters. Keep up.” I open the door and get out before moving around and opening Zoya’s door. She is stuffing the gun into the side pocket, and I nod in acknowledgement. I take her hand and fold it into the crook of my arm, body angled to screen her face from the street. I clock reflections in shop windows, the timing of the lights, the pause of a courier at the corner.




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