The bass in Nachtschwarmer wasn't just sound; it was a physical weight vibrating through the soles of Maya's boots and the reinforced glass of the VIP railing. Below her, the dance floor was a writhing sea of neon-soaked bodies, but Maya's eyes were locked on the private booth in the far corner.
Her target was supposed to be a middleman for the Syndicate. Short, balding, prone to sweating through his silk suits.
When the figure in the booth stood up, he wasn't short. And he certainly wasn't sweating.
He moved with a predatory grace that made the air in Maya's lungs vanish. He turned slowly, adjusted the cuff of a charcoal suit jacket that cost more than her first car, and looked directly up at the shadows where she was perched.
The light from a passing blue strobe hit his face.
Julian.
The man who had supposedly burned their unit to the ground. The man who had been the last thing she saw before the extraction point went up in flames.
Maya felt the familiar, heavy weight of the Glock at her thigh, but her hand didn't move for it. Instead, she leaned against the railing, letting the shadows retreat just enough for the light to catch the sharp line of her jaw and the dark, dangerous curve of her mouth.
She smirked.
Julian's glass paused halfway to his lips. Even from twenty feet away, she saw his knuckles go white. His eyes-those deep, calculating eyes that used to watch her sleep-widened for a fraction of a second before hardening into flint.
He didn't look like a traitor. He looked like a man who had just seen a ghost as he was deciding whether to exorcise it or worship it.
Maya tapped two fingers against her lips in a mock salute, then turned and vanished into the crowd of the upper mezzanine.
Let him hunt me, she thought, her heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music. Let's see if he's still fast enough to catch me.