The Encounter
She crossed the Piazza del Duomo without pausing to take in the architectural marvel or even the crowd of tourists clamoring for photos. Her mission was clear, her path unyielding. In her coat pocket was a USB drive no larger than her thumb, containing data that could rewrite the power dynamics of Western Europe. She was a courier—not the kind that delivered packages, but the kind that delivered trouble to those who underestimated her.
As she reached the intersection past a row of high-end boutiques, a man stepped into her path. Dressed in an inconspicuous navy jacket and plain slacks, he gave no impression of menace at first. But Chiara didn’t miss the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand lingered just a little too close to his pocket.
“You’re late,” he said, his tone clipped. His accent pegged him as Russian, though he clearly tried to mask it.
Chiara tilted her head, her sunglasses hiding the sharp gaze that dissected his every movement. She reached into her coat, pulled out a slim leather wallet, and flashed a counterfeit MI6 badge so quickly he had no time to scrutinize it. “Special Agent Reeves. We need to talk about that stunt you pulled in Vienna.”
The man took a step back, his mouth opening slightly in protest. “You—you’re not MI6.”
Chiara’s lips curved into an almost predatory smile. “Keep testing me. I’m dying for an excuse to make a scene.”
The Chase
The man bolted without another word, shoving through a crowd of shoppers. Chiara sighed softly and took off after him, ankle boots magically gripping the slick cobblestone as though custom-made for pursuits. Her coat billowed behind her like a cape, and though her speed never seemed hurried, she cut through the throng effortlessly.
He darted down a narrow alleyway, believing he could lose her, but Chiara was too experienced for such missteps. She anticipated his movements, veering right into a backstreet and encountering him just as he paused, breathless. Cornered, his hand went for his pocket, but she was faster. With a swift movement, she disarmed him of the switchblade he had pulled, sending it clattering to the ground.
Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, Chiara pinned him against the wall. “Where’s your handler?” she demanded, her voice low and dangerous.
“Go to hell,” the man spat, but his words faltered under her unrelenting gaze. Her grip tightened, and for a moment, it seemed she might crush the very soul out of him. Then, as swiftly as it had begun, she released him, letting him crumple to the ground.
“You’ll tell me,” she said coolly as she adjusted her coat with clinical precision. “Maybe not now, but soon. And when you do, I suggest you remember my generosity today.”
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