High Stakes in Rust

The air was cool, tinged with the sharp scent of rain-soaked cobblestones. Petra adjusted the beanie on her head, her fingers brushing against the rust-colored wool. The fabric clung to her damp hair, but it was better than nothing in the fickle October wind. Pulling her textured jacket tight around her, she shot a glance behind her. No shadows followed, but she couldn’t shake the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

A block away, the subdued hum of her target’s footsteps had disappeared into the city’s muted cacophony. The man had slipped into the crowd like a phantom, but Petra had memorized his face—the square jaw, the wicked scar slicing across his cheek like a warning sign. A brief glance as he exited the midnight tram at fourteen minutes past success lured her to this exact corner of Castor Avenue. Just as her informant had promised.