The Disconnected

The warehouse smelled like rust and old money—blood dried into concrete, the metallic undertone of weapons never cleaned, and the particular staleness of air that hadn’t known fresh oxygen in years. It was the smell of consequence. Of choice.

Iris Delacroix had walked into worse situations and lived. She’d also walked into worse situations and made calculated decisions that had left men with broken fingers and bruised egos, occasionally in that order. But standing in the belly of this particular beast, with three million dollars in bearer bonds pressed against her ribs in a carefully constructed harness, and the sound of leather boots echoing from somewhere deeper in the sprawling darkness, she found herself questioning every single choice that had led her here.

Not for the first time. Probably not for the last.