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She pulled a worn photograph from her coat pocket. It showed a dozen men in fatigues, grinning at the camera. In the center stood a young woman with silver hair and no glasses, holding an assault rifle like a lover. At her side, a handsome, brutal-looking man with cold, clever eyes.
Revy, leaning against the cabin door, snorted. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna go back to playing maid? After all that?”
“Roberta,” he wheezed, his voice a dry rattle. “My little bloodhound. You look terrible.”
She walked out into the rain, and the city swallowed her whole.
