It’d been a bad week, starting from the moment Nate said, “Let’s steal a commuter railroad,” and it hadn’t yet ended,
not even after Eliot fought off three moderately well trained but gigantic goons armed only with a traffic cone while Sophie lied earnestly and inventively to half
the city’s professional transit workers.
Hardison had had to make an unplanned exit out a fourth story window, and hadn’t stopped complaining once since a pigeon had startled him into dropping his new cell phone.
None of that was what was bothering Eliot now. That was all over and done. No, what was bothering Eliot now was much, much worse:
Victoria Winslow was sitting in his favorite coffee shop.
Somehow, the worst part was that she didn’t even look out of place.
Possibly the most effective killing machine ever, and there she was daintily sipping what was undoubtedly tea with the natural grace of a true lady
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