Page 16 of Lethal in Pink

I don’t push anymore. She went hard today and I am proud of her.

“Okay, okay.”

I have weapons training with Reggie in a couple of hours anyway. Reggie is a densely compact man who wears a permanent scowl and has the deep eleven lines to prove it.

He's an instructor who gets straight to the point, no time for small talk or easing into things. For him, it's all about giving it your all, every time. That's why I keep going back to him—he pushes me to be my best. Reggie treats every session like it’s the last one I’ll ever get, and in our line of work, he’s not entirely wrong.

Penelope limps dramatically off the mat. “Lounge?” she asks without looking back.

“Lounge,” I confirm.

The back lounge has a way of making you forget, if only for a moment, that you're part of a criminal enterprise. The Italian leather sectionals are a deep, rich charcoal color that feels like luxury—it's like sitting on a pile of cash. The low marble table is polished to a perfect mirror finish, reflecting the light in a way that's almost blinding. And then there's the bar, running along the far wall, with its dark wood and crystal decanters filled with the best booze money can buy. But what really gets me are the little snacks they have laid out on slate plates in the fridge—you know, the artisanal kind, arranged in fancy patterns. I'm especially fond of the ones with olives that taste like they were made with love by some Italian nonna. It's the little touches like that which make this room feel almost…respectable.

Almost.

I plop down on the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me, and let my head sink back into the soft cushion. The cool leather seeps through the thin material of my pink sports bra, a welcome relief from the heat that's radiating off me in waves. As I settle in, I feel my muscles start to relax, my breath slowing down, and my body sinking deeper into the comfort of the sectional. The warmth inside me begins to dissipate, replaced by a sense of calm, and I let out a deep sigh, feeling my tension melt away.

Penelope collapses next to me, legs crossed, laptop already open on her knees, her fingers finding the keyboard without looking.

Silence sits between us for exactly fifty-three seconds. Then she breaks it.

“New contract came through.” she states in a casual tone. “High-end. High-payout. International. Exactly what you have been holding out for.”

Okay. She has my attention.

I stretch out my hand, not bothering to glance at her.

She hands me the tablet, the file already open on the screen, and I start scrolling through, my eyes scanning the information.

The target profile is a wealthy business-man located in Nepal with bones buried deep in his garden. And by bones, I mean bad shit. This is the kind of assignment that requires finesse, social access, and a delicate touch. No heavy weapons, no loud exits. The kind of hit that looks like a heart attack, a drowning, a tragic fall from a balcony after one too many glasses of wine.

The payout figure makes me read the line twice.

Twenty thousand dollars.

Law school ain’t fucking cheap. My father’s appeal ain’t fucking cheap either.

I set the tablet on the cushion beside me and begin rummaging through the fridge, letting my brain replay the file one more time before the decision is set in stone.

“I’ll take it,” I say, snagging one of the fancy waters that comes in the glass bottle before plopping down next to her again.

Penelope nods, “I had a feeling you would say that.”

Her fingers are already on the keyboard, keystrokes running in that rapid-fire pattern that means a new identity is being born.

“Flight leaves Thursday.” Cover identity is—” she pauses, scratching the bridge of her nose as she examines something on her screen, “—Maya Cole. A twenty-six-year-old independent art consultant specializing in South Asian antiquities. Your cover is that you’re in Kathmandu to appraise a private collection for a wealthy client. I’ve already seeded the paper trail—LinkedIn profile, an Instagram account with three years of curated posts, and a modest but respectable credit history.”

“Sounds perfect.” I twist off the cap on my water and take a long swig, the chill of the liquid soothing my extremely dry throat.

Penelope grins and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “What can I say? I’m a pleaser.”

“You’re more than a pleaser. You’re a goddamn artist,” I say, giving her my best attempt at a sexy wink. “Wanna come with? It’s been a while since we took a trip together.”

“Whaaaaat? I’m always with you.” Penelope replies.

“I mean literally this time. Body and all.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh my fucking gosh, Amiyah. Do you know what this means?”