She turned her phone over in her palm. No signal. Of course. The alley had been dead air since she arrived. Jamming tech wasn't cheap, but the men she was running from had bottomless pockets. They owned judges, cops, and at least two colonels she knew of. Skyla had no one. Just a fake ID, a dying phone battery, and a scar on her ribs from the last time she got too close to the truth.
A sound. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, splashing through puddles. skyla novea abella danger
Skyla released him and stepped back. Her hand trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer weight of what she'd just heard. Victor Roque. Her father's killer. And he knew her name. She turned her phone over in her palm
"Who sent you?"
"Victor Roque." The name landed like a stone in still water. Skyla's breath caught. Roque was the ghost she'd been chasing for three years—the man who'd ordered the hit on her father, a journalist who got too close to a money-laundering ring. The USB in her pocket wasn't just evidence. It was a key. A key to Roque's empire. The alley had been dead air since she arrived
He laughed, rain dripping into his eyes. "You really want to know?"
She didn't move. "I don't know that name."