A Traitor's Fury, A Fated Collision

BIANCA

I slammed the motel door so hard the cheap paintings on the wall rattled. Wesley Sterling sat on the edge of the bed, cool and collected as always in his tailored suit. That carefully curated image of respectability made me sick.

"You son of a bitch," I hissed, stalking toward him. "You didn't tell me a child would be there."

Wesley's eyebrows rose slightly—the most emotion this calculating bastard ever showed. "I fail to see how that detail was relevant to your mission."

"Not relevant?" My voice rose dangerously. "You sent us to ambush Roman Vance while he was with his young son. That crosses a line even for me."

"The mission parameters were clear," Wesley said, standing to his full height. "Intercept Roman, deliver the message, demonstrate our reach. Nothing about harming the boy."