Page 86 of Veil of Smoke

Viviana crouches near the shadows, eyes on the far guard tower. She looks wired. Precise. She’s learned how to move like this—shoulders loose, feet silent. Dangerous.

“Last one,” I whisper, snapping the casing shut around the EMP core. The device hums quietly under the casing, like a coiled storm waiting to lash out. “Get ready to run.”

She nods once and adjusts her grip on the utility knife. Not the florist scissors tonight. This isn’t symbolic. It’s surgical.

I take one step back and spot movement on the other end of the lot.

A second guard. Not part of the usual rotation. Younger. Taller. Rifle strapped wrong across his back.

He rounds the crate just as I lift my head. His eyes meet mine. And he knows. He inhales, throat working—

But Viviana is already in motion.

She’s fast. Faster than I’ve ever seen her.

One hand over his mouth. The other arcs through the shadows like a silver streak—and catches him across the throat.

No hesitation. No tremble in her hand.

The guard jerks, makes a sound that never quite escapes. Blood sprays in a hot line across the concrete, catching her boots, her leg, her wrist. She steps back and lets him drop.

He twitches. Twice. Then nothing.

She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Just wipes the blade on his sleeve and tucks it back into her coat.

I stare—not in shock, not exactly.

In recognition.

And she doesn’t wait for me to comment. She looks right at me—eyes steady, breath controlled—and says, “He would’ve called backup.”

The only words she needs.

I nod. “We move.”

We run. No dramatics. No sprinting. Just fast enough to vanish before the next shift loops the perimeter.

I trigger the detonation from the switch clipped inside my jacket. There’s no fireball. Just a pulse—low, deep, humming like thunder buried in the ground. The crates won’t combust, but every circuit inside them will rot in seconds. The shipment’s worthless now.

By the time anyone figures it out, we’ll be gone.

We scale the back fence, hop down near the freight lot, and loop through alleyways until we reach the abandoned warehouse safehouse. No alarms. No chase. But my heart still races—not from the mission.

From what I saw on her face.

Viviana stands on the rooftop now, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands stained red. She hasn’t said a word since the kill. She hasn’t needed to.

She reaches into her coat pocket, pulls out a rag, and starts wiping down the utility knife again.

I walk over, slow. Careful.

“You didn’t flinch,” I say.

She pauses mid-wipe. “He would’ve called backup.”

“I know.”

Her voice is quiet, but not fragile. It’s clean. Controlled. Cold in a way that makes my stomach twist.

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