The shipping yard loomed like a rusted graveyard against the darkening London sky. Stacks of abandoned containers created a labyrinth of metal and shadow, the salt-tinged air heavy with impending rain. Isabella checked her watch—19:58. Two minutes early.
She adjusted her charcoal peacoat, ensuring the gun remained concealed at the small of her back, the weight of it both reassuring and insufficient. The decoy drive sat in her inside pocket, pressed against her ribs like a time bomb. Her hair was pulled back in a severe twist that emphasized the angles of her face, lending her a hardness that matched her resolve.
'Follow the protocol,' she reminded herself. 'No mistakes. No hesitation.'
Beneath her coat, the silver locket rested against her skin, a talisman from another life. She'd considered leaving it behind—too personal, too revealing—but its weight against her chest had become necessary, a reminder of who she'd been before David had rewritten her life.
