“You left your phone on the kitchen counter,” he said, taking a slow step forward. “The one with the encrypted battery. Sloppy. Your mother found it while looking for the TV remote.”
Emma palmed the USB and slid it into the hidden compartment of her boot heel. Then she did something they never taught in training: she opened the apartment door and stepped into the hallway.
“Target is in the lobby,” a clipped voice said. It was her handler, a man she’d only ever known as “Control.” “He’s early. Abort.”
“I can’t,” Emma whispered back. “He’s not here for the drive. He’s here for me.”