Two years later
ZurichI lean over and tighten my sagging black satin bra strap before gravity takes over and my left breast pops out. Not easy to do when I'm running through the trash strewn cobblestone alley smelling like dead cats and urine in thigh high, black leather embroidered boots with stiletto heels and a beaded Cleopatra wig, heading for the Central Plaza Hotel to hook up with my Russian informant, and I'm late. He insisted on meeting me at the piano bar in the hotel situated on the riverfront, a favorite of his, where the ex KGB agent downed shots of vodka during the Cold War.
Not a good sign. His turf, his rules. I hope today's mark if I liked to sleep in a T shirt or lingerie. Nothing at all, I said, then before he could take me down, I took him out with my Glock 22. After all, this is a job. And I've learned to do it well. The name on my U.S. passport identifies me as Breezy Malone, a twenty nine year old female; place of birth, Philadelphia. I'm ...
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