Norse Code
ONLY TWO HOURS into Mist's first job, things were already going badly. For one, the duct tape had come loose over the recruit's mouth, and he was screaming so loudly that Mist was sure he'd be heard through the walls of the van, even above the roar of Route 21 traffic.
She turned to her companion in the passenger seat. "I thought he was supposed to stay out for at least another hour."
"Do I look like an anesthesiologist? Chloroform's not an exact science."
Mist shook her head at Grimnir. He did not look like any kind of ologist. Decked out in black jeans, quadruple-XL leather coat, and black homburg crammed over his head, he looked like what he was: a thug. Her thug, she reminded herself, still amazed at the idea of having her own devoted thug after having been with NorseCODE for only three months.
In back, the recruit pleaded for mercy. Mist steeled herself against his cries. Too much depended on the work to let a soft heart get in the way.
Grimnir slurped hard on the straw of his Big Gulp and popped open the glove box to retrieve a roll of
tape. "I'll go back and redo him."
"Never mind," ...
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