The handler paused. “That’s your third extraction this month. Your modeling agent is furious.”
The tuk-tuk vanished into the wet, electric glow of the city. Somewhere behind her, a casino alarm began to wail. Kandy didn’t look back. That was her secret weapon—not the speed, not the sapphires, not even the kicks.
“Then tell him,” she said, exhaling smoke into the Bangkok night, “that the Hi Kix Kick Ass Model Habit doesn’t take notes. She takes necks.” The handler paused
She stood, wiped her shin on his silk shirt, and walked out through the casino’s kitchen, past stunned cooks holding ladles like weapons.
“Kandy,” he hissed. “You’re not dressed for a fight.” Somewhere behind her, a casino alarm began to wail
Serpien’s eyes rolled back. He crumpled.
Kandy entered the VIP lounge barefoot. Her dress was a liquid gold slip, slit to the hip. The bouncers saw a model. Serpien saw a ghost. He was a pale, scaled thing—actual reptile grafts on his neck—sitting in a velvet chair, surrounded by six Muay Thai killers. “Then tell him,” she said, exhaling smoke into
She was the Hi Kix Kick Ass Model Habit. A mouthful, yes, but so was a roundhouse to the teeth. By day, she graced magazine covers in Milan. By night, she was a mixed-fighting retrieval agent for a shadow syndicate that paid in uncut sapphires. Her habit? She never lost. And she always, always kicked high.
It was the habit of never, ever finishing a story the way anyone expected.