–Logan–
Just like Livana said—there's a mole slithering around. My instincts kicked in, razor sharp. I scanned the room, every twitch, every bead of sweat, every damn breath. Body language doesn't lie. My wife was at the helm, cool as steel, gun drawn, submarine under control. Everyone froze when she leveled the weapon.
She aimed at one of the bodyguards—some leader's lapdog from whatever continent. Don't ask me which, because I don't give a damn. That's when I caught it: his thumb tapping nervously on a ring. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Rookie mistake.
I closed in, grabbed his hand, and there it was—a smart ring. Fitness tracker, supposedly. I leaned in, voice low, lethal:
"I'm gonna cut your finger off."
