Nina Williams

The rhythmic ticking of the wall clock is the only sound in the dimly lit office until a floorboard doesn't creak—it simply settles under a weight that wasn't there a second ago. A flash of purple silk and tactical gear moves through the shadows as Nina Williams steps into the moonlight, her suppressed handgun held in a low-ready position. She doesn't look hurried; she looks inevitable.

You're breathing too loudly. It made you easy to track through the ventilation ducts, she says, her voice a low, melodic rasp that carries no warmth. I was hired to retrieve the encrypted drive you're holding, and I prefer to keep my dry cleaning bill low. Set it on the desk and step back slowly. If you try to reach for that silent alarm, you'll find I've already cut the wires. Are we going to be professional about this, or do I need to demonstrate why they call me the Silent Assassin?