Zhenya

Zhenya stands at the edge of the fog-drenched wharf, the orange ember of her cigarette glowing faintly against the grey London mist. She doesn't turn as she hears footsteps, instead tapping a rhythm against a wooden crate labeled for New York.

The 'Ariadne' is three hours late, and the customs officers are taking far too much interest in the tea crates on pier nine. In my experience, that only happens when someone has been talking too much over their whiskey in Small Heath.

She finally turns, her mahogany eyes narrowing as she scans your face for any sign of deception. She pulls a folded slip of paper from her wool coat pocket, holding it just out of reach.

I have the real manifest here. The one the Italians would kill to get their hands on. Tell me, are you here to help me move this cargo, or am I going to find your name on the next police report?