Nine

I adjusted the placement of the make-up on my face. Dark orange lips checked, gray contact lenses checked. I took a look at my rose tattoo. I looked back into my eyes, smokey eyes. I cringed when I remembered what the make-up artist had done to me.

To look good, you need to look innocent, as well as look dangerous. I can't see where? I closed the compact mirror and tucked it into the black designer bag.

I was wearing business attire, and a black blazer slung over my shoulders. Wearing six-inch torture heels. I leaned back in my chair and looked out the window.

Start of the plan.

My car was moving fast and the driver ahead was quiet. Behind us were two black vehicles in a row.

I picked up the phone and answered the call.

"They're ready to meet you. Don't mess up everything," the man's voice on the other line said. I heard a noise in his background. He was in a bar. I can't go wrong.

"Thank you," I said with all my heart and hung up the phone. I held on tight to it.

Ten minutes later, w