DominiqueSitting in the driver's seat of the SUV, my fingers tap a restless rhythm against the steering wheel.The cramped space smells of stale coffee, damp tactical gear, and the suffocating wave of Kir’s foul mood.Max is crammed into the back seat, adjusting the optic feed on his tablet.Kir rides shotgun. He’s practically vibrating with tension.Normally, Kir on a stakeout is a statue. Today, he’s shifting his weight every two minutes, checking his sidearm obsessively, and glaring at the bakery entrance like he’s expecting the pastries to start a revolt.Ray is back at the penthouse babysitting our favorite blonde headache, which means Kir has no physical outlet for whatever is eating him alive."Target is still inside," Max murmurs from the back. "Speaking to someone at the counter. Looks like a routine pickup.""Keep your eyes on the side alley," Kir barks, his voice a harsh, jagged rasp. "They use the deliveries to move unregistered hardware.""I have the alley covered, Kir,"
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