Outside, the rain had stopped. Her handler’s voice buzzed in her ear: “Kandy. Status.”
“I think I haven’t broken a sweat,” Kandy said. “And these are Manolos.”
The handler paused. “That’s your third extraction this month. Your modeling agent is furious.”
The fourth and fifth came together. Kandy flowed between them like water. Elbow to the jaw. Knee to the liver. Axe kick to the collarbone. Each strike was precise, elegant, and utterly devastating. The sixth man hesitated. She stepped inside his guard, grabbed his wrist, and used his own momentum to throw him into a slot machine. Jackpot. Bells rang. Outside, the rain had stopped
She lit a cigarette, not because she smoked, but because it looked good for the nonexistent cameras.
Serpien’s eyes rolled back. He crumpled.
Kandy stepped into a waiting tuk-tuk and gave the driver an address—a rooftop bar where the champagne was cold and the stairs were a perfect warm-up for a 720-degree kick. “And these are Manolos
Kandy’s left leg whipped up so fast the air cracked. Her shin met his temple. He dropped like a sack of wet cement. The second threw a hook—she ducked, pivoted, and landed a spinning back fist, then a kikku —a jump kick to the third man’s chest that sent him crashing through a glass table.
She was the Hi Kix Kick Ass Model Habit. A mouthful, yes, but so was a roundhouse to the teeth. By day, she graced magazine covers in Milan. By night, she was a mixed-fighting retrieval agent for a shadow syndicate that paid in uncut sapphires. Her habit? She never lost. And she always, always kicked high.
She smiled. “I’m dressed for a photoshoot . The fight is just cardio.” Kandy flowed between them like water
It was the habit of never, ever finishing a story the way anyone expected.
“Kandy,” he hissed. “You’re not dressed for a fight.”