Kyra hadn’t been in this particular storehouse before, but she’d seen others like it. The lower windows were locked, but the upper ones were easily opened. It was simple, even trivial after her time in the heavily guarded inner compound, to shimmy through one of the higher windows, make her way down, and open the door for the others.

James led the way in, striding down the row of wares. Once in a while, he gestured toward some boxes for someone to take. Kyra’s job was lookout. She posted herself outside the door and scanned for signs of anyone coming.

There was a crunch of boots on gravel, and Kyra raised her hand. James caught her signal and motioned to the others. All four men melted into the shadows. Kyra pulled the door shut and positioned herself right by the entrance, looking out through the crack where door met hinge.

A manservant stepped into view. Why was he wandering around at this time of night? Kyra raised her hand again in warning as he neared. The others stayed motionless behind her. The manservant stopped in front of the door, taking out a key. Kyra pressed herself flat against the wall. If he looked inside and didn’t come in, it was possible he wouldn’t see the men in the shadows. The bolt slid back, and the door opened inward. He entered, passed right by Kyra, took a few more steps, and stopped. Kyra held her breath, willing the man to turn back.

Then she heard him gasp.

Kyra was the first to get to him. Reaching up from behind him, she clamped a hand over his mouth as she drew a dagger against his throat. His eyes rolled back as he tried to see her and a cold sweat broke out over his skin, or was it her own? She peered around his shoulder at James for instruction. The head assassin raised a finger and made a slicing motion across his throat.

She froze. No.

Staring back at James, she shook her head. James pressed his lips together and repeated his gesture. Still, Kyra didn’t move. James fixed his eyes on Rand, motioning him to Kyra with a jerk of his head. The redheaded man stepped toward them.

At Rand’s approach, Kyra’s hostage squirmed in her grasp and thrust his elbow back, catching her painfully in the ribs. She tightened her hand reflexively over his jaw. Her knife dug into his throat. Warm liquid washed over her fingers. The man stiffened and gasped for breath—a gasp that turned into a gurgle as he sank to his knees and slid out of Kyra’s petrified grasp.

It was like the world around her disappeared. The storehouse turned fuzzy; sounds became muffled. Everything went out of focus except for the manservant’s body, crumpled now at her feet. Kyra stared at him, then at her blood-soaked hands. What had she done?