Jill did.
Tonight, she was here to end something.
Jill said nothing. The woman and her daughter were currently in a safe house in Valparaíso, courtesy of a contact Jill had kept secret since her intelligence days. Maduro would never find them.
Jill closed the door behind her. The lock engaged with a soft, final click.
"I don't run." Jill took two steps closer. "I refine."
But two weeks ago, Maduro had asked for something she would not give. Not her silence—he already owned that. Her hands. Specifically, the hands she had trained in Krav Maga, in knife work, in the dispassionate geometry of breaking a larger man's wrist. He wanted her to use them on a journalist. A woman. A mother.