The narrow streets of Kotor were slick with rain, the cobblestones glistening beneath the dim glow of old lanterns. Hila Zaidi staggered through the alleys, one arm pressed tightly to her side, blood soaking through her fingers. It was warm, sticky—her own lifeblood slipping away with every shaky breath.

The encounter had gone off badly. There had been too many men. Too many guns.

Her signature black jacket, once elegant, hung in tatters. It had been a gift from Piers, a Tom ...