Spy Tugs
Spy Tugs Pic(s)
The oppressive desert sun beat down upon the dusty marketplace, turning the air into a shimmering haze. I adjusted the wide brim of my hat, the rough straw scratching against my forehead. Every sense was on high alert, straining to filter mundane chatter from a potential threat. A bead of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path down my spine, a cold reminder of the stakes. Across the square, my contact lingered by a stall of vibrant, woven carpets, his posture deceptively casual. The coded signal, a simple adjustment of his glasses, was almost imperceptible. My own response, a slow scratch of my chin, felt like broadcasting my intentions to the entire city. Just then, a black sedan with tinted windows rolled to a silent stop at the far end of the narrow alley. The cheerful din of the haggering crowd seemed to falter for a single, breathless second. I knew, with a chilling certainty, that the delicate operation had just been irrevocably compromised.
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