Spy Tugs
Spy Tugs Pic(s)
The opulent ballroom shimmered under the weight of a thousand crystal teardrops, each refracting the gilded laughter of the oblivious elite. Across the crowded floor, my target, a man known only as Sterling, adjusted his cufflinks with practiced nonchalance. I felt the familiar weight of the miniature transmitter in my palm, its cold metal a stark contrast to the room's stifling warmth. A string quartet sawed away at a Vivaldi piece, the music's frantic cheeriness a perfect mask for the silent war being waged between glances. I maneuvered through a sea of silk and tuxedos, my own disguise feeling thinner with every step closer to him. The scent of expensive perfume and old money clung to the air, a cloying mixture that threatened to betray my focus. Sterling’s eyes, sharp and calculating, met mine for a fraction of a second, a silent acknowledgment of our shared secret. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a desperate drumbeat counting down the final moments of the charade. With a feigned stumble and a murmured apology, I pressed the device onto the underside of his chair. The entire operation, a year in the making, now hinged on this single, imperceptible touch.
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