The weekend flew by in a blur of intense preparation, memorizing Pamela Johnson’s life story until I could recite her background in my sleep, and perfecting the timing for our parking lot fender-bender.
Now, standing in the compound garage on Monday morning, the cold concrete felt all too real.
"I'm going with you," Drakon said, his jaw set tight, dark eyes blazing as he stood by the passenger side of the sedan.
"Drakon, no," I sighed, adjusting the collar of my sensible beige blazer and running a hand over the smooth, synthetic strands of my red wig. "We've been over this a hundred times. You're over six-foot-four and look like a mercenary. If you step anywhere near City Hall, you'll blow the entire cover."
"I can sit in the alley. I can stay in the back of the van," he argued, his vo
