28. Kyra
28
KYRA
T he freezing early morning air prickled Kyra's skin as she approached the compound. Months ago, her team had planted a maid in there, and today, Kyra was going to take her place.
Parisa had Kyra's coloring and size, and in a society where women were second-class citizens at best, a maid with a mop in hand was invisible.
Kyra didn't move with her usual poise or her confident stride. Instead, she kept her head low, hunched her shoulders, and shuffled her feet. She also kept her expression timid even though only her eyes were visible above the scarf wrapped around the lower part of her face.
Her ID, a slim plastic card with a grainy photograph that could pass as her, sat tucked inside a small cloth pouch at her waist together with a few coins and a string of prayer beads—the tesb?h. She wasn't the praying type, but the beads would add to the submissive, pious image she was trying to portray.
A lone guard stood beneath the compound's archway, and as Kyra drew closer, he adjusted his stance, crossing his arms in a way designed to intimidate. The uniform he wore was crisp, not the sloppy type usually worn by the regular guards she was accustomed to seeing. It seemed that the new commander was keeping everyone on their toes.
"Papers," he demanded.
Kyra offered a timid nod, carefully avoiding direct eye contact. She drew out the ID card. With her general resemblance to Parisa and their similar build, it would be hard to tell that the ID was not hers even if he demanded that she remove her headscarf and show her face, but it was unlikely that he would do that unless he got suspicious.
The key was to project as much timidity as possible, which at the moment wasn't difficult because she was scared.
"Take your scarf off," he said, sending her heart rate into a gallop.
She widened her eyes, conveying her shock at the request.
"You heard me. The new commander is strict." He sounded almost apologetic.
Kyra nodded and, with shaking hands, removed the scarf from her face while looking down at the ground.
The guard took the card and held it up for a closer look. In the dim outer courtyard light, the photograph's details were murky at best, but he tilted the ID toward the sun. He leaned forward, tipping Kyra's chin upward with a rough, lingering touch that sent a hot wave of anger through her, along with a surge of panic.
"You look different from your picture," he said, his tone dripping with suspicion.
Kyra willed her body not to tense or recoil, even though part of her itched to twist his wrist until he screamed. "The picture is old," she murmured softly, lowering her gaze to the dusty ground. "I have given birth to two children since it was taken. That takes a toll on a woman."
His gaze flicked between her and the photograph, lingering on her face. After what seemed like an eternity, he dropped his hand with a grunt, probably finding her meek posture convincing.
"Arms out," he barked, stepping aside and motioning for a female to take over.
Kyra obeyed silently, extending her arms and bracing herself for the pat-down. The female was one she was familiar with, an old hag who liked to parrot the regime's vile propaganda and act as an enforcer of the modesty rules.
Luckily, the two of them had never been face to face, so the woman didn't know her. She should know Parisa, though.
Kyra remained silent and kept her eyes down as the woman began patting down her shoulders and then moved down her sides. Her pouch was thoroughly inspected, and the woman nodded with approval when she saw the prayer beads.
Kyra had no weapons on her—no knives or guns, not even a sharpened hairpin. For this mission, her only defense was her own body and her training, her enhanced strength and reflexes that she hoped to conceal unless absolutely necessary.
She was here to learn and observe, not to stir things up.
The pat-down felt semi-thorough, as if the female was still sleepy and not in the mood to do her job. "She's clean," she said.
The male guard handed her ID back. "Go on," he ordered. "Report to Madame Afshar in the kitchen. She's short-staffed today."
Parisa was on the cleaning staff, which worked much better for what Kyra needed to do, but she wasn't going to argue. She'd start in the kitchen and slip out as soon as she could.
Ducking her head again in a show of thanks and obedience, she tucked the ID into her pouch and hurried through the tall, steel-reinforced gate.
Gravel crunched underfoot as she passed a series of parked military Jeeps. The building's high walls were topped by coils of razor wire, which had been added after her team's prisoner extraction.
An undercurrent of tension brushed against her heightened senses as she moved deeper inside the compound, and she tried to ignore the chill creeping along her spine. Somewhere in there, the new prisoners were being held. She could almost smell the faint metallic tang in the air—a smell that evoked memories of antiseptic hallways, metal restraints, and the glint of needles in the asylum, of which she only had vague memories.
Her pendant, hidden beneath layers of clothing, pulsed with a soft warmth. The subtle vibration seemed to resonate with her heartbeats, drawing her attention toward the eastern wing.
Before she followed that pull, though, she needed to report to the kitchen.