Outside my apartment, I reach for my pistol, heart pounding. The gray thread I wedged between the door and the frame is on the floor, which means someone opened the door while I was gone—and yet, my T.A.S.K.-issued security sensor never tripped.

This means that whoever is in my apartment knows what they’re doing.

I steel myself with a deep breath, put the key in the lock, and turn it. The deadbolt clicks loudly, spiking my pulse.

There’s one explanation for this: the wrong people found out where I live, and they’ve come to kill me.

Swiftly, I open the door and step inside, pistol up, ready to engage.

Silence. The lights are off, as I left them.

In my pocket, my phone buzzes, alerting me about my own feet tripping the sensor.

I leave it. If I don’t respond to it within ninety seconds, T.A.S.K. will deploy agents to my place. And I might need their help.

I use my foot to shut the door, then use my elbow to flip on the light.

Everything is as expected—blackout curtains drawn, blanket and pillows in disarray on the couch, mug on the side table, video game controller and toast crumbs on the coffee table.

My buzzing phone fills the space, impeding my ability to hear whoever is in here. I remove a hand from my pistol to take the phone out of my pocket and toss it onto the couch.

The hairs on the back of my neck lift. There’s a subtle, almost inaudible rustle beside me.

I spin and duck, aiming my weapon at the noise.

She appears in the open doorway to the guest bedroom, pistol raised. The muzzles of our weapons are an inch apart.

My heart jumps. It’s not surprise I feel, but something mixed and confusing. It’s more like sudden recognition—like the disarming feeling of spotting someone you know at the grocery store.

Of course it’s her.

Nicky looks the same as the last time I saw her two years ago, strong, cool, steady. She still has that unreadable layer beneath the shell she works so hard to uphold. More tattoos than I remember peek out of the sleeves of her black jumpsuit, and she’s swapped her fade haircut for an edgier, buzzed look. Her brown eyes are heavier and she looks older than her twenty-four years, leaving me to wonder what kind of assignments she’s been on.

“Are you always this tense when you get home?” she says.

I cock an eyebrow. “You were sloppy.”

I lunge for her, thrusting her pistol toward the ceiling so I can bring her to the ground. She reacts with trained speed, blocking my punches and kicks. Her broad shoulders and thighs give her the advantage of size and strength, but I’ve always been more nimble.

I grab the lamp beside us and slam it into her gut, winding her. The bulb smashes and the room darkens. I seize the chance to kick her legs out from under her and get her on her back.

She hits the floor and loses her grip on her pistol.

I point mine at her, panting.

How is it that every time Nicky and I meet, we leave each other bruised and breathless? And not in the fun sense.

My phone stops buzzing. I have ninety seconds.

“Why today, of all days?” I ask. “I’ve been on a break all month. I was on a date tonight.”

From the floor, Nicky’s brown eyes trace over me like she’s evaluating my choice of high-waisted jeans and a yellow crop top. Yeah, it’s a little brighter and cheerier than I usually dress, but I thought it looked hot.

Something crosses Nicky’s expression that I can’t decipher.

“I don’t ask too many questions about my assignments,” she says.

I lean closer. “That’s the difference between you and me. I like to know what I’m getting into and why. I guess that’s why I’m in an intelligence unit and you’re just a hired gun.”

Her face twists in anger before she regains her composure. “Too bad your intelligence unit doesn’t care that you’ve got a target on you.”

“So there’s a bounty on me?”

“I’m not here to collect a bounty.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What, then?”

My heart is pounding and my patience is wearing thin. There are two ways this can end: either Nicky gets whatever she came for, or I kill her. We’ve crossed paths enough that I intimately know her dedication to the job, and I know she won’t leave my apartment until she’s completed her assignment.

“They want the Munich files,” she says.

Oh. Shit.

I guess this is going to end the second way.

I tighten my finger over the trigger. “Hm. Too bad for them.”

Nicky rolls her eyes. “Just get it for me and I’ll leave you alone, Ebony.”

“I don’t have it. I’m serious. If you’d asked questions before agreeing to this assignment, you would have realized that.”

She searches my face, clearly trying to decide if I’m lying.

I keep my expression neutral. The flash drive she wants happens to be in the sole of a pair of old boots at the back of the hall closet. She would never find it, even if she had all day to turn my place upside down.

She must realize that, or else I would’ve come home to a ransacked apartment instead of the end of her pistol.

She grabs a blade from a pocket over her bicep and launches to her feet.

I step back, letting it happen—and as my brain catches up with my reaction, I’m furious with myself. Why didn’t I shoot her in the arm to keep her down?

“Are you going to torture me for its whereabouts?” I taunt, cocking an eyebrow. “Come on, make me squeal.”

Part 2 coming tomorrow! Read the full story right now on “Sweet & Spicy Sapphic Stories” at patreon.com/tianawarner. Plus you’ll get early access to next week’s story.