TITLE: Dead Ringer
GENRE: YA Thriller
Jorgen fingered the knife and inhaled a foul aroma. A black garbage bag was shredded in the diner's alley, its contents scattered and feasted upon by an enormous rat. The smell was a blend of rotting garnishes, curdled milk, used oil from grease traps, and cigarette butts. It was a shame to conduct business in a place like this.
The girl watched him with no visible fear. She waited for his movement, gracefully tensing her calves in an alternating pattern so that she swayed, ever so slightly, back and forth like a cornered prizefighter. Left, right, left, right. She wasn't talking, and it was time to end things.
"This is your last chance," he said, eyeing her throat. "Please believe I'm being honest with you about that. Tell me."
Part of him admired the TAG operative, and did not want to kill her. He would do it though; she wasn't giving him the information about Recall X, whatever that was. An event, a location, a person--it could be anything. He was rarely informed. Their agencies shared similar interests in projects quite often, but what she was doing in Philadelphia, he was unsure of. Perhaps it was a safety rest. If so, it was about to come to an abrupt halt.
"I can't answer your question. My apologies to the Heidengul."
Ridiculous, Jorgen thought. "You're sure?"
She nodded, still waiting.
He let out a heavy sigh, tightening his grip on the blade. "Wrong answer."