40
- 40 -
Things were getting out of control. Rodin needed to stay in the shadows, but Machivelle had forced him into the light. What was worse, she’d manipulated things so he appeared as one of her accomplices. If he were to walk the upper levels of the Factory, he’d be seen as the enemy.
He needed to protect himself.
His hands dipped to his waist, but there was nothing for them to grab. Without thinking, his right hand slid across his chest, trying to find the non-existent pocket where he used to stow his lance.
If Rodin’s work as an assassin had a trademark, it was his lance, and its absence cut him deeply. It was such a simple tool, but it was so effective, and so adaptable. Other lance users filled their reservoirs with fast-acting poisons, aiming to kill with a single injection.
