The gun in Anja's hand was not a dramatic, oversized Hollywood prop. It was a small, utilitarian Walther PPK, dark and efficient, and it looked utterly natural in her grip. Her hand was steady, her finger resting casually beside the trigger. She wasn't shaking. She wasn't hesitating. She had done this before, or had at least imagined it enough times that the reality held no terror for her.
"Anja," I said, my own voice sounding unnaturally calm in the humming silence of the server room. "What are you doing?"
"I'm protecting my people," she replied, her German accent sharper, more defined than I had ever heard it. "Something you seem to have forgotten how to do."
The betrayal hit me like a physical blow. I had trusted her. I had confided in her. I had seen a pragmatic, hardened ally, and I had been completely, utterly wrong. She wasn't the fortress protecting the employees; she was the snake in the nest.
