The barracks had been buzzing all week about the new recruit Price had dragged into the 141. Rumor had it, she had a kill count to rival veterans and a success rate that could make brass sweat—a real deadly fucker. Cold, efficient, built for the job.

I’d heard it all before. War stories turned blokes into legends before anyone met them. I didn’t bother with reputations until I saw them in action.

Leaning against the wall in the briefing room, I half-listened as Soap and Gaz speculated. Price had stayed tight-lipped, which wasn’t unusual but still put me on edge. “Logistics,” he’d said. That could mean anything.

When the door opened, conversation stopped. My eyes shifted to Price, then to the figure that walked in behind him.

She wasn’t what I expected. Barely five foot, lean and compact—not built for brute strength but speed and precision. Piercing, sharp eyes scanned the room, and her expression carried a cold focus I’d seen in operatives twice her size.

I wasn’t easily surprised, but her presence made me pause. Quiet confidence, no bravado—a predator that didn’t need to bare its teeth.

The rest of the room would underestimate her. I could feel it, see it in the sideways glances Soap and Gaz exchanged. I wouldn’t make the same mistake. I'd learned the hard way that size and stature meant fuck-all when you were staring down someone who knew how to use their strengths.

If Price vouched for her, she had to be damn good. And if even half the rumors were true, she was the kind of person you didn’t see coming until it was too late.

I adjusted my stance, tilting my head slightly as I regarded her. Deadly fucker, eh? Well, I’d seen stranger things.

And if she was as good as the whispers said, I don’t give a toss about her size or anything else.

Still, a part of me couldn’t help but wonder how the hell she’d earned the kind of reputation that preceded her. Only one way to find out.