I'm Southeast Asia's mercenary queen, code-named Night Owl, and I move freely through a hail of bullets.
The only one who looks at me strangely is that Chinese tycoon, as if I owe him eighty billion.
He pays to buy the apartment next door and rings my doorbell every day with chicken soup in hand. "Miss, you look like my late wife."
I sneer, cock the hammer, and load a round. "Still acting? The next shot will be aimed at your safe."
Then one day, I'm injured in a shootout. Burning with fever, I dream of him kneeling in a pool of blood, clutching a ruined wedding dress and screaming.
When I wake, he's trembling as he changes my bandages. A decades-old bullet scar lies stark on his collarbone, in exactly the same place where he was shot in my dream.
Later, the global black market goes into a frenzy over a bounty notice:
"Night Owl will pay a fortune for a way to recover her memories. Includes a one-month trial of her tycoon husband."
Four big shots rush to apply: an arms dealer offers a neural repair serum, a medical genius demonstrates hypnosis, and the King of Spies presents a mission videotape...
The tycoon slaps a marriage certificate on the table. "Honey, remarry me and I'll give you all of Southeast Asia's arms-trading routes."
I rub my temples and push my gun toward him. "First, explain this:"
"Why can my late husband's fingerprint unlock my armory?"
