Mark and Claudine's eyes met. In that heavy silence, an unspoken exchange of information took place. Mark recognized the pattern of her blinks and the sharpness of her gaze. It was an advanced FBI communication protocol. They were two strangers united by an oath under the Federation's flag, now trapped at the heart of the world's most dangerous criminal syndicate.
"I'm going to clean your wounds. Don't move much," Claudine's voice was flat, cold, and professional.
She pulled up a small stool and sat across from him. As she began to wipe the abrasions on Mark's wrists, chafed raw by the handcuffs, with an alcohol swab, her movements were clinical and precise. It was then that Mark felt the friction of a small piece of paper pressed into his palm.
With a movement nearly invisible to the surveillance camera in the upper corner, Mark curled his fingers, pinching the paper. He slipped it into his pant pocket just as Claudine feigned adjusting her seating position.
