Chapter 6 Dante #2
The driver had nothing to do with oil deals.
A little distraction, a dart coated in sedative to the neck, and he passed out almost instantly.
He woke later, jittery and more concerned about being late than anything else.
He checked the goods, shrugged, and drove off, none the wiser to the swap I had orchestrated.
Maybe, once people discover the mix-up, they’ll pin the blame on him, but that isn’t my problem. My job was simple—just swap the goods.
She studies me, eyes narrowing as if measuring my words against the truth written on my face. After a long pause, she shakes her head. “Is this the same brand they were expecting?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, frustration bubbling like molten steel. It stings, that quiet pang of wounded ego. To her, I feel like a child she has to drag along, a liability rather than a partner, and the thought refuses to settle.
And for some reason, a stupid, stubborn feeling blooms inside me, pushing me harder, forcing me to prove myself to her. “I’m not stupid, Estella. It took time, but I did everything clean.”
“But the sedative won’t—”
“You’ll see,” I snap, impatience sharpening my tone. “We just wait.”
She leans back, the soft crack of her neck resonating through the space. Silence settles between us like shifting sand, thick and heavy with tension, awkward in its weight.
I can’t read her fully, but I know she’s calculating, probably wishing this mission were over, maybe even picturing every possible way she could kill me if things go wrong.
“What did you do after the last mission?” I ask, the images of that night pressing in behind my eyes.
I remember driving her to the hotel in silence, waiting for her while she changed into spare clothes without a word, not even when she left the car.
I thought letting her cool off was the safer choice—she was tired, still high from the kill.
“Why are you so obsessed with asking me things about myself?” she fires back.
“Those few times after I killed, I never knew what to do,” I admit, my voice low, almost swallowed by the tension around us.
“I felt lost. Disconnected from everything, like my soul had slipped right out of my body. Moving felt impossible, thinking even more so. I just went on autopilot,” I say, shifting the weight of the conversation onto myself as a small shield against the scrutiny in her gaze.
It’s not a lie. Not completely. After a kill, something inside me always craves normalcy, as if pretending nothing happened could erase the blood that stains my hands.
There’s the brief, hollow numbness, and when it fades, I want something ordinary.
A nap, a drink, a massive burger that leaves grease on my fingers.
If they’re bad people, I barely hesitate. If they’re not… there’s a sting, a sudden spike of guilt slicing through me. But I already know my next move, so why linger on what I can’t change?
“I went out for a burger right after you left,” she says finally, her voice lighter than before. Her eyes meet mine, casual, unguarded, and she shrugs, effortless. “Needed the energy.”
The corners of my mouth twitch before I can stop them. “Oh,” I blurt, realizing how twisted my feelings are. “That’s understandable.”
A smile tugs at my lips, threatening to spread warmth where it shouldn’t. The thought amuses me, knowing full well I’ve done the exact same thing far more times than I care to admit.
“I wanted to eat too. Think we could grab something together after this?” I suggest lightly.
“I don’t want to babysit you.”
Yeah. Too far. Too much.
Or maybe not enough.
Doubt tries to rise, but the pressing need to get this right sears through it like fire. “You won’t be babysitting. I’m buying. We’ll celebrate my success. What’s your favorite filling?”
She pauses, and I catch the subtle shift in her posture, the fraction of hesitation flickering across her expression. She’s weighing whether to agree, and that tiny crack is enough to make me grateful.
“Success is a big word,” she murmurs.
“We’ll see about that,” I reply, teasing, before snapping my attention back to the mission, reaching for the binoculars.
I don’t realize she’s mirroring me until our fingers brush, sending a shock of electricity straight through me. She flinches, and without thinking, my hand moves to hers, pulled by some unseen tether.
The brush of her soft skin against mine sends a shiver racing down my spine, an icy, intoxicating pulse cutting through the desert heat.
Goosebumps prick along my arms, and I feel the weight of her gaze tracing every taut line of my muscles, as if she’s memorizing the tension in each, mapping the strength coiled beneath my skin.
Her breath falters, and I draw it in, letting the scent of her perfume roll over me. Sweetness wrapped in luxury, sharp and intoxicating, both a warning and an invitation. It’s dangerous, addictive, a declaration—just like her.
Before I can dwell on it, she retreats, reclaiming her space, leaving me gripping the binoculars so tightly my knuckles whiten.
I swallow hard, trying to blink the haze from my mind, but it lingers.
I feel as though a live wire has passed through me, sparking beneath my skin, flaring, claiming every nerve, every thought, until all I am is the current.
“Cheese and chicken.”
I turn my gaze to her, trying to read more than the words she’s spoken. I already know what she means, and this time, no effort to hide it—no mask, no restraint—can keep the smile from spreading across my face.
“My favorite burger filling.”
It isn’t even midnight when the camp sinks into stillness, blanketed by bodies sprawled across the sand. Faces pressed into the ground, they sleep as the desert sky above scatters its stars in silent imitation—each one a reflection of the motionless forms below.
The faint rustle of sand dies the moment we step into the camp, and I freeze.
Glancing back, I see Estella stopping just behind me.
I’ve observed her long enough to understand what she is—precision embodied in silence.
Even in improvisation, she leaves no trace, nothing that could ever lead back to her or The Order.
Cunning. Stealthy. Lethal.
I watch her crouch, reaching down without hesitation to lift a mid-sized scorpion from the sand. It thrashes, claws flailing in protest, but she only tilts her head, studying it. For a moment, she spins it between her fingers like a child turning a toy—curious, fearless, daring it to strike.
Without glancing at me, she turns and strides toward one of the men.
Bending over, she grips his arm and rolls him onto his side.
As his face tilts toward the star-streaked sky, my gaze falls on the imprint he’s left in the sand.
I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it.
I rarely found amusement in… fuck, anything.
Years spent chasing my mission had dulled my emotions, leaving me on autopilot, moving through life like a ghost. But spending time with Estella—hearing her jokes, feeling her lightness—something inside me began to stir, slowly awakening from a long, stubborn slumber.
Now, I find amusement exactly where I shouldn’t, yet I can’t bring myself to complain.
She lowers the scorpion toward the man’s nose, and we both watch as it instinctively clamps onto it, his broad, potato-like nose blanching under the pressure.
“Nice job,” she murmurs quietly before pulling back, leaving the scorpion on his face.
I blink, unsure if I heard her right. She must catch my confusion because she rolls her eyes, and her lips twitch with impatience. “It means nothing yet.” Her chin tilts toward the bodies scattered around us. “They’re still alive.”
I lift my wrist, checking the time. A thin thread of excitement winds through me, a tremor of nervous energy humming under my skin.
“What are you smiling about?” she asks, suspicion coloring her words.
I keep my eyes on my watch, feeling her gaze burn through me. “A few more seconds,” I say simply. From the corner of my eye, I watch her turn, searching for something—or someone—I’m waiting for.
A low grunt slices through the night, and we both jerk our heads toward the sound.
One of the men stirs, his movements sluggish, weighed down by sleep.
Drowsy confusion clouds his features for a moment before snapping into sharp fear, and then twisting into anger.
He lunges to rise, mouth opening for a curse, but his reflexes betray him.
I pull my knife out in one smooth motion, grab his shoulder to steady him, and slice his throat.
He gurgles, blood erupting from the wound and running in dark rivers down his white shirt.
He thrashes, and it takes his system forever to finally give up—each shiver stretching the moment until his body finally goes slack.
I release him, letting his body crumple into the sand like a discarded sack of potatoes, and lean in with deliberate precision, snatching the pendant from his chest. Diamonds frame it, sparkling cruelly—worth a fortune he’ll never wear from now on.
The rush of the kill ripples through me, sharp and intoxicating, but the action is brief, so it vanishes almost as quickly as it came.
The adrenaline fades, leaving a hollow quiet behind.
And then, absurdly, like a fucking clockwork mechanism resetting itself, a mundane craving rises through the haze.
I want a burger.
“Just wanted to look him in the eye. At least once,” I say, wiping the blade clean on the hem of my T-shirt before sliding it into my pocket. “Also took a little souvenir for my collection.”
She chews on the corner of her mouth, eyes narrowing into thin, sharp slits as she studies me. “Souvenirs are lame. But okay,” she says lazily.
“What, you never kept any? Not even when you first started?” I press, curiosity threading my voice.
She rests her hands on her hips, tilting her head side to side as if weighing the answer. “I used to keep a journal. It was like therapy for me,” she admits.
A chuckle rises in my chest, but I clamp it down before it escapes. “Did it help?”
Her eyebrows lift, a flicker of surprise crossing her expression. “As you can see—no, it fucking didn’t,” she replies, letting out a short, self-mocking laugh. “So, how did this tiny kill make you feel?”
“Hungry as fuck,” I confess, and for a brief moment, the tension in the desert air loosens, like the edges of a storm just passed.
She glances at the still-sleeping bodies scattered across the sand. “And the rest of them are just gonna stay here till morning?”
I flex my neck before giving the corpse a sharp kick. It rolls aside, lifeless, thudding softly against the desert floor, landing exactly where I need it to.
“No,” I say, letting a hint of intrigue coil through my voice. “But for the rest, we need to head back to the SUV.”
Without waiting for her response, I pivot and start walking away from the camp.
Estella freezes, a sharp hiss sliding past her lips, and a few moments later, she catches up. “What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps. “Hey, asshole! I’m talking to you! Did we just go all this way so you could grab a fucking souvenir?”
A smirk curls my lips, a new, unfamiliar thrill twisting inside me. Since meeting her, my emotions have been a tangled mess—an intoxicating chaos I can’t quite name. And now, the darker side of me savors her confusion, paying her back in kind.
She’s cryptic, always has been. Tonight, the coin flips. Now I get to be the asshole, keeping her on edge, letting her chase answers she can’t quite catch.
I ignore her ridiculous attempts to get my attention—even the moment she practically jumps to reach my face. She’s maybe five-eight, but next to me, she looks deceptively small, all sharp fury packed into a compact frame.
When we’ve put enough distance between us and the camp, I stop abruptly, turn, and slip the binoculars from the cord across my chest before holding them out to her.
“You’ll like this,” I promise.
She snatches them from my hand but refuses to look, her anger blooming hot across her features. Her eyebrows knit into deep furrows, her mouth tightening with a confusion so sharp it sparks something strange and thrilling within me.
I can’t deny it—I enjoy this little game far more than I should.
Then, the night finally erupts. A deep, concussive boom rolls across the sand, followed by a spear of light and a thick column of flame tearing into the dark.
Her anger shatters instantly, replaced by raw confusion, her posture freezing before instinct finally kicks in and she lifts the binoculars to her eyes.
Cane told her I was good with tech, but before tonight, I didn’t stand out. Now I’ve paired skill with imagination and built something I knew she hadn’t seen before. Because the plan was never just swapping the water bottles.
It was swapping the shipment itself—millions in filthy cash replaced with identical crates hiding a device keyed to blood. Killing the man earlier wasn’t only about taking him out. It served two purposes.
The first: priming the bomb. The moment his blood touched the trigger, the timer started counting down.
The second: proving to her that I can do more than shoot from a distance. That I can kill up close. That I can take what I want. That there’s passion behind the precision.
Two birds, one stone.
From afar, we watch the chaos unfurl—orange tongues of flame licking the sky, thick smoke curling upward in dense, suffocating coils. After what feels like an eternity, I tear my eyes away and catch her reaction.
A fleeting shadow of something I can’t name passes across her features. Her lips part slightly, fingers clutching the binoculars until they turn white, knuckles taut. She doesn’t speak. Instead, she studies the scene with the detached focus of a scientist observing a volatile experiment.
A tremor flickers at the corners of her mouth, blooming into a fragile, deliberate smile. She takes her time, drinking in the destruction—the flickers, the collapses, the heat and light—holding herself perfectly still so she won’t miss a single detail.
She savors it all: the death, the chaos, and the meticulous performance that brought it to life.
Time stretches, elongated and warped, as we stand there together. The silence that grows between us isn’t heavy or oppressive anymore—it’s a quiet, eerie calm, a pause carved into the storm raging in the distance.
Eventually, she slaps the binoculars against my chest. Reflexively, I clutch them before draping the cord back across my shoulders.
“That old-school diner we drove past looked nice,” she murmurs, turning and pivoting, eyes still fixed on the inferno before us.
A slow, sharp smile spreads across my face, fully blooming now, twisted and alive, as I fall into step beside her.