Chapter 4
I’m dressed in seconds.
Jeans. Shirt. Boots. All black. Nothing fancy, nothing memorable. My backpack hits the bed and I start throwing essentials inside with the efficiency of someone who’s had to flee more than one country in her lifetime.
IDs. Cash. Passport.
Brass knuckles.
Throwing knives.
Burner phones.
My fingers find my Swiss army knife on the nightstand. My favorite one. The multi-purpose, multi-problem-solver that’s bailed me out of more situations than I care to count. That goes straight into my back pocket.
Two more blades slide into the holsters strapped around my ankles. Familiar weight. Familiar comfort.
I snap open a magazine, check the bullets and I slam it back into place. One gun goes into the shoulder holster under my arm; the other into the waistband against my spine, shirt pulled over it to hide the outline.
Next problem: my hair.
My afro is a whole personality, as she should be, but right now she’s a liability. Every photo, every dossier, every file the Guild ever kept on me features it. An easy beacon in a crowd.
The fact I can’t take care of her this morning pisses me off more than I already am. The fact I have to tame my baby down—murderous rage.
I slide a thick elastic headband into place, pulling it back until my curls are cinched tight and contained. It’ll buy me a few seconds of anonymity. Maybe
I grab the pack of gum from the nightstand, unwrap one piece, pop it into my mouth. Then another. The familiar artificial strawberry hits my tongue and steadies me. Always has.
I’ve got to get a fucking move on, so I sling my leather jacket on.
Backpack is snug over both shoulders and my mirrored aviators are the finishing touch.
I turn once, scanning the room—every corner, every shadow, every surface that might hold something I need—but there’s nothing, and I can’t afford to spend another second here.
I ease the door open and slip into the hallway.
Two doors down, an older man sits slouched in a chair like he’s guarding the wallpaper. Hat pulled low. Chin on his chest. Completely zonked the hell out. The bottle of wine in his hand is more air than liquid; the neck of it rests precariously on his thigh.
Not a threat. Just drunk and inconveniently present.
I scan the hall anyway, tracing the corners, the vents, the ceiling fixtures—every obvious nest an assassin would stake out if the roles were reversed.
I’ve done it myself. Twice I’ve watched someone go rogue, watched the Guild hunt their own like wolves tearing at a stray.
One of those times hit too close to home; the memory tries to claw upward, but I push it down before it takes shape.
The contract on me is open.
Guild members, independents, exiles.
Anyone with a pulse and a gun and with this bounty, plus to notoriety of taking down the Guild’s top killer, ghosts from all corners of the globe will be turning up.
In three long strides, I’m at the stairwell. I shove the door open and slip inside, boots hitting concrete as I take the steps two at a time, the echo of my own descent chasing me. Elevators are a death trap. Stairwells at least give me corners, angles, options.
My breathing stays measured. Controlled. No panic—panic gets people killed faster than bullets.
The fake ID I used to check in should buy me time. I have several aliases; some I’ve never even deployed and won’t be in the Guild cache. They’ll know I’m in Japan because of last night’s hit, but that only narrows it to a few cities.
The morning rush is already rolling through the streets—commuters pouring into stations, bakeries opening, shops unlocking their doors.
Crowds are good cover.
Crowds are also collateral waiting to happen.
I don’t like the tradeoff, but I don’t have a choice.
I hit the ground floor, slip into the lobby without slowing, and blend into the morning foot traffic. The building’s glass doors slide open, and a wave of city noise slams into me—train horns, bicycle bells, chatter, the soft hum of life moving normally while mine is seconds from detonation.
But it’s fine. I’ll move fast and keep my head down.
All I need is the bullet train. Once I’m on it, I can disappear for an hour or two.
But before I even think about Kenji’s place, there’s another stop I have to make. A necessary one. I’m under no illusion he can save me—interfering with a Guild bounty would be suicide for him too. He follows the old rules. Neutrality. Observation. Intervene in nothing unless the Guild commands it.
But his estate is neutral ground.
And he has resources—gear, weapons, tools—that I can restock with.
I can disappear properly once I’m off this island and find out who the fuck called a hit out on me. Because someone is certainly going to die over this.
It’s just not going to be me.
The train station is only a few blocks away—straight shot through morning foot traffic, down a vendor-lined street, across a plaza where businessmen cluster around convenience-store coffee. Easy enough under normal circumstances.
Not today.
I’m half a block from the station entrance when I see a familiar face.
Old guard.
One of the long-timers who’s been killing professionally since before I learned to tie my shoes. He’s leaning against a newspaper stand pretending to read a paper.
My pulse doesn’t jump.
My stride doesn’t change.
I keep walking like I didn’t clock him from fifty feet out but internally, every instinct wakes the hell up.
Fine. One assassin is manageable. Let’s see who else is here though.
I catch another across the street.
Young, twitchy, watching the crowd instead of blending with it, trying too hard not to stare in my direction. His jacket hangs too heavy on one side—gun weight. Fucking rookies. Bringing a god damn cannon to a knife fight.
I don’t look directly at either of them.
I don’t need to.
I keep moving, sliding through the pedestrian flow, letting the shifting bodies cloak me. The scent of grilled skewers and fresh bread blows through the air—normal, comforting. The kind of morning that should’ve been peaceful.
Instead, every step feels like nudging closer to a tripwire.
The station is one long block away now.
My fingers drift casually toward my jacket zipper—not to open it, but to feel for the shoulder holster beneath. The market street narrows up ahead. Vendors call out deals in rapid-fire Japanese. Bells chime softly from a passing bicycle.
Behind me, footsteps quicken.
Ahead, someone shifts position.
I feel it before I see him—the third assassin stepping just slightly out of place. He’s by a kiosk selling tourist trinkets: keychains, phone charms, tiny fans. Too still. Too centered. Waiting for me to walk straight into range.
Shit.
I keep walking.
Three more steps.
Four.
I wait as long as I can.
Longer than I should.
Then he steps into my path.
A polite little move.
A soft smile.
A click of readiness behind his eyes and all bets are off.
He steps out—too confident, too certain he’s read my approach. He expects me to hesitate. Maybe veer. Maybe widen my path so he can corner me cleanly.
I don’t give him any of that.
My pace shifts—not a stop, not a flinch. Just a slight quickening of the last two steps that throws his timing off. His hand twitches toward his jacket and that’s all I need.
I move twice at once.
My right hand flashes up, the thin blade of my multi-tool snapping open with a whisper. I jab it into the soft triangle of his neck—fast, deep, precise—right through the artery. No flourish. No wasted motion.
His breath catches wetly.
At the exact same moment, my left hand clamps around his gun hand. Four fingers snap in a clean, efficient sequence, each break sharp enough to make his knees buckle. He can’t shoot. Can’t scream. He’s too busy choking on his own blood, eyes going wide as he tries to process what just happened.
I catch him before he falls.
To everyone else on the street, it looks like I’m helping a drunk. An unsteady man. A boyfriend who had one drink too many before breakfast. My arm settles around him, supporting his collapsing weight.
“Easy,” I murmur, guiding him as his legs fold.
I turn sharply, slipping us both into the indoor market entrance just beside us. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, humming softly. A handful of early vendors unpack crates, too focused on their own tasks to notice anything out of place.
I sit him in the nearest empty chair, angle his body so it slumps naturally, head down like he’s simply nodding off.
He won’t be moving again.
I wipe the blade against the inside of my jacket as I walk away, sliding it back into my pocket without looking down.
Then I cut down a row of stalls—quiet, quick, slipping between racks of produce and shelves of dried fish—before taking another sharp turn into the maze of the market.
No one stops me.
No one calls out.
No one notices a thing.
Exactly the way I like it.
The indoor market swallows me whole—steam hissing from griddles, vendors shouting orders, customers bumping into each other with polite, muttered apologies. The noise alone is enough cover to take down an army.
I head for the side door midway through the building, weaving through the crowd.
Right on cue, Mr. Twitchy barrels in behind me—the idiot with the cannon stuffed in his jacket. I don’t need to turn to confirm; I can feel the ripple of space around him as people instinctively give him a wider berth. Subtle as a car alarm.
I roll my eyes. Of course he followed.
I pivot left before he gets a chance to spot me, slipping between a couple browsing pickled daikon. The air reeks of frying oil, miso, and sweat. Perfect.
Then I see her.
Unlike the obvious dogs outside, this one is actually dangerous: an older woman, pushing a metal cart piled with vegetables. Quiet. Unassuming. But the sleeve tugged too far down her wrist is a tell—all that overeager fabric hiding whatever spring-loaded blade she’s got waiting under there.
She brushes past a stall, and I pluck a mushroom right off the vendor’s heap without breaking stride.
Kenji taught me that one.
A harmless little thing when sautéed.
Deadly in seconds when raw.
I don’t slow. I don’t look at her. I simply reach out, seize her throat, and shove the mushroom past her lips so hard my knuckles brush her uvula. Her eyes bulge. She tries to inhale. Bad choice—she has to swallow or choke.
She swallows.
She recognizes the taste before the bite even hits her stomach. Her pupils blow wide. She staggers, claws at her throat, and runs—searching for a bathroom, a sink, anything to reverse the inevitable.
She won’t make it five steps before her gut lining liquefies.
“Thanks, Kenji,” I mutter, slipping through a narrow path between two ramen stalls.
I’m three strides away from the side door when I freeze.
Because standing dead center in the aisle—tall enough to see over the shoppers’ heads, turning slowly as he searches—is a ghost.
Alejandro Cruz.
Sombra.
The Shadow.
He shouldn’t be here.
He shouldn’t be anywhere.
He was exiled two years ago, stricken from every record, declared kill-on-sight. The manhunt was vicious; the rumors even more so. Some said he died. Some said he vanished into the mountains. Some said he took out half the hunters sent after him before evaporating like smoke.
But here he is.
Alive.
And hunting me.
He looks exactly the same.
Six-six, maybe six-seven, shoulders broad enough to eclipse the aisle. That strong, sculpted face—molten dark eyes, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, the effortless elegance he always carried wrapped in expensive leather and a tailored coat meant for someone who makes death look fashionable.
No sniper rifle, which is…wrong.
He’s never without a long-range kill option.
Never.
The fact that he’s on foot means he came in close.
For me.
He turns—and locks eyes with me.
My steps halt without permission.
The market blurs.
The noise drops to a muffled hum.
For one suspended second, it’s just us and memory hits like a blade to the ribs.
The beach and breeze. Salt clinging to our skin. His hand sliding down my thigh and my fingers tangled in his soft hair.
His mouth at my ear whispering, I’ll be right back. Promise.
Then he walked away and betrayed the Guild. Two days later, his exile notice hit the boards.
Open contract.
Kill on sight.
And then he disappeared like fog in sunlight, yet here he stands.
And as if he knows exactly what I’m remembering, the motherfucker has the audacity to grin.
Hardly a smile—just the faintest tug at one corner of his mouth.
Almost not there but I see it.
And I’m going to cut it off him.