Chapter 5
The world snaps back into motion the moment I hear him.
“I said fucking move!”
Twitchy’s voice tears through the market, a dozen yards behind me.
Yeah—he definitely saw me.
I pivot just enough to catch his expression. That murderous glare blazing with the fury of a thousand pissed-off devils. Honestly? It’s almost funny.
I swing my gaze back to Alejandro, lift an eyebrow, give him a tiny nod.
Then I run.
He does too.
I shove through the last cluster of shoppers and hit the door at full speed, bursting out into the street. The cold air smacks my face, but I don’t slow. My legs take over—trained muscle memory, long strides, razor focus.
Behind me, the old-timer drops his newspaper. His sprint isn’t what it used to be, but he’s still fast enough to be annoying.
I keep going.
Head down and arms pumping.
Dodging commuters already spilling into the sidewalks.
A gunshot cracks behind me.
The bullet slams into a wooden stall so close to my head I can feel the splinters kiss my cheek. Guess the old man’s not in the mood for cardio.
Screams erupt and the street explodes into chaos.
People scatter, running in every direction—and I use the mess to duck down an extra block.
I plan to double back toward the station, but a sharp, cold feeling tightens in my gut.
Eyes.
On me.
Alejandro.
He went high.
Probably staring at me through a scope right now, finger hovering over a trigger that’s ended more lives than famine.
I veer hard, turning down an aisle I nearly miss. Bright umbrellas stretch overhead like a canopy, shielding the alley from any aerial viewpoint. Perfect.
I slip through them, adjusting my route every few steps in case a high-caliber round is tracking my skull.
My hand dives into my pocket. Fingers close around a coin.
I hit the end of the alley at a sprint, vault over a low gate, then another, ignoring the guards shouting behind me as I clear the barriers surrounding the station plaza.
I should have checked train schedules yesterday.
If I had been here working, I would have every train and flight schedule down in case I needed a quick exit. But I was acting like a person on vacation instead of a burnout assassin trying to detox from murder.
The time is going to cost me precious seconds.
Lucky me—I spot the departure board over the heads of a rushing crowd. One line jumps out:
Platform 4 – Departure in 2 minutes. And headed in just the direction I need.
Perfect.
Until Twitchy steps right into my path, dragging out the oversized cannon he brought to this little party. Bold. Mostly stupid. But bold.
He doesn’t get a shot off because I slam the heel of my hand into the muzzle, smashing it back into his face.
His nose breaks with a wet crunch. Before he can scream, I twist, grab his chin, and snap his neck.
His body drops—and so does the ridiculous gun, clattering across the polished tile like a fallen anchor.
I’m already moving and within seconds, I slide into the ticket kiosk, jam the coin into the slot, and pound the button for Platform 4. The machine whirs, slow as molasses, counting down the longest five heartbeats of my life.
I scan the station entrance.
The old man arrives—sweating, winded, furious.
But no Alejandro.
Doesn’t matter.
He’s somewhere. I know he is.
The ticket drops and I snatch it, sprinting for the stairs.
Now I just look like any other commuter running late—except my pulse is a live wire and someone will absolutely die if they touch me right now.
I take the stairs two at a time.
Three when the gap’s small enough.
People complain as I shoulder past; I don’t look back for pleasantries.
The turnstile slows me again.
I mutter every curse I know while fighting with the ticket and the reader.
At last, the gate opens—right as a calm female voice announces in Japanese:
“Stand clear. The doors are closing.”
I am definitely not standing clear.
I push off the floor, hit a dead sprint, and launch myself forward. The train doors begin to slide shut—
I slip inside a heartbeat before they seal.
Breath ragged.
Hands shaking.
Heart pounding.
The train glides forward, smoother than butter, barely a vibration beneath my boots. I stay near the front of the car for a beat, watching the right side for movement. Nothing suspicious catches my eye.
I start walking left, slow enough to blend, fast enough to keep my lead. My eyes never stop moving—every face, every hand, every shift in posture.
Doors slide open when I approach, then seal quietly behind me.
The next car smells like coffee—rich, dark, comforting. My stomach twists. I could kill for caffeine. Maybe a breakfast sandwich. Normally I’d have something in my bag—a protein bar, fruit jerky, something quick.
But I wasn’t supposed to be running for my life today.
I was going to all-inclusive resorts. Beach lounges. Umbrella drinks.
My backpack is barebones and it’s my own fault.
I pass through two cars without issue.
Halfway down the third, adrenaline spikes—sharp, electric—half a second before a hand whips out toward me.
I drop my weight and he misses, fingers slicing through empty air.
My knife is already in my hand, the pointed blade flicking open with a quiet snap. I thrust directly toward his face—
He twists, fast, and I drive the blade into the seat just behind him instead. Foam hisses. Fabric tears.
He uses the opening to grab my wrist, wrenching me sideways. My body whips across, slamming into the seat beside him. I hit the cushion hard, shoulder jarring.
I throw an elbow—sharp, tight—but he blocks easily, angling me back. I twist under his arm, slide across the space, and hook myself onto the seat opposite him. Both my hands grip the armrests as I lift my body fully off the ground and kick.
Both boots slam into his chest—hard.
His breath leaves him in an undignified “oof.”
His pistol clatters to the floor.
I don’t think—I draw my gun on instinct, bringing it up—
But he’s already reaching down. He grabs the fallen gun, and I stomp my heel onto his hand, pinning both his wrist and the weapon to the floor.
He snarls and reaches up with his free hand, grabbing my wrist to shove my aim off-line before I can fire.
And in a second we’re locked in a perfect stalemate.
Alejandro’s dark brown eyes burn into mine.
Exactly as intense as he’s always been.
The entire fight was silent. Violent, yes. But contained. Focused. Not a single passenger at the far end of the car turns our way.
We breathe hard in sync, sweat pearling at our hairlines.
“I’m not here to kill you, Saint.” He whispers. His voice is deeper than I remember. Richer. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. The close quarters. Or maybe it was always like this, and two years was enough to dull my memory.
His Spanish accent slides through me like it always did, tracing down my spine, but I keep my face blank.
“Excuse me if I don’t believe you,” I mutter back, tone sharp enough to cut.
“What other choice do you have?” he asks quietly.
“I could kill you at least a dozen ways without leaving my seat.”
The soft thrum of noise comes from the next doorway behind him.
A train attendant greeting passengers in Japanese, stepping car to car, checking tickets, taking coffee orders.
Alejandro and I stay frozen.
My foot still pins his gun hand.
His fingers still clamp around my wrist, keeping my weapon angled toward the wall.
Two seconds until the attendant looks our way.
One.
We break apart at the same instant—guns vanishing into holsters, postures resetting as if we’ve been here, calm and harmless, all along.
By the time the attendant reaches us, Alejandro is leaning back with an easy smile—one of those disarming, devastating ones that makes strangers trust him and enemies hesitate.
She switches to English the moment she sees us. “May I get you anything from the café?”
Alejandro begins to answer he’s already ordered when another attendant arrives behind her, pushing a cart.
Two coffees.
Two breakfast croissants.
Ham, egg, and cheese for him.
Egg and cheese for me.
He smiles politely as he takes the coffees.
Then he glances at me—and the smile turns wicked, like he sees the “eat shit and die” written all over my face.
Fuck him.
I take the coffee anyway.
He pulls a small folding table from the armrest and sets his down neatly, then reaches back for the two plates. He slides his onto the table, then holds mine toward me like a peace offering.
“Five minutes,” he says softly. “That’s it.”
I study him, looking for anything—tension around the eyes, tightness in the jaw, the tiny muscle that used to twitch when he lied. I used to be able to read him effortlessly. I thought I could.
I had no clue that the day he kissed me goodbye on that beach, he planned to go rogue. To kill without sanction. To ignite a powder keg between two volatile nations. To disappear.
He waits.
Alejandro has always been more patient than I am.
“Five minutes,” he repeats, “and you have my permission to slit my throat if I say anything you don’t like.”
“What if I didn’t like that?” I say in a quiet threat.
His smile widens.
Not mocking. Not cruel.
Certain.
He leans back, knowing damn well I’m going to take the deal. And the breakfast.
I grab the plate and he savors his small victory with a sip of the hot coffee before he says, “Well, well. If it isn’t Saint James.”