Chapter 10
The forest floor is softer than it has any right to be. Moss, pine needles, the faint smell of cold dirt. I’m stretched out on my back, hands behind my head, staring up at the stars like some romantic fool waiting for inspiration to strike.
Next to me:
my dead companion, Skippy.
Saint’s emotional support corpse.
“So,” I say, glancing over at him, “what’s your real name?”
Silence.
“Not much of a talker, huh? That’s fine, mi amigo. I can talk enough for both of us.”
Still nothing.
He’s a terrible conversationalist.
I inhale deeply, stretch my arms behind my head, and sit up—but the moment I do, something in my chest tightens. The openness bothers me. Too much sky. Too much exposure.
I should be up in the trees looking through a scope. Seeing the world from the angle where I’m the threat, not the target.
With a sigh, I stand.
Time to relocate.
I grab Skippy by the collar and haul him upright, feet dangling a little off the ground. Tonight’s fashion choice—Saint’s donated sunglasses—is sitting crooked on his dirt-smeared face, giving him a grim parody of a smile. Like he knows the punchline to a joke no one’s told.
I adjust the glasses, tugging the frame straight and then realize…
he’s not sagging.
The corpse is holding its own weight.
“Well,” I murmur, yanking him slightly back and forth, “son of a bitch.”
I lower my hand off his shirt very slowly, shifting my weight to him inch by inch. The dead man sways once. Twice. I catch his shoulder to stabilize him—
And there he is.
Standing upright.
All on his own.
“Look at you.” I let out a sharp laugh and pat his chest. “Well done.”
It is, objectively, ridiculous.
His sunglasses slip again. I pull them off and instantly regret it.
He’s been dead about twenty-four hours. Dirt clings to his eyeballs. His lids are half open. His expression hasn’t softened with time—it’s gotten worse. Sunken. Smeared. Grim.
“Dios…” I grimace. “Put those back on.”
I slide the shades onto his face, adjusting them until he looks… well. Not good. But better.
Much better.
I scan the forest floor to make sure I haven’t dropped anything—weapon, phone, dignity—then look uphill for somewhere I can relocate to. Somewhere elevated. Hidden. With a clear view of the path where Saint will come back through.
Skippy’s sunglasses gleam faintly under the moon as I glance down.
And that’s when I notice a bush beside him, heavy with berries such an unnaturally bright blue they look like they’ve been Photoshopped into the forest.
I pluck one, roll it between my fingers, and squeeze. It collapses instantly, bleeding a darker blue smear across my thumb.
Interesting.
A twig snaps just before a bullet zips past my head.
I dive sideways as Skippy tips over like a felled tree to the ground behind me.
“?Joder, para ya!”* I bark. “It’s just us!”
From the trees, Saint’s voice cuts through the night.
“Who the fuck is ‘us’?”
I gesture at the corpse like it should be obvious. “Me and Skippy. Who the fuck else would it be?”
She steps into view, expression sharp, eyes scanning the scene—me kneeling in the dirt, the blue smear on my thumb, Skippy eating a bullet chest-first like a loyal shield.
“Why,” she asks slowly, “was he standing like you were about to start a witch séance in the woods?”
I toss the crushed berry down and wipe my hand on my pants. “I was experimenting.”
“Unless you want to shit yourself to death,” she says, pointing at my hand, “you should wash that off. Those berries are insanely toxic.”
I lift my hand to smell it. “It’s very sweet-smelling.”
“Never mind the Oregon Trail cosplay,” she says. “Why were you foraging and playing with dead people?”
“I was not playing.”
I grab Skippy by the collar again and haul him upright. “But look—”
I balance him. Let go.
He stays standing, swaying slightly.
“Ta da! He stands.”
Saint stares like this is somehow the worst thing she’s ever seen—and keep in mind, she’s buried more bodies than most cemeteries.
“Good for him,” she says flatly. “We need to go. We’ve got a plane to catch.”
She turns and starts back toward the car.
Which, of course, is when I give Skippy the slightest nudge on his shoulder.
He wobbles.
Left side. Right side. Left again.
A listing, drunken shuffle down the slope.
“Look!” I call after her. “He can walk!”
Saint turns with a look that’s a cocktail of disbelief, horror, and pure, exhausted judgment. Like she’s trying to decide if she should shoot Skippy again or me or both.
I pat the corpse’s shoulder. “Don’t worry amigo. She’s always like this.”
“I can hear you,” she snaps.
“I know,” I say, and Skippy tips forward like he agrees with me, face-planting in the dirt again. “Ah, fuck me.”
We ditch the car half a mile from the freight strip—no lights, no signs, just a sprawl of warehouses and cargo bays pretending to be too boring to bother with.
Perfect place to smuggle two assassins and a dead man.
I pop the trunk and pull back the side panel, revealing my rifle case nestled where the spare tire should be. Long-range precision. My actual comfort blanket.
I sling it over my shoulder and reach into the back seat for Skippy.
He flops into my arms like a sandbag wearing sunglasses. Only slightly stiff.
I hoist him across my shoulders and wait while Saint arms herself.
She’s checking her ankle sheath, sliding in an extra knife.
Reloading her gun with a fresh magazine.
Adjusting the strap of her harness like she’s preparing for a triathlon, not a felony.
I should not find this as attractive as I do.
Minutes later, we’re crouched behind a patch of tall grass near a chain-link fence that surrounds the airfield. A few truck headlights sweep the gravel beyond. Workers wander between loading docks, bored and oblivious.
I whisper, “Where exactly are we going?”
“New York,” she says without looking at me.
I raise a brow. “And what is in New York?”
She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a crumpled slip of paper.
“Takeout.”
She hands it to me.
It’s a receipt for Chinese food.
Printed with an address in Little China, New York.
“From Skippy’s pocket?”
She rolls her eyes hard enough I hear it.
“Yeah. The only thing he had on him.”
I pat the corpse’s shoulder. “You’re more useful than you look, amigo.”
Saint kicks me lightly in the shin.
That’s her way of saying focus.
A warehouse bay door grinds open across the yard, spilling yellow light onto the pavement. A forklift buzzes past. The workers don’t look back.
“Now,” she whispers.
We cut through the fence—her little pocket tool does the job in a few clean clips—and slip across the open ground in the forklift’s wake. Inside the warehouse, no one notices us. Too many crates. Too little supervision. Too much noise.
A bulletin board near the office doorway holds stacks of documents and several clipboards. Saint taps one with her finger.
Flight manifests, cargo loads, destinations, and times.
And there it is.
A cargo jet departing directly to JFK International.
Last cargo load already signed off.
We exchange a look, and she nods once.
Outside, through the warehouse’s high windows, I spot the plane sitting on the tarmac—its bay doors open, last crates strapped in. A group of workers loiter by a fuel truck for a smoke break, backs turned. No one is watching.
“Go,” she says.
We sprint across the tarmac—me with Skippy bouncing on my shoulders like some morbid backpack—and slide up the cargo ramp just as the workers start arguing about whose turn it is to buy cigarettes.
Inside, the compartment is cavernous, dim, and humming with the low vibration of running engines. We duck behind a tall stack of produce crates, squeezing into the narrow pocket of space between pallets and the wall.
Saint settles in first, guns secured, jaw clenched in concentration.
I wedge myself beside her, Skippy propped in the corner like he’s supervising.
The cargo door begins to close, and the lights dim.
The engines rise to a hungry roar and Saint exhales once.
We’re in.
On a plane to New York with no seats and one dead man dressed like he’s ready for a tax audit.
I look sideways at Saint.
“Romantic, no?”
She elbows me in the ribs, but it was worth it.
The moment the plane levels off—engines roaring loud enough to rattle bones—Saint moves like she’s allergic to staying still.
We’ve got twelve hours in a flying metal box. She could at least pretend to relax for five minutes.
But no.
Of course not.
She shrugs off her leather jacket and lowers Skippy to the floor between us. Then she starts unbuttoning his shirt with clinical precision.
“Wow,” I say. “Didn’t know you were into that.”
She ignores me—an impressive talent she’s honed to art form.
The shirt comes off. Two bullet holes stare back at us—both courtesy of today’s festivities, not part of his original death. Poor Skippy. What a way to start your afterlife.
Saint examines him for tattoos, scars, anything. I’m watching her face when something catches my eye.
A thin incision, fresh and running along the inside of his forearm.
“Here,” I say, pointing.
She leans in, presses her thumb gently around the wound. Something solid shifts under the skin.
“There’s something in here,” she murmurs.
“A chip?” I guess.
“Maybe. It’s hard.”
I pull out my pocketknife, flicking it open with a satisfying click. “Let’s cut it open and see.”
Saint’s hand is instantly on my wrist. “No. What if it’s a deadman’s switch?”
“He’s already dead,” I remind her.
“No, you idiot—rigged to destroy itself if we try to remove it.” Her eyes narrow. “It could have information we need, and we could fry it.”
I tilt my head. “It could also be a tracking device. The Guild wanted him gone for something.”
She exhales slowly, thinking fast. “We’ll have to risk it eventually. But not up here. Besides—what are they going to do? Blow us out of the sky?”
“I wouldn’t put it past anyone.”
She smirks. “They need my body to claim the kill. So, we’ve got that on our side.”
She re-buttons Skippy’s shirt, smooths it down, and props him upright facing us, like he’s part of the conversation.
“I’ve got a guy in New York who can help,” she says. “He’s not Guild. I can trust him.”
Something sharp twists in my chest.
A guy she can trust.
Not me.
I don’t show it—haven’t survived this long by bleeding in public—but the jealousy slides under my skin like a blade.
She tosses her jacket against a stack of crates, pulls her backpack under her head like a pillow, and closes her eyes—completely, maddeningly relaxed.
I wait a moment, then another.
“Who is it?” My tone is too forced to sound innocent, and she fucking knows it.
Her lips curve, just slightly. “You’ll see.”
I hate that answer.
I hate the smile more.
And I hate that Skippy is still sitting there across from us, wearing sunglasses, and looking like he’s enjoying the fucking show.
* "Damn it, stop it already!"