Chapter 29
We ride the escalator down toward the plane train like we belong here.
No scanning. No tension in our shoulders. No tells.
We stand side by side, bored travelers waiting for metal doors to slide open, eyes forward, minds empty. That’s the trick. Looking is what gets you noticed.
The doors open.
One herd spills out, dragging roller bags and screaming children. Another herd funnels in. Alejandro and I move with them, swallowed by bodies and noise.
His back is to the platform. Mine isn’t.
And that’s when I see him.
Silas Crow.
If death had a frequent flyer account, Silas would be platinum status. Tall, lean, expensive jacket. Calm eyes that don’t miss a thing. He’s not rushing. He’s hunting.
He scans the faces inside the car, slow and methodical, like he knows a contract is near.
The train doors are still open and his gaze is about to drift over us when I move.
I grab Alejandro by the front of his jacket and pull him down into a kiss.
It lands perfectly. Familiar. Convincing.
His hand comes to my hip without hesitation, like muscle memory never forgot me. Like his body knows mine better than his own. The contact is grounding and dangerous all at once.
But the kiss is actually serving another purpose. Holding hands or a peck on the cheek is no big deal but most people get uncomfortable seeing a couple kiss so intimately. They avoid looking too deeply. Not wanting to be a creep or a subconscious thing–maybe a little of both.
The doors slide shut and I pull away, glancing over Alejandro’s shoulder and finding Silas still on the platform. Hands on his hips, still hunting the fresh wave of travelers off the escalator.
The train lurches forward and launches into speed, smooth and violent. Alejandro grabs a hanging strap to steady us.
“What was that for?”
The cabin is stuffy, recycled air thick with too many bodies and cheap cologne. The lights strobe past the windows, turning everyone into fragments. I rise onto my toes, mouth brushing his ear like I’m about to tell him I love him.
“We have company.”
He doesn’t tense. Doesn’t swear. He just exhales.
And then he almost looks disappointed.
Like the kiss was supposed to mean something else.
That’s the problem. Falling into him like this is dangerous. I know it. I’ve always known it. I told myself it had to stop, told myself last night was just muscle memory and bad judgment and proximity. One more fuck won’t hurt, I said. The bathroom would be the end of it.
Then Frank’s place happened. Hours of it. Like we’d never learned how to stop.
Now the train sways, and the movement pushes us together again. My shoulder presses into his chest. His hand is still at my hip, steadying me like it belongs there. The stupid wig itches under the cap, hot and wrong and not mine, and the urge to rip it off nearly makes me feral.
This time it actually has to end.
Because this doesn’t end with tears or regret.
It ends with a body bag. Caring is how you die in this line of work.
Caring is the split second of hesitation before the blade goes in your ribs.
Caring is trusting the wrong mouth, the wrong bed, the wrong promise.
I’ve seen lovers turn on each other over contracts, over money, over survival.
Trust is a luxury. We don’t get luxuries.
The train slows. Terminal F flashes overhead.
My pulse spikes anyway.
The doors open, and travelers pour out like nothing is wrong with the world. Like no one just scoped us on a platform. Alejandro looks down at me before we move.
“The plan stays the same.”
I snort under my breath and step forward. Yeah right. He just jinxed us. The universe heard that and immediately started sharpening knives.
We move with the crowd, but my awareness sharpens, edges clicking into place. I scan reflections in glass. Watch hands. Count exits. If Silas Crow was here, others could be too. Chicago would be the place to catch me. Airport. Transit choke points. High density. Easy disappearances.
But only if they knew I was still here.
I burned my sigil two days ago. The second we reached Frank’s, I was off the map. I could’ve left the city an hour later. Taken a train west. Gone underground. There was no tether left for them to follow.
And yet Silas Crow was on that platform, scanning faces like he wasn’t guessing. Like he knew his mark hadn’t gone far.
My bounty’s open. Bigger than it’s ever been.
That kind of money doesn’t sit blind.
The realization slips in cold and unwelcome.
They didn’t track me.
They were told.
I glance at Alejandro, his profile calm, unreadable. His broker handled the IDs. The tickets. The timing. All of it clean. Professional. Too clean.
If I misread him… if I misread who he trusted…
Then this isn’t magic or luck or coincidence.
I adjust the strap of my bag and keep walking, jaw tight, gum popping once, sharp. We’re off the train now, swallowed by the terminal.
Plan stays the same.
Sure.
For about thirty more seconds.
The escalator lifts us into the terminal, and the first thing waiting at the top is the flight board. Big. Bright. Impossible to ignore. I let my gaze hit it like I’m just another irritated traveler checking a delay.
Our flight isn’t even boarding yet.
Twenty minutes.
That’s a fucking problem.
Twenty minutes means standing around. Sitting at a gate. Being predictable. It means letting the Guild’s patience outlast mine, and patience is their specialty. Airports are perfect for it. Bottlenecks. Crowds. Too many places to hide a blade and call it an accident.
I don’t intend to die next to a charging station.
My eyes keep moving, sliding down the board with purpose now. If I’m still being hunted, then waiting is the worst possible plan. I need to be moving. Ahead of them. Somewhere they aren’t expecting me to be yet.
Dubai is the destination either way. That part doesn’t change.
Another Emirates flight catches my eye. Same city. Different timing. As I focus on it, the board updates.
Now boarding.
There it is.
That flight will be gone sooner. Doors closing.
Pushback, then taxi. I could be airborne before anyone realizes they’re searching the wrong gate.
If I can get on it, I buy myself hours. Time to think.
Time to figure out how they still know where I am.
Time to work out who’s feeding my location to the Guild and why my bounty just got juicier instead of going quiet.
Time to end this before someone gets lucky.
The catch is Alejandro.
Our gate is in the opposite direction. I can’t peel off without him noticing. And if someone close to him is compromised, or if I read him wrong entirely—then keeping him with me is a liability I can’t afford.
This plan doesn’t include him.
I glance at him once, memorizing the angle of his jaw, the easy way he owns space like nothing could touch him. Then I turn back to the board, already mapping paths, crowd density, where I can lose him without raising alarms.
If I can slip away cleanly, I get ahead of this.
And if I don’t?
Then I stand still for twenty minutes and wait for death to walk up behind me with a boarding pass.
Hard no.
“Our gates this way.” Alejandro slides his hands into his pockets and turns to the right.
I keep my tone light, bored, normal. “Okay, I need to hit the bathroom,” I say. “I’ll meet you at the gate.”
He nods looking across the sea of faces, already assuming I’ll fall back in beside him in a minute like a well-behaved travel companion instead of a walking murder liability.
Perfect.
I slip into the women’s bathroom and pray for a second exit on the opposite side. Something that will dump me out somewhere away from Alejandro.
But airport bathrooms hate escape routes apparently. It’s all wide walkways, lines of mirror and sinks. On the other side is a valley with toilet stalls on each side.
No exit.
I stop in front of a mirror and wash my hands. The wig itches and I hope I get the chance to break someone’s neck with it before this is all over with. I need to blend in. I need to look like someone about to complain about airport prices and still buy the water anyway.
Decision made.
I shrug out of my leather jacket, roll it tight, and shove it into my backpack before settling the straps back onto my shoulders. The weight is familiar. Reassuring. Hopefully Alejandro won’t remember what color shirt I was wearing.
Heading back to the wide tunnel that will spit me back out in the crowded terminal, I spot a mom wrestling with a very squirmy toddler who is resisting the changing table mounted to the wall.
The diaper bag hanging on the handle is not a thought in her mind right now. Neither is the ball cap shoved in it.
I lift the hat off the top without hesitation. Quick. Clean. I flip it on backward to add a little something more to my refreshed disguise.
I hover just inside the entrance, half-hidden by the bend in the wall, pretending to check my phone while I watch the concourse. I need to make sure Alejandro went to the gate before I make my move.
And because my brain hates peace, it pulls on the loose thread.
The laptop yesterday.
The two files missing from the Guildmaster x El Fantasma folder.
I slide Grim’s flip phone out of my pocket and type fast.
SAINT: Can you check the accountant’s laptop. See if any files were deleted yesterday.
I hit send and the sound of Alejandro’s deep voice hits me. Not because he’s speaking at regular volume. Because he’s not. He’s trying to be quiet.
I hit send, and the sound of Alejandro’s voice reaches me.
Not because he’s loud.
Because he’s doing the opposite.
He’s just on the other side of the bathroom entrance. I can picture him without seeing him. Back turned to me. One shoulder angled toward the wall like it might absorb secrets. Phone pressed to his ear. One finger plugging the other so he can hear better over the terminal noise.
Careful.
And he’s speaking Spanish.
“Todo depende del momento oportuno.”
“Everything hinges on the right timing.”
My stomach tightens.
My brain scrambles for benign explanations because that’s what brains do when the alternative gets you killed. Maybe he’s talking to his broker. Maybe he’s updating logistics. The summit. The timing. Maybe I’m paranoid.
But paranoia doesn’t usually feel this specific.
The dread settles anyway, heavy and unwelcome, sinking into my chest like it knows the layout. I don’t move. I don’t breathe any louder. I don’t let my reflection change.
Because this isn’t about catching him in a lie.
It’s about the possibility that I didn’t read Alejandro wrong by accident.
It’s about the possibility that I trusted the wrong person on purpose.
I slide the phone into my back pocket and let my shoulders relax like I’m done with it, like nothing just shifted under my feet.
I’m still in the bathroom tunnel, half-shadowed by tile and bad lighting, when I spot a killer across the concourse.
He’s moving. Walking with purpose. Eyes scanning faces instead of stores. Another hunter that knows prey is near.
Then he sees Alejandro.
The reaction is tiny. A flinch that never quite becomes one. A split-second sharpening, like a blade catching light. He pivots smoothly, drifting toward a charging counter, posture melting into casual as a phone appears in his hand. Pretending to email.
He glances up again and confirms it. That I’m not paranoid. He’s id’ed Alejandro and when his eyes flick sideways, he gives a sharp and deliberate nod.
It’s not big. It’s not dramatic. But it says everything anyway. Like he’s telling someone:
It’s him.
Alejandro has an open contract. Exile special. The kind the Guild leaves dangling because someone will always want the credit. But this isn’t about collecting on him. Not really.
If they know he’s here, in Chicago, then they know I’m close. Someone could’ve seen us leave that office building together. Someone could’ve spotted us last night at the restaurant.
If they’re watching him, they’re waiting for me.
I pull my phone back out and step forward, pretending I’m mid-text, turning as I go so Alejandro is behind me now. Out of sight. Out of reach.
I couldn’t go back for him even if I wanted to. Even if I weren’t already planning my exit. The second I move toward him, everything detonates. Too many civilians. Too many cameras. Too many people who didn’t wake up today planning to bleed out next to a Pretzelmaker.
Alejandro can handle himself.
These people can’t.
And if he gets tied up in a fight, eyes on him instead of me, that actually helps. Buys me time. Buys me space. Lets me slip toward the gate while he’s still scanning the crowd for where I went.
I’m practically doing everyone a favor.
I keep my pace even, heart steady, and slide the phone back into my pocket just as someone walking the opposite direction clips my shoulder.
Not hard. Just enough.
“Excuse me,” they say automatically.
I turn with the reflex, matching her movement for half a step, and I know her instantly.
Rook. Broker-turned-assassin. Made the jump three years ago and did well enough that people stopped asking why.
At first, her expression is automatic. Polite. Blank. A stranger who clipped another stranger in a crowded terminal and is apologizing.
Then it changes.
Not all at once. Just a flicker. Her eyes narrow a fraction and never leave mine. I can see the thought forming behind her stare as recognition tries to line itself up with memory.
Wait… could that be—
I don’t give it oxygen.
I press my lips into a thin line and nod like I’m just another traveler who’s never wrapped piano wire around anyone’s throat and keep walking. My pace stays even. My posture loose. Nothing about me says running.
I make it a few feet. Enough to almost believe I slipped past her clean.
Then her voice cuts through the terminal noise, warm with familiarity and edged with certainty.
“That you, Saint?”