Chapter 33
This is the nicest fucking cargo hold I’ve ever been in.
I find a place to kneel, plant my weight, and finally let myself catch my breath.
My lungs still burn from the climb, from the drop, from the sheer audacity of riding a plane into the sky like we had a death wish and something to prove.
The first thing I do, the thing I’ve been thinking about since I shoved that wig onto my head this morning, is reach for my backpack.
My hair kit comes out as Alejandro opens his rifle case behind me, inspecting the weapon with something bordering on reverence. His breathing is steady now, controlled again, as if we didn’t just gamble our lives on timing and grip strength.
My multitool slides back into my pocket, warm and familiar.
My most trusted companion. While the plane climbed in altitude and banked hard to settle into its course, I was wedged into the landing gear compartment, prying open a service panel with that same tool, fingers numb and shaking as I broke us into the cargo hold reserved for Dubai’s ritziest commercial travelers.
We made it inside just before the compartment sealed, breathless and bruised, tumbling into luxury.
We both took a moment to assess the space once we were in.
It’s tall enough for Alejandro to stand comfortably without ducking, which tells me everything I need to know about the kind of money involved here.
The air is clean, pressurized, carefully filtered.
The temperature is controlled down to the degree.
Crates are strapped down with military neatness, and stacks of sealed food cases wait to be lifted to the passenger deck above, their labels pristine and absurdly elegant.
There are even a few spare bunks tucked along one wall, narrow but functional, and a small bathroom clearly meant for stewards stealing a few precious minutes away from constant demands for peanuts and pillows.
I jam the door that leads toward the passenger areas before anyone can get curious, then turn back to what matters.
I mist my hair until it’s damp enough to wake it back up, fingers working conditioner through curls flattened by hours under that fucking wig. My breathing finally starts to slow as my hair does what it always does, springing back into itself, reclaiming space.
As I work, my mind keeps drifting backward, replaying the terminal in sharp, violent flashes.
The plan had been simple. Clean. Alejandro was supposed to be left thousands of feet below me, stranded among the rolling carryon’s and screaming kids. I would disappear into the clouds and move on alone, the way I always do when things start to rot.
Instead, a bloodbath rewrote everything.
Now he’s here, breathing the same recycled air, close enough that I can feel his presence at my back like pressure. Too close.
I reassess without emotion. That plan is dead and a new one will have to take its place.
That’s when I slide Grim’s flip phone from my back pocket, keeping my movements casual, buried in the cover of my hair routine. The phone looks absurdly small in my hand, scratched but intact.
I huff a quiet laugh. Really. The little phone that could.
The screen lights up immediately.
GRIM: Just turn the laptop on. I’ll find it.
The files.
The two missing photos I texted him about just before the airport erupted into violence. Proof of something. Or the absence of it.
“Fuck,” I grit out to myself.
There’s no service. No way to reply.
After deleting the messages, I close the phone and slide it back into my pocket, sealing the information away for later. I don’t confront on instinct. I confront on proof. Until I have that, the knowledge of these missing files stays mine.
And that means the man I suspect might be working against me stays exactly where he is.
Behind me.
I cap the bottle, tuck my mirror and hair kit away, and that’s when Alejandro finally says something.
“So,” Already I can tell he’s trying too hard. “How’d you know about this flight as a backup?”
The words are easy. Casual. The kind of question someone asks while cleaning a weapon, filling silence, making conversation.
But it’s the tension underneath his words that lands like a blade in my back.
My hands still, not frozen, just quiet. I feel the shift in the air immediately, the way it tightens and sharpens. He’s fishing, not for the answer, but for the tell. And he knows I know it, because we’re both trained killers. And we’re both still alive for the same reason.
We listen when something feels off. And his tone feels off.
I don’t turn around. I don’t answer.
The hum of the plane fills the space between us, metal vibrating, air rushing somewhere far above. I can feel him recalibrating behind me, reading the silence, adjusting his footing. He knows I’m hiding something.
I know he is too.
The quiet stretches, thick and charged, a fragile bubble swelling with everything we aren’t saying. It presses in on my ears, my chest, until it feels like the wrong move will shatter it into something lethal.
Then we move.
Both of us rise at the same time, smooth and controlled, guns coming up in mirror-perfect synchronization. Mine clears my backpack without a sound. His is one of the biker’s pistols, already an extension of his hand.
Straight arms. Steady aim.
No hesitation and no wasted motion.
I keep my face calm, my breathing even. I don’t speak. I don’t need to.
The one with something to cover up always does first.
Alejandro exhales slowly, measured, like he’s the calmest man in the world.
“Saint,” he says, level and deliberate. “Let’s not get carried away.”
I don’t move.
My gun stays fixed on him, unwavering, the weight familiar in my hand. His remains trained on me, the space between us tight and humming, like the plane itself is holding its breath along with us.
Seconds pass. Maybe more. Time gets strange when the stakes are this high.
He speaks again, slower this time, like he’s learned something from my silence.
“Why did you know about this second flight to Dubai?”
I don’t answer. I don’t give him anything more than a blink.
So I let him do what men like him always do when faced with a void.
He fills it.
“You were going to ditch me, weren’t you?”
Silence.
“Was that the plan before the airport?”
Still nothing. I watch his throat work as he swallows, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he turns the question over in his head. I can see the calculation happening in real time, gears grinding as he tries to reverse engineer the moment everything shifted.
“Something changed at the airport,” he says finally.
It’s framed like a statement, but it’s a probe. Less guessing than walking himself through an interrogation he didn’t plan on conducting.
His gaze sharpens. “What changed, Saint?”
I consider my answer carefully. We’re locked in a standoff thirty thousand feet in the air, tucked into the underbelly of a plane we shouldn’t exist on, surrounded by fuel, metal, and the very real possibility of mutual destruction. This isn’t the place for truths that can’t be controlled.
So, I give him one that can.
“You know how these things are,” I say lightly, my tone almost casual, if you don’t know what to listen for.
He does.
“Everything hinges on the right timing.”
His eyes lock onto mine, and he knows exactly what I’m referring to. Half a conversation overheard, but damning enough to fracture trust clean down the middle.
He holds his aim for another long moment, thinking. I see the minute adjustment of his grip, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his breath shifts as he recalibrates.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifts his gun away from me and raises his hands in surrender.
I don’t move. My gun stays right where it is.
“Who were you talking to?” I ask.
It’s a simple question. Reasonable. Practical. Half the deadliest killers on the planet are hunting me, after all. And yet it lands between us like something far more personal, sharp with an edge I don’t entirely recognize.
He steps toward me carefully, bends, and places his revolver on top of his rifle. Both weapons abandoned in plain sight. When he straightens, his hands are empty as he takes another slow step closer.
“My broker,” he says.
“And what timing is so important, Alejandro?” I ask.
He takes another step. Too close.
“I haven’t stayed out of the Guild’s sights for two years by running headfirst into traps.”
It’s an answer shaped like wisdom. Vague. Defensive. Not actually an answer at all. The actual question is still unanswered.
Another step, and the barrel of my gun presses into his chest.
I can’t mention the missing files. I can’t risk tipping my hand before I know what they mean, before Grim confirms whether this is coincidence or something far uglier.
If Alejandro is feeding my location to someone, he’ll deny it without blinking.
Worse, he’ll keep me alive just long enough to walk me exactly where he wants me.
No. I have to be smarter than that.
I can feel him using proximity as a weapon, leaning into the space between us, testing whether my resolve will crack under familiarity.
Fine.
I soften.
Just enough.
My shoulders relax. My grip loosens a fraction. The tension leaves my brow, not completely, but enough to suggest hesitation instead of intent.
It works.
I see it in the way his posture eases, the tilt of his head as his expression shifts from guarded to something dangerously gentle.
He raises one hand slowly and brushes a finger down my cheek, the touch light, reverent, like he’s reminding me of something I’d rather forget.
“We have too many secrets between us, Saint James,” he murmurs.
His gaze flickers between my eyes, searching.
“If your price is a truth,” he continues quietly, “then I will give it to you.”
He pauses, and I can almost see the internal negotiation playing out. What he wants to keep buried. What he’s willing to surface instead.
This is nothing more than a game I have to play to see this through. And I have no choice but to play it.
I lower my gun and he releases a breath. Takes the final step to close the gap between us. Our chests nearly touching. His hands slide along my arms, warm and steady, grounding in a way that feels practiced. Familiar. Dangerous.
He rests his forehead against mine and closes his eyes, breathing me in like the moment matters.
“I just held you from a commercial liner with one hand, Saint,” he says softly. “You trusted me enough to jump.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumbs brushing my cheeks.
“Trust me enough to fight this with you.”
He watches me for another beat, then leans in slowly and kisses me.
I let him.
I tilt my head with his, close my eyes, soften my mouth against his, even as every instinct in my body stays awake and watching. When he pulls back, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“If I have to earn your trust one truth at a time,” he says, “then I’ll start with this one. My broker…”
I hold my breath. Because there are secrets assassins take to their grave. Would rather die than reveal. Their broker is one of them.
He looks at me steadily. Like he wants me to know how much this moment costs.
“My sister,” he says. “My broker is my sister.”