Chapter 44
Iwalk with purpose to the curb where a line of cabs idles, engines ticking, drivers half-asleep and dreaming of fares that won’t end in therapy.
No time for subtleties now.
I open the driver’s door, grab him by the collar, and haul him out in one smooth motion. He yelps. I don’t apologize. I toss my book bag onto the passenger seat, slide in, and peel away from the curb.
The tower is only two blocks away, but I need speed.
If all the world’s assassins are in this city tonight, they’ll have plenty of room to die in there.
I drive the cab straight through the front doors.
Glass explodes inward, a violent bloom of sound and shards and screaming alarms. The cab bucks, then dies, lodged halfway into the marble lobby like it was always meant to be here.
“Grim,” I say, already moving.
“You just can’t do anything like a normal person, can you?” He crunches on, what has to be five thousand chips.
“Eh,” I reply, climbing out. “Where’s the fun in that.”
I set the bag on the cab’s roof and unzip the rear compartment.
“Hello, my babies.”
Plastic-wrapped bricks. Detonators. Cord. Enough bad decisions to redraw a skyline.
Outside, engines growl. Not civilian. Not curious. Heavy. Military-adjacent. The kind of vehicles that don’t stop unless something makes them.
I check the gun at my back. Loaded.
I pull out a second. Then a third. Slam magazines home, smooth and practiced, and slide them into shoulder holsters beneath my leather jacket.
Multitool. Back pocket. Good.
Flip phone. I hesitate, then tuck it into a side pocket of the bag. Secured.
“Grim,” I say, strapping the pack onto my shoulders and clipping it tight across my chest. “I need you to be my eyes. Tell me how many are coming into the building. Keep civilians out.”
“Okay. Give me a minute. Almost done with the program.”
I pull a piece of gum from my pocket and pop it into my mouth.
“Oh shit. She’s getting the gum out. Take cover, Dubai.” I can hear the amusement in his voice.
I smirk and add a second piece. Overkill is a lifestyle.
It should be alarming how much he enjoys this. Not that I’m alarmed. But someone should be.
I zip the bag and walk to the center of the lobby as headlights flood the space, harsh and blinding, pouring through the wrecked doors and reflecting off marble and glass.
Men rush in.
Lots of them.
Tactical. Clean. Efficient. Not assassins, but they work for one.
Kade Mercer’s people.
Black uniforms. Bulletproof vests. Assault rifles raised, stocks snug to shoulders, muzzles trained on me like I’m a problem they’ve been paid to erase.
They fan out, professional, disciplined, forming a perfect circle.
I stand there and chew my gum.
I let my gaze drift from face to face. No masks. No flair. Just men who think numbers equal certainty.
“All right, boys,” I say.
I roll my shoulders, stretch my neck, feel the familiar hum settle into my bones.
“Let’s have some fun.”
I move first.
Not forward.
Up.
I throw myself backward into a handspring, boots leaving the floor as rifles crack in surprise. Muzzles jerk. Fingers tighten. Bullets tear through the air where my head used to be, ricocheting off marble and glass and each other’s bad decisions.
Men shout.
Someone yells hold fire a half-second too late.
I land low and roll, sliding across the lobby floor as rounds punch through pillars and decorative nonsense some architect got paid too much to imagine. Stone explodes. Shards rain down. Someone screams when friendly fire finds a spine.
Stupid men.
I come up inside the circle before it can close again.
I grab the closest one by his vest and yank him into me, his rifle barking wildly as I turn him into a human shield. Bullets tear through his back. One finds his throat.
I put one more into his neck for good measure.
He drops.
I don’t pause.
I pivot, steal his rifle on the way down, and fire from the hip. Two go down. One staggers, clutching his leg, screaming like this wasn’t always going to end badly.
They finally realize the problem isn’t numbers.
They spread.
Wrong again.
I sprint, slide across a desk, kick off the wall, and send a chair flying. It takes one man in the face hard enough to snap his head back. I shoot him before gravity finishes the job.
Someone throws a grenade.
Bold.
I kick it back.
It detonates behind them, concussive force rattling the lobby and turning confidence into shrapnel. Smoke rolls in thick and gray. Alarms scream louder, desperate now.
“What a dumb fucking asshole.”
I move through the haze like it’s familiar territory.
A silhouette raises his weapon.
I fire first.
Another tries to flank. I bend down and steal a knife, flicking it at his thigh. His artery didn’t stand a chance.
He bleeds out in seconds, eyes wide, mouth working, no sound coming out.
They’re panicking now. Shooting at movement. Shooting at shadows. Shooting at each other.
I just guide the chaos.
One last man backs toward the doors, slipping on blood, rifle shaking in his hands. He looks at me like he finally understands the math.
I shoot him center mass.
Silence crashes down hard.
Smoke thins. Alarms keep screaming, but no one’s listening anymore.
I step over bodies, adjust my jacket, and walk to the elevator bank.
I press the call button.
Once.
Then I stand there, gum popping quietly in my mouth, breathing steady, waiting like I’m late for a meeting on the fiftieth floor.
Grim’s voice is quiet disbelief in my ear. “…Jesus Christ.”
“Lobby’s clear,” I say.
The elevator dings.
I smile and step inside.
Next stop: upstairs.
The elevator hums as it climbs, glass walls flashing past steel and night and blinking city lights. My reflection stares back at me. Blood-speckled. Calm. Chewing gum like I’ve got nowhere better to be.
Floor numbers tick up.
Twenty-one.
Twenty-two.
Twenty-three.
The doors slide open.
He’s standing right there.
Centered. Still. Hands relaxed at his sides like he’s waiting for a bus instead of me.
Rajan Gurung.
Nepalese. Gurkha. Knife man. The kind of assassin people argue about on forums like he’s a ghost story instead of a breathing problem.
“Hey, Rajan.”
My gun is already up and I shoot him dead center in the forehead.
No flinch. No dodge. No drama.
He drops straight back, skull cracking against the floor with a dull, final sound.
I step out of the elevator over his body and don’t look back.
The hallway is pristine. Corporate. Quiet in the way only very expensive buildings are. I turn down the corridor toward the core, toward the humming heart where steel and power and ego intersect.
This is what I came for.
I shrug out of my bag, kneel, and unzip the rear compartment.
Explosives greet me like old friends.
I start assembling the first charge. Hands steady. Motions automatic. Gum popping softly in the silence.
“Grim,” I say. “How’s it looking out there?”
“Program’s live. I’m scrubbing backward through today now. I’ll find the owner of the shoe.”
“Good.”
I keep working. Detonator seated. Cord measured. Timer checked. Gum pops again.
“Any new company I should know about?”
There’s a pause.
Too long.
“…Actually.”
I stop for half a second. Just enough to know I won’t like this.
“What?”
“I didn’t know they were real. You know? I thought they were just… urban legends.”
I finish sealing the charge and set it gently against the column.
“Grim,” I say, standing. “Get to the point.”
“It’s the Onryō.”
I still, just for a beat.
Damn.
“Okay,” I say finally, clipping my bag back on. “I’m going up. Keep me posted.”
I step back toward the elevator, blood crunching under my boots, and press the button.
The doors slide open.
Next stop: higher.
And things are about to get… respectful.