Chapter 65
sixty-five
. . .
My sword rested against my thigh, cold and familiar, an extension of my arm beneath the black fabric of my glove, always grounding me.
Crouched on the ridge of the roof, the tiles slick with evening dew, I watched the guards patrol the grounds below.
Their movements reminded me of wind-up toy soldiers that needing winding at every shift change.
They believed the walls protected them, that the guns at their hips made them powerful.
Sadly, they were about to learn a lesson in authority, in supremacy, in control.
Because power never resided in a trigger or behind a locked gate, it breathed in the shadows they couldn’t catch, danced in the silence they couldn’t hear and ultimately, lost their sight when it mattered most, on their way to their graves.
Veer believed no one knew about his secret estate, though only small-minded men would believe such a thing.
The last time I was here, Ishika had played her part in the criminal drama that had become our lives, even if we never wanted it, we had to accept it.
She’d gotten engaged to Ajay, an ass who was just as arrogant as the patrolling assholes and the puppeteer who pulled their strings.
I had yet to learn the puppeteer’s identity and getting there would take time, sacrifice that would heal or hurt but we’d survive as that was the promise I made to Ishika.
Now that she was ready to return to Boston after three weeks recovering under Uncle Haru’s care, in Japan, a plan I’d agreed was best for her safety, I had to mark the progress. Let them know I was one step closer and I always believed one step, no matter how small, was equally significant.
Rising, I sheathed my sword, strapped it to my back and moved soundlessly, sliding down the trellis until my feet touched the grass.
The estate was a fortress of conceit, lit by floodlights that cast long, useless shadows where I chose to walk.
Cameras swept the perimeter, blind spots mapped in my mind from days of observation.
I slipped through the gap between two lenses, a ghost in the machine, and reached the window of the bedroom where Rajesh Hirani slept.
Veer’s head of security, the man who thought himself untouchable inside his employer’s walls, the man who commanded the guards with an ego so big it was no wonder his entire muscular body carried its weight without crashing.
The latch gave way under the pressure of my blade, a soft click swallowed by the night.
I stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of cedar and stale cologne.
He sat propped against the headboard, a glass of whiskey in hand, the lamp on the nightstand casting a warm glow over the gun resting beside it.
His eyes lifted to mine with a slow, arrogant amusement instead of the fear some of his colleagues suffered. Naturally, he didn’t reach for the alarm or called for his men, I knew would be down the corridor.
He took a sip of his drink and set his glass down on the nightstand with a thud, the clink of ice suggesting his weighted effort.
“You have balls walking in here,” he scoffed.
“Is that supposed to frighten me?” He gestured to the mask, the yin-yang symbol and red contacts staring back at him.
“Let me guess, Rossi is too chickenshit to do the dirty work himself? Or are you just another stray dog looking for a master?”
I didn’t answer. Silence was a weapon in the face of overconfidence.
He laughed, a low, grating sound, and picked up the gun, holding it loosely, instead of aiming with intention.
“You think because you wear a mask, you’re invisible?
Veer owns Mumbai and pretty soon he’ll own Boston too.
The Rossi’s know better than to touch what’s his. You’re dead before you hit the floor.”
He moved faster than I expected, swinging the barrel toward my chest. I stepped in before the trigger could compress, the sword whispering as it left the sheath.
Steel met steel as I batted the gun aside with a quick flick of my wrist, the force knocking it from his grip.
It skidded across the floor, out of reach.
His eyes widened, the amusement fading into something sharper before he lunged, reaching for the knife hidden beneath his pillow, but I was already there.
The tip off my sword angling beneath the black KA-BAR.
A simple lift, another timed flick and it flew up, landing in my hand with unmatched precision.
He scrambled back against the headboard, hands raised. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice losing its edge, trembling now. “You can’t kill me. There are fifty men outside. They’ll hear us.”
“They heard nothing,” I replied, my voice distorted by the mask. “And they will hear less.”
He spat at my feet, trying to reclaim the conceit, trying to convince himself he still held the power. “You’re a ghost. Ghosts don’t bleed.”
“No,” I agreed, raising the blade. “But you do.”
I stepped forward, the floorboards silent under my weight.
He tried to dodge, rolling off the bed, but his foot caught on the sheet and he fell hard.
Looking up at me from the carpet, the terror finally broke through the bravado.
He reached for the gun again, fingers scrabbling against the wood, but I placed my boot on his wrist. Pressure in the right place at the right angle delivered a resounding snap.
My other foot shot out, catching his jugular to cut off his scream.
The sword poised above his chest, I leaned down. “Think you can tell Veer that walls don’t work?” I whispered.
“You’re not going to kill me?” he choked out, nursing his broken wrist.
I tilted my head. “Did I say that?”
He frowned. “Then how would I tell him?”
“You won’t but your arrogance will.”
I struck. Clean. Precise. The steel sliced through the air and into flesh, a wet tear silenced by my hand over his mouth.
His body shuddered beneath the blade, the struggle weak and fleeting.
Eyes wide open, he finally grasped the true meaning of terror as I held him there, feeling the life quiver beneath my palm, waiting until the light faded from his gaze completely.
When he was still, I cleaned the blade on the sheet and sheathed it.
Today wasn’t about the kill, I’d done plenty of that.
Today it was about fear that would remain long after I was gone, about the dismantling the self-importance that shielded them once they discovered you can’t escape death, especially one you couldn’t predict.
Opening the door, I checked the corridor, aware that on my left I’d find guarding soldiers and on my right, further down, I’d find my intended target.
I closed the door, stripped the sheet off the bed and laid it down on the carpet then rolled his dead weight onto it.
Covering him, I wrapped the ends together, curled it around my wrists and opened the door again.
Slowly, I dragged him through the hallway, the sheet gliding smoothly over the marble tiles. I didn’t care about the blood trail today. If someone approached, I’d walk away, message delivered, just not to the right door.
No one came. Once I reached Veer’s bedroom door, I positioned the dead man carefully.
Not just lying down. I arranged him facing the door, his hands crossed over his chest in a mockery of peace, but I left his eyes open.
Staring. Waiting. Let Veer open his door and find the man who was supposed to protect him reduced to a corpse on his threshold.
Let him wonder how they got in. Let him wonder who walked through his walls without a sound.
Let him feel the power slip from his fingers.
Let him wonder what secrets I knew.
Retracing my steps, I moved back through the shadows, past the cameras, past the guards who stood watch over nothing.
Scaling the wall was easier than the descent, my muscles burning with the exertion, and I dropped to the street beyond without a sound.
The city waited, vast and dark, hiding a thousand mysteries.
I pulled the hood lower over my mask and walked away.
Only, my phone vibrated in my pocket before I could melt into the shadows where I belonged.
I tapped the earpiece. “Yeah?”
“He needs you.” Katarina didn’t waste time with details, just the location.
Remo was at Strikers, a bar where he drank when the weight of the crown grew too heavy.
I should’ve ignored it, should’ve kept running, kept hunting, maintained the distance between us that kept him safe from the truth.
Ishika needed this time to recover, to make the right decision not just for herself but the life growing inside her which was why Uncle Haru’s suggestion to go back to Japan with him was the right choice even if Remo burned down the city.
Instead, I turned toward the neon glow, drawn by a gravity I couldn’t fight.
The bar was underground, the air thick with smoke and the low hum of bass that vibrated in the floorboards.
I slipped past the bouncers with a nod. Having been here plenty of times, taking care of business, they’d seen me in action and knew better than to stop me.
Moving through the crowd, most ignored me, while others backed away until I reached the private room at the back.
The door was ajar, light spilling out along with the scent of whiskey and blood.
I pushed it open, the hinges silent, and found him slumped over the round table, a glass dangling from his fingers, his knuckles split and raw.
He wasn’t alone. One man looked ready to drive his fist into Remo’s face, while the other watched. Both turned at the same time, recognizing the mask as I stepped into the light.
Immediately the man’s fist dropped, his hands coming up, palms out. “He’s yours.”
“I know.” I tilted my head, waiting for their next move.