5. Amiyah
Chapter five
Amiyah
My punch hits its mark with a loud smack, like a cross between a slap and a thud.
Penelope loses her footing, her right foot catching the edge of the mat, and for a brief moment, about one and a half seconds, her arms flail wildly as she struggles to regain her balance.
But gravity has other plans, and soon she's reminded that balance is just a suggestion, and it's not going to save her from falling.
She falls to the side, her knee giving way beneath her, the other leg stretching out behind her in a strange, awkward pose, like a dancer losing their balance in a dramatic performance.
I stand over her, hands already reset to guard position and wait.
Penelope slaps the mat with enough force to make the sound carry.
“Tap,” she says, “The score is now three to zero, Lane, and I want to put it on record that I'm not happy with the way this is going. I think my skills would be better used somewhere else, and I'm formally protesting the terms of this engagement.”
She gestures toward the bench along the wall where her laptop bag sits, sleek and black and full of exactly the kind of machinery that keeps people like me breathing.
I nod. “Noted.”
“That’s it? Noted? Not even a single crumb of sympathy? I just ate three of your punches and a leg sweep that I’m pretty sure violated quite a few laws.”
“It didn’t violate anything. You left your guard down.”
“My guard was down because I was actively dying from the last combo, Amiyah. Dying. I saw a white light. I think my great-aunt Martha waved at me from the other side.”
“You don’t have a great-aunt Martha.”
“I do now. She appeared to me in a vision. She was wearing crocs and holding a god-damn casserole.”
I bend down, grasp her wrist, and pull her up to her feet in a swift motion.
She's lightweight, all sharp edges and restless energy, with a body that's better suited for hunching over computers in dimly lit rooms, not for eating combos on a mat.
Her sneakers find the surface again, and I move behind her, plant both hands on her shoulders, and square them.
“Elbows in,” I say. “Tuck your chin. Also, you’re telegraphing that jab from South Wyoming.”
She pokes out her bottom lip and curls up the right side of her top lip and says, “I’m not telegraphing, I’m advertising. It’s actually a courtesy and you’re welcome.”
I shake my head and laugh, stepping back and letting my hands fall to my sides.
I guess I can give her a moment to breath.
The place is super fancy, but in a subtle way that only comes with a hefty price tag.
It's got the scent of a high-end spa, not your typical training facility.
This is where the Underground operates, running the most exclusive revenge-for-hire networks on the West Coast. They've got multiple facilities like this one, hidden beneath the city, off the grid, and not found on any official map.
Everything here is top-notch—custom mats, state-of-the-art equipment.
Every room, from training facilities to offices, exudes luxury without being too showy.
It's where the most skilled, yet unknown, operatives come to hone their skills.
And you won't find any membership cards here, just a biometric scanner at the entrance that decides who's in and who's out.
Penelope shakes out her wrists, rolls her neck, and gives me a look that’s equal parts exhaustion and defiance. “Can we be done now? I think my soul has left my body and I’d like to go find it before it gets on the wrong bus.”
“One more round.” I plead, giving her my best puppy dog eyes.
She groans.
It’s the kind of groan that comes from deep within her diaphragm and could easily be mistaken for a Banshee battling the worst cold of its life.
“I hate you. I hope you know that.”
“Lies. I’m your favoritest person and we both know it.” I say, already circling her, barely able to contain my excitement.
“You think my great-aunt Martha would approve of this?” Penelope asks, her fists up, but I can tell she’s not happy about it.
“She’d want you to keep your guard up.”
“She’d want me to go home and eat the casserole she brought from the afterlife.”
The laugh that bursts out of me is instant. I seriously can't handle this girl at times, she's just too much.
“Ready?” I ask, once I finally stop giggling.
She gulps, then nods her head yes.
I shoot forward, my fist flying directly to her face. She squeals and jumps back, almost losing her footing as she does. I circle her again and her eyes track me with the weary focus of a cat watching a laser beam on a wall.
“Hear me out,” she says. “If you kill me, who’s going to forge your passports? Huh? Think about that. Think about your international travel plans dying with me on this very mat.”
I roll my eyes, “Your deathbed guilt trip needs work.”
“I’m just saying, my funeral would be very sad. People would cry. There would be a eulogy. Someone would probably read a poem.”
I ponder her scenario for a moment. “That’s fair.” I say with a shrug, knowing she has a point and I would be the saddest person there.
I fake a move to the left, and she instinctively flinches to the right.
That's all the opening I need. I quickly slip around to her other side and catch her off guard with a soft but firm strike to the ribs, using the palm of my hand.
To my surprise, she still crumples to the ground, her body folding up like a cheap lawn chair.
“That’s it! I’m fucking done!” she says, clutching her side. “That’s enough torture for the day.”
“But your footwork is getting better,” I offer.
“My footwork isn’t any better now than it was three rounds ago. Stop lying to me.”
“Pen.”
“No, Amiyah. I. Am. Done. Period.”
I don’t push anymore. She went hard today and I am proud of her.
“Okay, okay.”
I have weapons training with Reggie in a couple of hours anyway. Reggie is a densely compact man who wears a permanent scowl and has the deep eleven lines to prove it.
He's an instructor who gets straight to the point, no time for small talk or easing into things. For him, it's all about giving it your all, every time. That's why I keep going back to him—he pushes me to be my best. Reggie treats every session like it’s the last one I’ll ever get, and in our line of work, he’s not entirely wrong.
Penelope limps dramatically off the mat. “Lounge?” she asks without looking back.
“Lounge,” I confirm.
The back lounge has a way of making you forget, if only for a moment, that you're part of a criminal enterprise.
The Italian leather sectionals are a deep, rich charcoal color that feels like luxury—it's like sitting on a pile of cash.
The low marble table is polished to a perfect mirror finish, reflecting the light in a way that's almost blinding.
And then there's the bar, running along the far wall, with its dark wood and crystal decanters filled with the best booze money can buy.
But what really gets me are the little snacks they have laid out on slate plates in the fridge—you know, the artisanal kind, arranged in fancy patterns.
I'm especially fond of the ones with olives that taste like they were made with love by some Italian nonna.
It's the little touches like that which make this room feel almost… respectable.
Almost.
I plop down on the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me, and let my head sink back into the soft cushion.
The cool leather seeps through the thin material of my pink sports bra, a welcome relief from the heat that's radiating off me in waves.
As I settle in, I feel my muscles start to relax, my breath slowing down, and my body sinking deeper into the comfort of the sectional.
The warmth inside me begins to dissipate, replaced by a sense of calm, and I let out a deep sigh, feeling my tension melt away.
Penelope collapses next to me, legs crossed, laptop already open on her knees, her fingers finding the keyboard without looking.
Silence sits between us for exactly fifty-three seconds. Then she breaks it.
“New contract came through.” she states in a casual tone. “High-end. High-payout. International. Exactly what you have been holding out for.”
Okay. She has my attention.
I stretch out my hand, not bothering to glance at her.
She hands me the tablet, the file already open on the screen, and I start scrolling through, my eyes scanning the information.
The target profile is a wealthy business-man located in Nepal with bones buried deep in his garden.
And by bones, I mean bad shit. This is the kind of assignment that requires finesse, social access, and a delicate touch.
No heavy weapons, no loud exits. The kind of hit that looks like a heart attack, a drowning, a tragic fall from a balcony after one too many glasses of wine.
The payout figure makes me read the line twice.
Twenty thousand dollars.
Law school ain’t fucking cheap. My father’s appeal ain’t fucking cheap either.
I set the tablet on the cushion beside me and begin rummaging through the fridge, letting my brain replay the file one more time before the decision is set in stone.
“I’ll take it,” I say, snagging one of the fancy waters that comes in the glass bottle before plopping down next to her again.
Penelope nods, “I had a feeling you would say that.”
Her fingers are already on the keyboard, keystrokes running in that rapid-fire pattern that means a new identity is being born.
“Flight leaves Thursday.” Cover identity is—” she pauses, scratching the bridge of her nose as she examines something on her screen, “—Maya Cole. A twenty-six-year-old independent art consultant specializing in South Asian antiquities. Your cover is that you’re in Kathmandu to appraise a private collection for a wealthy client.
I’ve already seeded the paper trail—LinkedIn profile, an Instagram account with three years of curated posts, and a modest but respectable credit history. ”
“Sounds perfect.” I twist off the cap on my water and take a long swig, the chill of the liquid soothing my extremely dry throat.
Penelope grins and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “What can I say? I’m a pleaser.”
“You’re more than a pleaser. You’re a goddamn artist,” I say, giving her my best attempt at a sexy wink. “Wanna come with? It’s been a while since we took a trip together.”
“Whaaaaat? I’m always with you.” Penelope replies.
“I mean literally this time. Body and all.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh my fucking gosh, Amiyah. Do you know what this means?”
I nod and we both are grinning ear to ear as we sing in unison: “Girrrrrrrrl’s triiiiiip!!!”