5. Luna
Luna
Two Weeks Later
The salty ocean breeze carries the scent of freedom as I sit cross-legged on the sand, my gaze fixed on the waves crashing against the shore. The rhythmic sound of the ocean is one of the few things that can quiet my mind, even if just for a moment.
Behind me, the familiar sound of Raven and Amani bickering brings a faint smile to my lips.
“You’re not driving the lead car, Amani,” Raven says firmly, her tone sharp as ever. “We’d all end up in a ditch—or worse.”
“Excuse me, I have a license,” Amani retorts, flipping her short black waves over her shoulder dramatically. “Or, well, I had one until someone decided speeding tickets actually matter.”
“Your license was suspended because you drove 98 miles per hour in a 55 zone. On a highway. Five times!” Raven shoots back, adjusting her sunglasses to emphasize her point.
Amani throws her hands in the air. “It was an emergency!”
Raven raises a brow. “One was because you told the cops you were late to a brunch reservation.”
“It was a bottomless mimosa brunch!” Amani huffs, plopping down into the sand with all the indignity of a kid who just got grounded.
I let out a laugh, shaking my head. “You’re not helping your case, Amani.”
Amani pouts. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” I say, smirking. “Just not when it comes to driving.”
Raven smirks triumphantly, tucking her notebook under her arm. “See? Even Luna agrees.”
I turn back to the waves, the smile lingering on my lips as their bickering fades into the background.
The ranch isn’t far from here—a sprawling, 100-acre sanctuary perched along the rugged California coast. But it isn’t just a ranch; it’s our home, our base of operations, and a lifeline for so many women and children.
A place where broken souls can piece themselves back together, where survival isn’t just the end goal—it’s the beginning of something greater.
The ranch has everything we need to thrive. Modern cottages nestled among the trees provide survivors with safe, private healing spaces.
The state-of-the-art training grounds are where we learn to harness our pain and turn it into power, honing skills that can save lives—or end them if necessary.
The tech center, where Raven spends most of her time, hums with quiet efficiency. It handles everything from tracking targets to coordinating our side of the missions.
The main house is a masterpiece of sleek, modern architecture. With walls of glass and clean lines, it offers panoramic views of the endless ocean—a reminder that freedom and possibility are just on the horizon.
Horses roam the pastures, while hidden trails wind through the cliffs, leading to secret spots where we can breathe, reflect, and regroup.
But the ranch is just the surface. The Order itself is what makes this place extraordinary.
The Eclipse Assassination Order is more than a sanctuary—it’s a force. The shadow organization operates almost like the United Nations for women. Women from every background, upbringing, ethnicity, and nationality find refuge here.
Our reach touches every part of the globe. We give women and children brand-new lives. From doctors to engineers, artists to intelligence operatives, our influence extends into every occupation.
This place isn’t just a home; it’s a revolution.
When I arrived at the Eclipse Assassination Order six years ago, I was a shattered 22-year-old, hollowed out by the world. I had nothing—no hope, no sense of purpose. But this place rebuilt me, reshaped me, and reminded me of my worth.
Piece by piece, I became someone stronger.
Someone unbreakable.
Amani joined two years later at 24. Then Raven, a year after Amani, at 25, making her the newest member—technically.
Not all of us become assassins.
Some wash out during training. Some choose other paths.
But for those of us who have the drive, the discipline, and just enough darkness to channel our rage into something sharper—something lethal—we survive the year-long evaluation process and earn the title.
Every woman who passes is assigned to a specialized team, each marked by a symbol that reflects their strength, method, and core identity. These teams aren’t random. They’re designed with precision, pairing women whose trauma, background, and skills create a balanced, unstoppable force.
Me?
I never fit into any of the standard molds. I don’t play well with others. Too volatile. Too blunt. Too... me.
So, I built my team.
I handpicked the only two people in the world I’ve ever trusted: Amani and Raven. We’ve known each other since childhood, long before the scars and the kill counts.
Life took us through hell in different ways, but somehow, we found each other again.
Now?
We’re Team Phoenix.
And out of the dozens of EAO units globally, only five are classified as Elite.
We’re one of them.
There are the Black Widows—masters of seduction, deception, and psychological warfare. They draw in their targets with honeyed words and irresistible allure before striking with precision. Their methods are equal parts pleasure and pain, wrapped in silk and edged with steel.
Then there’s the Praying Mantis unit, known for their cold, calculated executions. They don’t just kill—they dismantle. Named for the female mantis’s brutal efficiency, they specialize in decapitation—literal and figurative—removing heads of operations and leaving chaos in their wake.
The Vipers are silent but lethal. Toxin experts. Assassins trained in the art of chemical warfare. You never see them coming, and you never hear the last breath they steal. One touch, one drop, one whisper—and their target is gone.
Then there’s the Scorpion unit—the elite of the elite. Tactical, ruthless, and terrifyingly intelligent. These are the strategists, the trainers, the women who orchestrate the movements of the entire Order. Only the deadliest make it to Scorpion rank.
And above them all is Isabella Holmes.
Isabella isn’t just a leader—she’s a legend. The architect of the modern Order. In her mid-sixties now, she stands tall—over six feet—with steel-gray hair and sharper instincts than most people half her age. Her presence commands obedience. Her gaze alone could level a room.
She didn’t just build the EAO. She forged it in fire, and we are the weapons she left in the embers.
She has seen it all.
Survived it all.
“You think they’re okay?” I ask, finally breaking the silence that’s been dragging like a corpse behind us.
This last mission was our forty-fourth.
And it still fucking lingers.
Raven doesn’t answer right away. She lifts her head from the notebook in her lap, brow furrowed, eyes scanning the horizon like it might offer her clarity.
“Physically? Yeah. They’ve got med teams, security details, and shrinks on standby.
But mentally?” She exhales. “They’re fractured.
It’s going to take more than a warm bed and therapy to put the pieces back together. ”
“They looked… hollow,” I mutter, watching the waves slam against the sand like they’re trying to crawl back to something they lost. “Like something didn’t make it out.”
“They didn’t,” Amani says from where she’s laid out on the sand like a sunbathing goddess. She props herself up on her elbows, sunglasses slipping down her nose. “None of us do. Not fully. But they’ve got us now. And we’re a hell of a lot sturdier than we look.”
Raven nods, her tone lower. “They’re safe. That’s the first step. After that… it’s just a question of whether they want to fight for themselves again.”
I clench my jaw. “They better.”
Silence again. Thicker this time. Heavy with things we’re all too good at not saying.
What we do—what we survive—it doesn’t fade. It carves.
“I just—” I start, then stop. My chest tightens, heat rising behind my eyes. “I keep thinking if we’re not actually saving them if they don’t heal… what’s the fucking point?”
Raven’s voice softens. “You don’t always see the difference you make. That doesn’t mean you didn’t make it.”
Amani’s tone sharpens. “We fight. That’s the point. We survive so they get a shot at doing the same. Even if it’s messy. Even if they’re fucked up forever. They get a choice now. That’s what we give them.”
We don’t discuss it often—how much the aftermath messes with your head. But we all feel it.
Every mission ends with mandatory psych evals. Just to make sure we’re still mentally intact and not a ticking time bomb in heels.
Rogue assassins? Not a good PR look.
I’ve seen what happens when someone cracks.
A whole team was wiped out my second year doing this, and twenty civilians died.
One mistake. That’s all it took.
EAO swept it under the rug, but we all still remember.
A seagull screeches above us, and suddenly, Amani jumps up and bolts down the beach like she’s going to catch it with her bare hands.
“I hope it bites you,” Raven calls after her, voice dry but amused.
I catch the ghost of a smile tug at Raven’s lips before she looks down at her notes again.
I lean back, arms behind me, letting the sun’s warmth bleed into my skin.
For now, there’s peace.
Even if it’s just borrowed.
You know that saying, peace never lasts?
Yeah. Mine ends the second Isabella walks into the room.
Isabella Holmes. To the civilian world, she’s a philanthropic powerhouse—head of the Horizon Outreach Foundation, a respected anti-trafficking nonprofit, and a socialite who somehow makes ballgowns look like armor.
To me? She’s my personal mentor.
And the destroyer of what’s left of my mental stability.
She stands at the front of the room like she owns gravity, dressed in a razor-sharp black suit with her steel-gray hair styled to perfection.
Isabella doesn’t need to raise her voice or lift a finger to command a room—her mere presence makes assassins sit straighter and fidget less.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out if I can sneak a granola bar without her catching me.
More than thirty women are gathered—survivors, elite assassins, warriors trained in more ways to kill than most people can count.