I throw an arm up to shield my face but Saint doesn’t flinch.
She gives me a casual little salute—the kind that says she’s enjoying this more than she should—steps to the edge and grabs the cord hiding within the panel of her backpack.
“Hasta luego?*, Alejandro.”
The parachute deploys instantly, ripping her out of the train in a blur of black fabric, wild hair, and absolute refusal to stay anywhere I want her to.
“Fuck—”
Two years without a trace, and now I’ve had her within arm’s reach for less than five minutes before she hurls herself back into the void.
She hasn’t changed.
Not the danger or the audacity.
The train begins to slow, hazard alarms pulsing through the cabin, but it won’t matter. I know exactly where she’s going. I knew the second she headed for the train station.
My pulse steadies. The hit from seeing her—alive, furious, close enough to touch—is still there, vibrating under my skin, but I clamp down on it. Later.
Right now, there’s work to do.
I pull out my phone and dial.
My broker answers on the first ring. “Did it go well?”
“Blow the tracks inten seconds,” I say.
On the other end of the line there is a half a huff disguising an amused chuckle. “Guess not.”
* my little troublemaker
* See you later
Thechute hits the ground before I do.
I land hard—knees bending, breath punching out of me—and immediately yank the parachute toward me, rolling the fabric into something that vaguely resembles a bundle instead of a death trap. I don’t have time to fold it properly. I’ll do that later. Right now, I barely have time to breathe.
Not when the Guild scrubbed last night’s contract clean.
Not when I woke up framed for killing a mantheytold me to kill.
Not when the only clue I have is the corpse I buried six hours ago.
I sling the half-stuffed chute into my bag and tighten the straps across my chest. The forest around me is quiet—Nagano foothills, just beyond the high-speed line. Remote enough to bury someone without a hiker tripping over their foot in the morning. Close enough to civilization for last night’s escapade to be little more than a detour on my schedule.
Instead, I’d muttered at him, cursed the flimsy shovel,cursed the rock-hard soil, and thrown him into the ground like a pissed-off raccoon.
Great job, Saint.
Really professional.
I push through the trees, boots sinking into damp earth, irritation simmering hotter with every step. I was supposed to be on a beach today. Or asleep. Or literally anywhere but hiking back to a half-assed grave because the Guild’s collective brain cell had a malfunction.
His burial mound comes into view—just a slight rise in the soil, messy, rushed. And right now, I hate past-me with a passion usually reserved for assholes who don’t tip.
“Should’ve minded my damn business,” I mutter as I kneel. “Should’ve stayed on vacation. Should’ve bought a bigger shovel.”
I push away the top layer of dirt with my gloved hands, feeling for the stupid little shovel I threw in with him out of spite. My fingers scrape metal. Found it.
