4
Lena
The hood went on without warning.
Rough fabric pulled down over my head, cutting the world into sound and sensation—hands gripping my arms, boots moving fast, the scrape of concrete giving way to open air. Night pressed cold against my skin. Wind. Engines.
An aircraft.
My pulse steadied instead of spiking.
This is movement, I told myself.Movement means cracks.
They hustled me up metal steps, forced me forward, seated me hard. Restraints snapped around my wrists and ankles—not tight enough to cripple, but not loose either. Deliberate. Always deliberate.
The hood stayed on.
I counted anyway.
Eight steps from ramp to seat.
Two voices close.
One farther back—commanding, calm.
Turbines whined louder.
Then—conversation.
“…should’ve moved her sooner.”
“She was never scheduled for termination.”
A pause. A shrug I could hear in the cadence. “Doesn’t matter now. Pierce is in Tunisia.”
My breath caught.
Pierce.
Not a common name. Not here. Not spoken like that.
Someone laughed—soft, humorless. “Ronan Pierce doesn’t miss twice.”
Ice slid down my spine.
Another voice cut in, sharper. “Enough. She’s insurance. As long as she breathes, he stays predictable.”
Predictable.
My heart pounded hard enough that I was grateful for the hood. They couldn’t see the reaction. Couldn’t know what they’d just handed me.
They hadn’t kept me alive because I was weak.
They’d kept me alive because I was valuable.
Because—Ronan Pierce—was coming.
The aircraft lurched as it began to taxi.
