ME: On the ground. Alive. A little windy. And a whole lot of humidity. 10/10 would not recommend.
MOTHER: Any sign of him?
Him. As if he’s a mythological creature. As if I’m waiting for a unicorn to trot out of the horizon carrying a tactical backpack and emotional unavailability.
ME: Not yet. If he’s the best, does he come with a receipt and a return policy?
No typing bubbles. Just immediate silence, which is how you know I have annoyed Elena Sands, queen of ice and contingency plans.
I sigh and glance toward the terminal door again.
This whole thing is absurd. I am twenty-five years old. I pay my taxes. I have a retirement account. I have an air fryer. I shouldn’t be waiting at an airstrip to be “extracted.”
But the second attempt on my life happened last night, and it was not subtle.
Someone took a run at my car on I-26 like they were trying to audition for a Fast and Furious spinoff calledGuns, Lies, and Traffic Cones.They didn’t honk. They didn’t slow down. They didn’t even pretend it was an accident. They just came hard and fast, clipping my rear bumper until my tires screamed and my heart did a full-body exit.
I kept the car on the road because I’m stubborn and, apparently, fueled by spite. Then I got home and found my frontdoor scratched up around the lock like someone had gotten impatient. The police said it was “probably a random break-in attempt.”
Sure. And I’m probably a part-time ballerina.
I shift my tote higher on my shoulder and try to ignore the jittery feeling in my stomach. I don’t get scared easily. Fear is a luxury when your job involves digging into powerful people who prefer their secrets buried with the same dedication they bury evidence.
But this is different.
This is personal.
My last story was about a pipeline of corporate money feeding into shell nonprofits, then into lobbying, then into a series of “unrelated” contracts awarded to a company that has no employees, no public address, and a board made up of people who are technically alive but mostly act like ghosts.
Then I asked the wrong question to the wrong man at the wrong fundraiser. And now someone wants to keep me quiet.
A low rumble reaches my ears, and my attention snaps to the sky. A sleek private jet cuts through the late afternoon light, banking toward the runway like it owns the place. My pulse ticks up, not because I’m impressed, but because the last time I saw a plane this close, it was on the news.
The jet lands smoothly, rolling in with the kind of confidence that comes from money and maintenance.
The door opens. A set of stairs lowers. And a man appears at the top.
He is big. Not cartoonishly so, but enough that my brain immediately re-categorizes him as “possible weapon.” Broad shoulders. Solid frame. The kind of posture that looks like he could stand still in a hurricane and the hurricane would apologize. He pauses, scanning the airstrip with a slow, controlled sweep.
I’ve met a military man before. They always have tells. The eyes that never stop checking exits. The stillness that feels like coiled wire. The way their hands hang loose but ready, like they’re on friendly terms with violence. This man looks like all of that, plus a smirk that doesn’t belong on someone who takes danger seriously.
He starts down the steps. Black T-shirt. Tactical pants. Boots that look expensive in the way that means “durable,” not “fashion.” When he hits the pavement, the wind catches his hair. Dark. Short. Slightly tousled like he doesn’t waste time with mirrors. He turns his head, and the sunlight hits his face. Sharp jaw. Light stubble. A scar near his cheekbone that looks old enough to have a story and new enough to still be rude about it.
And his eyes. Omg, they’re gorgeous and dark. They’re the kind of eyes that say,I have done things, and I have receipts.
He spots me. I know he spots me because the air changes. My skin prickles, like my body recognizes him before my brain finishes being an idiot. His mouth curves, not quite a smile. It’s more like a warning. A delicious warning.
He walks toward me, and I try very hard to keep my chin up and my knees from getting weak.
I refuse to be the woman who swoons on an airstrip. I have principles. I have dignity. I’ve been run off the road and now my life is in danger. None of this is romantic.
He stops a few feet away, looking me over in a way that feels less like appreciation and more like assessment. “Rowan Sands?” he asks. His voice is lower than I expect. Smooth. Warm in a way that doesn’t match his eyes.
“Depends,” I say. “Are you here to kill me or keep me alive? Because I’d like to dress differently depending on the vibe.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “That your attempt at humor or a threat assessment?”
“Both. I’m multi-talented.”
