Seventy-two hours.
Three more targets.
And then the reckoning.
The private charter is small but comfortable, arranged through Song's network of contacts. No passenger manifest, no customs checks, no record that we were ever here. By the time Singapore authorities piece together what happened at the facility, we'll be long gone.
Jinx sits across from me, watching the clouds scroll past the window. He showered before we left, changed into clean clothes, tied his wet hair into a bun. He looks almost normal. Almost like he wasn't an angry murder machine a day ago.
But I can see the tension in his shoulders. The way his hands never quite settle. The violence is over for now, but his body hasn't gotten the message yet.
"Tell me about them," he says without looking away from the window. "The targets."
I pull out the tablet, scroll through the files. "Abernathy. Ministry of Enforcement. Currently in London, running operations out of a private security firm that's a front for Silent activities."
"I've met him. He works with my brothers. Or did. Before." Jinx's voice is flat. "He visited the Foundry when I was twelve.Watched me fight in the training pits. Told Helena I showed 'promising aggression patterns.'"
I nod and then keep reading. "James Oswald. Ministry of Acquisition. He's the one who sources the children. Works with traffickers, corrupt officials, anyone who can supply product." The word tastes foul in my mouth. "He's in Dubai, living in a penthouse overlooking the marina."
"Product." Jinx's jaw tightens. "Fuckers.”
"Webb. Ministry of Erasure. He’s dead.”
"Webb." Jinx finally looks at me, and his eyes are cold. "He signed the order that put me in the pits. Said I needed 'additional behavioral modification' after I broke a handler's arm."
"You were how old?"
"Fourteen." A ghost of a smile crosses his face, dark and humorless. "The handler deserved it. He'd been hurting one of the younger kids. I made sure he couldn't hurt anyone again."
"And they punished you for it."
"Three months in the pits. Fight every day until I learned my place." He turns back to the window. "I never learned. I kept fighting. They kept punishing. Eventually they gave up and sent me to a different facility."
I reach across the space between us, take his hand. His fingers are cold, but they curl around mine and hold on.
"They're all going to die," I say. "They don't get to keep breathing while the children they tortured have to live with what was done to them."
"I know." He squeezes my hand. "But it won't be enough. It's never enough."
"Then what will be?"
He's quiet for a long time. The plane hums around us, engines steady, cabin pressurized. Outside, the world is small and distant, a patchwork of greens and browns far below.
"Lily asked me something," he says finally. "When I was talking her down. She asked what changed. How I went from being like her to being someone who could help her."
"What did you tell her?"
"That I met people who showed me another way. That I learned the world wasn't pain and purpose." He looks at me, and his eyes are different now. Softer. More open than I've ever seen them. "I was talking about my brothers. About Jace and Jagger. But I was also talking about you."
"Me?"
"You changed me. From the moment you showed up at that farmhouse, refusing to back down, refusing to let me push you away. You made me want things I'd trained myself not to want." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "A future. A home. Someone to come back to."
"You always had that in you. I didn't put it there."
"Maybe not. But you made me believe it was possible." He lifts my hand, presses his lips to my knuckles. "After this. After the Custodians. I want to build something. With you. With Lily. I want to build a real fucking home."
Home.
