Chapter 2

Phantom

"Please," the woman whispered, her fingers digging into my arm. "Please just stay quiet. Keep your head down."

But Scar-face had noticed me. I felt his attention like a physical weight before I saw him. His boots stopped right beside my row.

"Are you fucking serious right now?"

I glanced up. He was staring at me, the MP5 hanging loose in his grip, his expression caught between disbelief and fury.

"Someone is showing me disrespect?" His voice rose, attracting the attention of his entire crew. "Little girl, you want to study? Do that after we land! We're in the middle of a hijacking here!"

I returned my attention to the book, flipping to the next chapter. "Hijacking a plane?" I said conversationally, more to myself than anyone else, "is the most low-risk, boring shit in the world."

His face went purple. In one swift motion, he grabbed my book and hurled it down the aisle.

The pages fluttered in the recycled air. My book—my perfectly good, extremely informative book—skidded to a stop near row 20.

Something cold settled in my chest.

I stood slowly, my good mood evaporating like morning mist. When I spoke, my voice could have frozen water. "Fuck you. Pick. It. Up."

Scar-face actually took a step back. Then, remembering his crew was watching, puffed out his chest and got in my face. "Are you stupid? Do you not understand the situation you're in?"

His breath smelled like cheap cigarettes and cheaper coffee. I held his gaze without blinking.

"Fuck!" He gestured wildly with his gun. "I came here to retrieve Phantom and get back the Satan's Heart! But it looks like I'm going to have to massacre this entire plane instead, starting with—"

"Oh," I interrupted, my hand drifting to my throat. "You mean this?"

I pulled the necklace from beneath my shirt—a black heart pendant, unremarkable to anyone who didn't know better. In the right light, you could see the darkness wasn't paint or stone, but something that seemed to absorb light itself. Sixteen years of flawless service, distilled into one stolen trinket.

Every single one of them froze.

"Boss," one of his men breathed, "the legendary assassin... is a woman?"

"Impossible," Scar-face snarled, but his hand had tightened on his weapon. "Who the hell are you? Where did you get that?"

I smiled, running my fingers over the pendant. "This? Consider it my severance package. Sixteen years with Bloodline, and all I got was this necklace and a really impressive body count." I tilted my head. "As for who I am? Well, you can call me Phantom. Though honestly, I feel like the name doesn't quite match my vibe. You got any better suggestions?"

His eyes went wide. "Fuck! Don't you dare look down on us!" He raised his weapon. "Brothers! Take her down!"

Six guns swung toward me in perfect synchronization.

The cabin was small. Cramped. Absolutely terrible for firefights.

Perfect.

I moved.

The first man didn't even see me coming. I was past his line of fire before his finger found the trigger, my hand closing around his wrist and redirecting his aim into his partner's chest. The second one went down hard. I used the first man's body as a shield, spinning through the narrow aisle like a dancer navigating a stage, each movement precise and economical.

They couldn't shoot without hitting each other. The space that should have been their advantage became their cage.

My knife—a simple combat blade I'd carried for twelve years—found throats with the efficiency of long practice. One. Two. Three. The movements were muscle memory, requiring no thought at all. Like breathing. Like blinking.

By the time Scar-face processed what was happening, four of his men were choking on their own blood, and the remaining two were backing away, weapons shaking in their grips.

"No, wait—" one of them started.

I didn't wait. Never wait. That's how you get shot.

Scar-face dropped to his knees, hands raised in surrender, his earlier bravado completely evaporated. "Please, I was just following orders, we can work something out, you don't have to—"

"I know," I said, twirling my knife between my fingers. I crouched down, bringing us eye-to-eye. "Here's the thing though. I'm not an assassin anymore." I straightened up, sliding the knife back into its sheath. "So consider this my parting gift to you."

I turned and began walking away, not bothering to look at him again.

"Oh god, I owe you my life," he gasped, relief flooding his voice. "I swear I'll never—"

Without breaking stride or even glancing back, I pulled the knife and flung it behind me. The wet thud followed by sudden silence told me everything I needed to know.

"I promised I'd give you something," I said coolly. "I always deliver."

I strolled back to my seat, satisfaction settling over me like a familiar cloak.

The woman beside me scrambled to the far edge of her seat, practically pressing herself against the window. Her hands trembled as they clamped over her eyes, body angled as far away from me as physically possible.

"I don't know you!" she practically shouted, voice pitching higher with panic. "Not little sister, not Phantom, I didn't see anything, nothing at all!" She pulled her knees up to her chest, creating a human barrier between us.

I couldn't help but laugh. She was going to need so much therapy after this.

But there was a problem. The airport would be swarming with cops when we landed. Questions I didn't want to answer. Attention I couldn't afford. My fresh start would be over before it began.

I grabbed my bag—and my book, thank god it wasn't damaged—and headed for the emergency exit.

"Wait, what are you—" someone started.

I'd already located the parachute compartment, standard on most international flights. The crew used them for emergency evacuations. I'd use one for a more creative exit strategy.

The emergency door release was right where I remembered. I punched it, and the door blew outward with a explosive decompression that sent loose papers flying.

Wind screamed into the cabin. Passengers grabbed their armrests, oxygen masks dropping from overhead.

I stood at the threshold, thirty thousand feet of open air beneath me, and turned back to face the terrified passengers. My hair whipped around my face, and I had to shout to be heard over the wind.

"Sorry about the mess, everyone!" I gave them a cheerful wave. "Have a great rest of your flight!"

I fell backward into blue sky and thin air, the plane shrinking above me as gravity claimed me.

The wind was freezing. Exhilarating. Free.

I spread my arms wide, feeling the rush of freefall, watching the earth grow larger beneath me. This was it. The start of everything new. No more contracts. No more Bloodline. Just me and whatever came next.

My hand found the ripcord.

Then the pendant against my chest began to burn.

Not warm. Not hot. Burning, like someone had pressed a heated brand against my skin. I grabbed at it, trying to tear it off, but the chain wouldn't break. The heat intensified, spreading from the pendant into my veins like liquid fire.

What the—

The pain exploded through my nervous system. My vision whited out. The sky, the earth, the rushing wind—everything blurred into meaningless sensation.

I was still falling.

And then I wasn't conscious at all.