My eyes open on an inhale.
That was just the start of it.
The first killing of hundreds.
The first day of the past twenty years.
The seat belt light turns on, and the flight crew tells us to prepare for landing.
It’s been two decades since I’ve allowed myself to feel.
My right hand reaches across my body to brush over the spot where a faint scar remains from that very first fight. The man who got in a swipe while I was choking him.
It was the first scar of many, but it’s barely even visible anymore.
But him? I went back for him.
He was the first man I killed.
The first of many in Phoenix.
Then more in Vegas.
Then more in LA.
I trained.
I found teachers who would show me the quickest way to kill.
Found others who would sell me what I needed.
I went overseas. Went to France. Killed more men. Ones who pulled the strings.
Killed so many I have bounties on my head from half a dozen countries.
I never found Marcoux.
He had come and gone before I got to the top of the organization. He was the money man. An investor. A businessman who profited from the sale of human beings.
I didn’t find him. But I found his first name. Gabriel.
I can’t rest until he’s dead.
But—a small smile pulls at my lips—neither can he.
