"Target redirected. The explosive is a dud, Vixen."
Zane's encrypted voice crackled in my earpiece. My jaw clenched. The stifling heat of the JFK airport ventilation shaft pressed against my chest, making every breath taste like dust and hot metal. I stared through the aluminum grate at the empty VIP lounge below.
My pulse hammered a steady, cold rhythm against my throat. Zane's voice was abruptly swallowed by a harsh burst of static. "Signal jammers activated," I muttered. I immediately cut the comms to prevent reverse tracing.
My fingers moved with brutal efficiency, stripping the custom sniper rifle apart in the dark. I shoved the cold metal components into the padded slots of my tactical backpack, disguised as a cello case. I zipped it shut just as the piercing shriek of the terminal alarms ripped through the air.
Red emergency lights began to strobe wildly, bleeding through the grate and painting my hands in flashes of crimson.
I kicked the grate. It gave way with a metallic groan.
I dropped silently to the carpeted floor below. A janitor's cart sat abandoned near the door. I grabbed the oversized blue uniform draped over the handle and pulled it over my tactical gear.
Heavy boots pounded against the tile outside. Two airport SWAT officers rounded the corner, their assault rifles raised.
I immediately lowered my head, hunched my shoulders, and pushed the trash cart toward the wall with slow, clumsy movements, making way for them. My entire body language radiated submission and terror. I became nothing more than a frightened background extra. "Move!" one of the officers barked, shoving my shoulder, but they didn't even look down as they sprinted past me, their radios blaring orders.
I stayed on the floor until their footsteps faded. The terrified tremor in my hands vanished instantly. I brushed the dirt off my knees and stood up. My eyes scanned the corridor, cold and calculating.
I pushed the cart toward the employee exit, needing to beat the total lockdown.
A weak tug on my ankle stopped me dead.
My muscles coiled. My hand hovered over the concealed blade at my thigh. I looked down.
A little boy, maybe four or five years old, was curled into a tight ball beneath a row of metal waiting chairs. His face was flushed a dangerous, bright red. His chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths. He was burning up.
I turned away. Not my mission. Not my problem.
But as I pivoted, the red emergency light caught the dark gold embroidery on the collar of his expensive jacket. A Wyvern.
My stomach dropped. It was the crest of the Ninth Circle. The exclusive mark of Apollo Buck's family.
My brain processed the data in a fraction of a second. This kid was the perfect bait. The ultimate key to getting inside Thanatos's inner circle.
I crouched down and reached for him. The boy panicked, kicking his small sneakers against my forearm, fighting me with whatever weak energy he had left.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a cheap mint. I unwrapped it quickly and pressed it against his chapped lips.
"Shh, it's okay," I whispered, forcing my vocal cords to soften, pitching my voice into a gentle, trembling register. "Eat this. It helps."
The sharp cold of the mint seemed to shock him out of his panic. He went limp, his hot forehead resting heavily against my shoulder.
Through the glass doors of the terminal, I saw the security perimeter going up. A dozen men in black suits flooded the concourse.
Facial recognition data instantly flashed in my mind: Cole. Apollo Buck's head of security, ex-Mossad, close-quarters combat expert. Everything was proceeding exactly according to plan.
I scooped the boy up, pressing his face into my neck to hide him, and ducked into a nearby supply closet.
It smelled of bleach and dirty mops. I laid the boy on a stack of towels and checked his pupils. They were sluggish. He was on the verge of a febrile seizure. He needed his temperature dropped, now.
I ripped open the lining of my uniform, pulled out a tactical instant ice pack, cracked it, and wrapped it in a rag. I pressed it against his carotid artery.
"Tear the place apart. Find the boy," Cole's voice boomed through the thin door, followed by the static of a radio.
If they found me in here with him, they would shoot me in the head before asking questions.
I pulled a bobby pin from my hair. I jammed it into the lock of the heavy fire door at the back of the closet. Three seconds later, the mechanism clicked.
I grabbed the boy, shoved the door open, and plunged into the freezing, torrential rain of the New York night.
A searchlight swept across the tarmac. I ducked behind a baggage tractor, shielding the kid with my body, until the beam passed.
I sprinted toward the employee lot and found an old, rusted Honda Civic. I pulled a digital electronic decoder from my pocket, bypassing the lock in three silent seconds. I opened the door without a sound and placed the boy into the backseat. Sliding behind the wheel, I extracted a micro-jumper from my belt and silently hotwired the ignition. The engine coughed and roared to life.
The tires spun in the mud, catching traction just as a shout echoed from the terminal doors. I slammed the gas pedal, tearing out of the lot and merging onto the flooded highway, heading straight for a private clinic on the edge of Manhattan.
The rusted Honda fishtailed in the heavy rain, its tires screeching as I slammed the brakes outside the emergency entrance of a discreet Brooklyn clinic.
I threw the door open, grabbed Jace from the backseat, and sprinted into the glaring fluorescent light of the lobby.
"I need help! Pediatric emergency!" I screamed, letting genuine panic lace my fake, trembling voice.
A triage nurse took one look at Jace's pale, sweaty face and yelled for a gurney. They ripped him from my arms and rushed him through the double doors of the trauma bay.
I stood there, dripping rainwater onto the linoleum, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
A receptionist shoved a clipboard into my hands. "I need his information. And yours. Social Security number and guardian status."
My hand shook violently as I took the pen. I forced my handwriting to slant, making it look uneducated and rushed. I filled in a ghost SSN-a dead CIA alias Zane had buried in the system years ago.
Under the name, I wrote The Nobody. Under occupation, I checked Janitor.
I handed the board back. Above the reception desk, a muted TV flashed breaking news. Attempted Terror Attack at JFK. Billionaire Heir Missing.
Three patients in the waiting room stared at the screen, then slowly turned their heads to look at me. My oversized, soaked uniform clung to me like a garbage bag.
I immediately hunched my shoulders, pulling the collar up to hide my jawline, and backed into the corner, wrapping my arms around myself like a frightened animal.
The trauma doors swung open. A doctor stepped out, peeling off his gloves. "He's stable. Acute pneumonia triggered a massive fever spike. We've administered broad-spectrum antibiotics. He'll be fine."
I let out a loud, shuddering breath. I walked to the glass window of the recovery room and looked at Jace. An oxygen mask covered his small face.
My chest tightened, but I pushed the feeling down. Apollo's cyber team would trace that fake SSN to this clinic in minutes.
I had to vanish before they arrived. I needed them to think I was a terrified nobody who didn't want a reward.
I turned away from the glass and walked toward the restrooms, keeping my chin tucked to my chest, perfectly calculating the blind spots of the ceiling cameras.
Inside the cramped bathroom, I locked the door. I stripped off the wet janitor uniform and turned it inside out. It became a plain, dark grey hoodie. I pulled it over my head.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a forged employee ID card for a shell cleaning company. I dropped it on the edge of the sink, making sure it looked like it had slipped out by accident.
The screech of heavy tires echoed from the street outside.
I pushed the small frosted window open. It was barely wide enough for a child, but I dislocated my left shoulder with a sickening pop, squeezed my torso through the gap, and popped the joint back into place as I landed on the rusted fire escape in the alley.
Down below, five black armored SUVs swarmed the clinic entrance.
Apollo Buck stepped out of the lead vehicle.
Even from the roof two blocks away, looking through my tactical binoculars, his presence was suffocating. He was massive, dressed in a dark suit that clung to his broad shoulders. His face was a mask of pure, violent rage.
He stormed into the clinic, his bodyguards forming a wall behind him.
Through the glass lobby doors, I watched Apollo grab the doctor by the collar of his scrubs. The doctor's feet nearly left the floor. Apollo roared something, his veins popping in his neck.
The doctor pointed frantically to the recovery room. Apollo dropped him.
Apollo immediately pulled an antibacterial wipe from his pocket and scrubbed his fingers, his face twisting in absolute disgust at having touched another human.
He walked to the glass, saw Jace, and the tension in his spine snapped. He slumped slightly, pressing his hand against his chest.
Cole walked up to him, holding the clipboard. Apollo snatched it. He stared at the messy handwriting.
Cole pointed to the hallway. A bodyguard jogged out of the bathroom, holding my fake ID card with a gloved hand.
Apollo took the card. He stared at the plain, unremarkable photo of The Nobody-a perfectly executed piece of forgery designed to be entirely forgettable. I couldn't hear him, but I saw his lips move. He was barking an order.
I lowered the binoculars. The rain plastered my hair to my face.
I tapped my earpiece. "Zane. They have the bait. Build the digital footprint. Make her poor, make her desperate, and make her real."
The basement apartment in Brooklyn smelled like rotting wood and stale beer. Water dripped from a rusted pipe overhead, hitting the concrete floor with a hollow plink.
I shoved my tactical gear, the sniper parts, and the encrypted comms into a lead-lined safe hidden behind a loose cinder block in the wall. I locked it and pushed the heavy, moldy dresser back into place.
I stripped off the hoodie and put on a faded, threadbare t-shirt that hung loosely off my frame. I stood in front of the cracked bathroom mirror and rubbed a grey-toned powder under my eyes, making my skin look bruised with exhaustion.
I walked into the main room, turned on a bulky analog radio, and cranked the volume to mask the steady, controlled rhythm of my breathing.
I sat on the edge of the torn sofa, pulled my knees to my chest, and waited.
Across the city, inside the impenetrable walls of The Aerie, Apollo Buck was staring at a massive monitor.
He watched the grainy clinic footage on a loop. He saw my hunched, pathetic figure carrying his nephew.
He rubbed his chest. The Wyvern mark burned beneath his skin, a constant, irritating heat. He hated women. Their scent, their touch, their very presence usually made his stomach churn with violent nausea.
But as he watched the screen, he felt nothing but a strange, hollow curiosity.
Cole walked into the study and tossed a thin manila folder onto the desk. "The Nobody. Orphan. Evicted twice. Currently drowning in debt to the Russian mob. She's a ghost because she's too poor to exist."
Apollo didn't look at the file. He looked at the screen.
Down the hall, Jace's cries echoed. "I want the mint girl! I want her!"
Apollo's jaw tightened. He stood up, grabbing his coat.
Back in the basement, my ears picked up the heavy, synchronized hum of armored engines cutting off at the end of the street.
My heart rate didn't spike, but I forced my hands to start shaking. I grabbed a rusted kitchen knife from the counter and curled into a tight ball on the sofa.
Heavy boots thudded down the concrete stairs outside.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The door shook in its frame. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Before I could react, the door was kicked off its hinges. It slammed into the wall. Three men in tactical gear flooded the tiny room, their weapons drawn.
I let out a piercing, ragged scream. I held the dull knife out in front of me, tears instantly welling in my eyes and spilling down my cheeks.
Apollo stepped through the doorway.
He had to duck slightly to clear the frame. He looked around the squalid room, his upper lip curling in disgust. His dark eyes locked onto me.
"Put the knife down," he ordered. His voice was a low, vibrating growl that rattled my ribs.
I shook my head frantically, pressing my back harder into the corner. "I don't have the money! Please, just give me another week! Don't kill me!" I sobbed, my voice cracking perfectly.
Apollo frowned. He despised weakness. He hated the sound of crying women. Yet, the usual bile didn't rise in his throat.
He gestured to Cole. Cole stepped forward and held out a crisp check. The number written on it was astronomical. "For saving the boy," Cole said flatly.
I stared at the paper, my eyes wide with manufactured terror. I didn't reach for it. I shrank back further. "Is this a trick? Are you buying my organs?"
Apollo lost his patience. He stepped into the room, his expensive leather shoes splashing in a puddle of dirty water.
He closed the distance between us in two strides. The sheer physical dominance of his body triggered my combat instincts. Every muscle in my arms coiled, ready to drive the knife upward into his throat.
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, forcing my body to freeze.
Apollo reached down and grabbed my wrist.
His massive hand wrapped entirely around my arm.
The second his skin touched mine, Apollo froze. His pupils blew wide.
The constant, agonizing burn of the Wyvern mark on his back vanished. The violent noise in his head went dead silent. A wave of absolute, terrifying peace crashed through his veins.
He stared at my trembling hand, then up at my tear-streaked face.
I let out a whimper and dropped the knife. It clattered against the concrete. "Please don't hurt me."
Apollo snatched his hand back as if he had been burned. He took a staggering step backward, staring at his palm. His chest he heave.
He looked at me again. The disgust was gone. It was replaced by a dark, consuming hunger.
"Jace wants you," Apollo said, his voice suddenly thick and uneven. "You're coming to work at The Aerie."
I sniffled, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. I looked up at him through my messy hair. "Do... do I get room and board?"
