Chapter 6
Jane Bradley POV:
Five years. Five years I had spent forging myself into a weapon. The girl who left that city was gone, replaced by an operative known only as "Nine." I worked for a clandestine private security firm, doing the jobs that governments and corporations couldn't afford to be seen doing. I was good at it. My past had hollowed me out, leaving a space that was easily filled with discipline, ruthlessness, and a complete detachment from emotion. I was rich, I was dangerous, and I was finally in control.
I never wanted to come back to this city. It was a graveyard of memories I had buried deep. But a mission is a mission. Our target, a slippery arms dealer, had surfaced here.
I was crossing a street, my mind on tactical positions and exit routes, when a voice called out a name I hadn't heard in years.
"Jane?"
I turned. It was Cathleen. She looked older, the lines of discontent etched deeper around her mouth, but it was unmistakably her.
She stared at me, her eyes wide with disbelief. "It... it really is you."
"Stepmother," I said, my voice cool and even. I gave a slight nod.
She rushed forward and grabbed my arm, pulling me into a nearby alleyway, away from prying eyes. "What are you doing here? You promised you would never come back!"
"I'm here on business," I said, easily removing her hand from my arm. "Just tying up a few loose ends."
"For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
Her eyes raked over me, taking in the expensive cut of my coat, the designer handbag, the confident way I held myself. The broke, heartbroken girl she had sent away was gone.
"You look... well," she said, a hint of jealousy in her tone.
"I am," I said. "Being away from this city has been very good for me. By the way, I still have the money my father stole from you, and the money I owe you. I'll have it transferred."
A flicker of greed crossed her face, but it was quickly replaced by something else. Urgency. "Never mind that. Jane, your parents... your real parents... they're here. In the city."
I felt nothing. "And?"
"Your sister... Kallie... she's sick. Very sick. She needs a bone marrow transplant. They came back to find you."
"How do you know all this?" I asked, my curiosity piqued not by concern, but by the logistics of the information.
"Your mother. Jannie. She came to me a few years ago, looking for you. Desperate. I told her I had no idea where you were."
She only came looking for me when she needed something, I thought. Of course.
"Listen to me," I said, stepping closer to her, my voice dropping. "You never saw me. We never had this conversation. If anyone asks, you don't know where I am. Understand?"
She nodded, intimidated by the cold authority in my voice.
I turned to leave.
"Wait!" she called out. "Don't you... don't you want to know how he is?"
I slid my sunglasses on, obscuring my eyes. "No," I said, without a trace of hesitation. "I don't."
I walked away, leaving her standing in the alley. Being back was unsettling. Every street corner held a ghost. I checked into my hotel, a sterile, anonymous space, and waited for my team.
They arrived one by one, professionals like me. We went over the plan. Our intel said the target would be at an exclusive underground club that night.
We slipped into the club, a decadent maze of neon lights and throbbing music. We split up, scanning the crowds. But the target wasn't there. Our intel was bad. We were attracting attention.
"Abort," I whispered into my earpiece. "Fall back to the rendezvous point."
My team began to melt back into the shadows. As I was heading for an exit, a hand clamped down on my shoulder.
My training kicked in. In one fluid motion, I spun around, grabbing the wrist, twisting the arm behind the person's back, and shoving them against the wall.
"Don't move," I hissed. I dragged them into a dark, cramped supply closet. "Don't even breathe."
"Lemon?"
The voice. That name. A name no one had called me in five years.
My blood turned to ice. I let go, stumbling back in the darkness. My mind raced. He saw me. He recognized me. He can't be allowed to connect me to this operation. He can't be left to talk.
The person who had been following me stepped forward. "Lemon, is that you?"
The voice was filled with a desperate, hopeful disbelief. "I can't believe it's you. What are you doing here?"
The question of whether he truly cared echoed in my mind. I didn't believe it. I couldn't afford to.
He had forgotten the threat I posed, the danger I was in. I pushed him away and drew the knife from my ankle holster. The cool metal felt reassuring in my hand as I pressed the tip against his side. "Stay back."
"Lemon," he whispered, the name a plea.
I pressed the knife harder. "I can feel the blade against your skin. It would be so easy to push it in, just a little. You wouldn't even make a sound."
"You wouldn't," he said, his voice shaking, but with a note of certainty. "You wouldn't hurt me."
A cold smile touched my lips. "You're right," I said, and the blade slid into his flesh. Just enough to draw blood. "I'm not Lemon."
I pulled the knife out and wiped it clean on his expensive shirt. He gasped, more in shock than pain.
"I called for an ambulance. They'll be here in five minutes," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "If you tell anyone you saw me, I will find you, and I will finish the job. We were never here."
I left him in the darkness, a ghost leaving another ghost behind. I didn't look back.
I got back to the hotel, my heart a steady, cold machine. I packed my gear, switched hotels, and erased my digital trail. The leak in our intel was a problem, but meeting him... that was a complication I hadn't prepared for. It changed things. It made this personal.
I called my handler at HQ. "Intel was compromised. I ran into a ghost from my past."
"Is the mission scrubbed, Nine?"
"No," I said, looking out the window at the city lights. "The mission is still on. I'm not done here yet."
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