Chapter 7 A Debt to Pay
Footsteps—precise, controlled, military-grade—approached from the same direction where Alexander had just disappeared. Without missing a beat, I grabbed the garden shears from the flowerbed and began frantically trimming the overgrown grass near the fence where blood droplets glistened in the moonlight.
A man in a black tactical jacket rounded the corner, scanning our street with methodical precision. His posture was rigid, movements economical. Not your average lost tourist.
I continued snipping away with casual urgency, keeping my breathing even while tracking his movements through my peripheral vision. When he approached, I caught the familiar scent—gun oil, high-grade tactical gear, and that distinct undercurrent of danger that only professional killers carry. A scent I once wore like expensive perfume.
"Excuse me," he said, voice controlled and even. His eyes were scanning me, the yard, the house behind me—cataloging every detail while giving nothing away. "Have you seen a young man pass through here recently? About six feet tall, dark hair, possibly injured?"
I smiled blandly, the expression of a clueless teenage girl. Meanwhile, my hands never stopped working, methodically cutting grass and allowing the fresh clippings to fall precisely over the blood trail Alexander had left behind.
"Sorry, haven't seen anyone like that," I replied, the sharp smell of cut vegetation rising to mask the metallic scent of blood. "Though I thought I heard someone running down that way about ten minutes ago." I gestured casually toward the opposite direction from where Alexander had actually gone.
The man's nostrils flared slightly—he'd caught the scent of blood but couldn't pinpoint it now that I'd covered it with the sharp smell of freshly cut grass.
"You sure about that? It's important I find him." His hand shifted subtly toward his waistband.
"Positive," I shrugged, meeting his gaze directly. "Just us and the raccoons around here. But like I said, thought I heard footsteps heading that way." I nodded again toward the wrong direction.
He hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly. Then he nodded once and continued down the street I'd indicated, posture alert but purpose misdirected. I watched him go, fingers still wrapped around the garden shears. After he disappeared around the corner, I collected the blood-stained grass clippings and disposed of them inside. Then I locked all the doors and went to bed.
"You're up early again," Max said the next morning, handing me a fifty-dollar bill as I returned from my morning run. Sweat plastered my t-shirt to my body, but I felt good—stronger. My body was responding to the training regimen I'd implemented.
"School cafeteria card," he explained when I raised an eyebrow at the money. "I noticed you haven't asked Linda for lunch money in weeks."
I folded the bill into my pocket, feeling an odd mixture of gratitude and humiliation. In my previous life as Shadow, I'd had unlimited funds at my disposal. Now I was living off handouts from my limping teenage brother.
"Thanks," I said simply.
Max shifted his weight, adjusting his stance to ease pressure on his bad leg. That's when I noticed his shoes—once white sneakers now gray with age, the soles worn thin and edges frayed.
"I'll pay you back," I promised, meaning it.
He grinned. "With what? Your vast fortune?"
"Someday," I replied, and something in my tone made his smile fade slightly.
We parted ways at the bus stop. Max headed for the public bus while I insisted on walking to continue building my stamina. He gave me a worried glance before boarding, but didn't argue.
The morning was beautiful—crisp air, birds singing, weak sunlight filtering through the trees. After years in sterile facilities or dark urban hideouts, I found myself appreciating these simple sensations. The soft crunch of gravel under my feet. The distant hum of traffic. The—
A black compact SUV without license plates suddenly accelerated around the corner, tires screeching as it mounted the curb and aimed directly at me.
I pivoted instantly, muscles responding with a fraction of my former speed but still fast enough. The vehicle missed me by inches, the side mirror grazing my backpack as it screamed past.
Before it had fully stopped, four doors flew open and four men jumped out.
The first was tall and lean, moving with practiced efficiency. Two medium-built men flanked him, while a muscular giant brought up the rear.
Alexander's POV:
I walked slowly through the eastern wing of our New York mansion, my wound throbbing beneath the simple t-shirt I'd changed into after disposing of my bloodied designer shirt. The private jet flight from Cloud City had been quick but uncomfortable with my injury.
Uncle Ethan looked up as I entered, immediately rising from his leather armchair.
"You should be resting," he said, concern evident in his voice.
"I'm fine," I replied, though I couldn't hide a wince as I lowered myself into the chair across from him. "The bullet just grazed me."
"And the cargo?"
My expression tightened involuntarily. "Lost. They ambushed me before I could secure it."
Uncle Ethan nodded, unsurprised. "It's being handled."
"Uncle, about the girl who helped me—" I began, wanting to discuss the strange teenager who had saved my life.
"The high school student who wrote her bank account on your arm?" His lips curved into a slight smile. "Quite resourceful of her."
I stared at him, startled. "How did you—"
"I notice things, Alex. It's how we've survived this long." He walked to the bar and poured two glasses of water. "Tell me about her."
"There wasn't much time for conversation," I admitted, thinking back to those tense moments. "But she knew I'd been shot without me saying anything. Knew exactly where to send me to avoid my pursuers. She moved... differently than a normal teenager."
Uncle Ethan handed me a glass, his expression thoughtful. "Interesting."
"I want to go back and thank her properly."
"That would be unwise," he replied firmly. "The Haxton name attracts attention. Dangerous attention. Do you want to bring that to her doorstep?"
I frowned but nodded reluctantly. He was right, as usual.
"Besides," Uncle Ethan continued, "you should focus on your recovery, or finding another specialist for my father's condition." He paused. "Speaking of specialists, it's a shame about Shadow."
"The assassin? What about them?" I asked, confused by the sudden change of topic.
"Dead," he said simply. "Confirmed last week. Shame. They might have been skilled enough to help with our situation."
Uncle Ethan returned to his desk where a file lay open. I caught a glimpse of scattered photos and documents—fragments of information about the world's most elusive assassin. A ghost whose gender, nationality, and appearance remained unknown to most—but apparently not to my uncle.
Later that night, I sat in my suite, staring at my laptop screen. I'd been contemplating the same question for an hour: how much money to send to the girl who had saved my life?
Too much might frighten a normal teenager. Too little would be insulting. And I had to consider banking regulations—large transfers triggered automatic flags.