Chapter 3: Time to Go Back to Work

Emma's POV

The Lower East Side looks the same as it did two years ago. Broken streetlights, peeling paint on every building, the kind of neighborhood where nobody asks questions about what their neighbors do for work.

I'm walking up the stairs to apartment 3B. The key still fits perfectly. Someone's been taking care of this place, just like I paid them to.

Inside, everything's exactly where I left it. The crappy furniture, blackout curtains, nothing that would make anyone suspicious. But this isn't what I came for.

I press three spots on the wall in the right sequence. The hidden panel slides open with a soft click.

My breath catches. Everything's still here. Handguns, knives, body armor, communication gear. All cleaned and maintained, ready to go. Like it's been waiting for me.

I pick up the pistol first. It feels weird in my hands after two years of holding martini glasses and designer purses. But when I check the magazine, my fingers remember exactly what to do.

Two years of charity galas and book club meetings. Two years of pretending to give a shit about flower arrangements and vacation homes in the Hamptons.

I strip off the designer dress and pull on black tactical gear. The holster sits perfectly on my hip. Knife goes on my thigh. Extra magazines in the chest pockets.

This is who I really am.

I pick up a gold coin from the small box on the shelf. The weight feels familiar, reassuring. The mysterious symbols catch the light just like they always did.

"Time to go back to work."

The moment I step outside, I know something's wrong.

The street's too quiet. No late commuters, no homeless guys settling in for the night. Just empty sidewalks and shadows that seem too deep.

My hand drifts toward my weapon. Eyes scanning doorways, fire escapes, anywhere someone might be hiding.

The first shot comes out of nowhere.

The bullet whistles past my ear so close I feel the heat. I dive behind a parked car before my brain even catches up to what's happening.

Pavement scrapes my palms as I roll. Fuck, I'm rusty. Two years ago, I would've sensed that shooter before he ever got a clean shot.

"There she is! Swans! One hundred million!"

"Surround her! Don't let her reach the Continental!"

I draw my weapon, muscle memory kicking in even though my heart's pounding like crazy.

Deep breath. Line up the sights. Squeeze the trigger.

My first shot goes wide, barely grazing the shooter's shoulder. Shit. Two years of not touching a gun shows.

But the second shot finds its target. Someone screams across the street. The third shot drops a guy behind a mailbox.

My hands remember now. The grip, the recoil, the smooth trigger pull.

I'm using cars as cover, moving from vehicle to vehicle while bullets spark off metal and shatter glass. The narrow street makes every gunshot sound like a cannon.

Three shooters down. Time to move before backup arrives.

As I break from cover, I hear motorcycle engines in the distance. Multiple bikes, getting closer. The sound bounces off buildings like thunder.

There's a red car parked at the curb, engine still warm. The owner's walking out of a store with snacks and a confused look on his face.

I sprint toward him. "Sorry, emergency!"

"Hey! That's my fucking car!" He reaches for me but I'm already behind the wheel.

The engine roars and I floor it. Tires scream against asphalt. In the rearview mirror, at least five motorcycles are rounding the corner.

The first bullets spider the rear windshield. I duck low while yanking the wheel left, sending the car into a controlled slide around the corner.

Manhattan becomes our battlefield. I weave between traffic while bullets ping off the car's frame. The motorcycles are fast, but I know these streets better.

Two years of suburban peace almost made me forget this feeling. The sharp focus, the way time slows down during a chase. This is what I was made for.

I take a hard right into an alley barely wide enough for the car. The bikes' advantage becomes a problem in the tight space. Mirrors scrape brick walls as I thread the needle.

The engine noise fades behind me. Lost them, at least for now.

I ditch the stolen car near Times Square and head for the subway. Underground tunnels should get me close to the Continental without being spotted.

But as I go down the stairs, I realize this was a mistake. Three guys in casual clothes are spread around the platform, trying to look like they're waiting for the late train.

Their positioning gives them away. Too alert, too spread out. And they're avoiding eye contact in that obvious way that screams "we're working together."

I glance around for weapons. A discarded umbrella by the tracks. My gun. That's about it.

The first attacker moves before I finish looking around. He rushes me with a knife, probably thinking I'll be easy in the confined space.

I grab the umbrella and drive the pointed end toward his throat while bringing my knee up into his gut. The impact sends him stumbling backward.

"Bitch!" he gasps, already off balance.

The second guy has a blade too, coming from my left. I snap the umbrella in half and use the jagged end to block his thrust. The broken metal rings against his knife.

The third guy tries to circle behind me. I shove the second attacker toward the tracks, watching him scramble not to hit the electrified rail, then spin to face the last threat.

Three minutes later, all three are down. I straighten my clothes and walk toward the exit like nothing happened. Just another night in the subway.

The Continental Hotel rises in front of me like a cathedral. Classical architecture, warm lights behind tall windows, sanctuary just fifty yards away.

But those fifty yards might as well be fifty miles. At least a dozen assassins are gathered on the sidewalk, pretending to be casual pedestrians.

"She's coming!"

"Can't touch her once she's inside. Hotel rules."

"Then we wait. One hundred million's worth waiting for. She can't stay in there forever."

I take a deep breath and start running. Not sneaking, not being clever. Just a straight sprint toward safety.

Twenty yards from the entrance, they all turn toward me. Hands moving toward weapons, but nobody draws yet. They know the rules. They're all scared of breaking them.

"Move!" I shout, pulling my gun but pointing it at the sky.

I fire once into the air. The shot echoes off buildings like a starting pistol.

Everyone freezes for exactly the second I need. I use that hesitation to cover the last twenty feet to the hotel entrance.

My footsteps ring against marble as I push through the heavy doors. The city noise dies away instantly, replaced by soft classical music and the gentle sound of the fountain.

Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over marble columns. The air smells like expensive cologne and aged wood. This is the Continental Hotel, the last sanctuary in a world of violence.

I lean against the doors, feeling their weight at my back. Outside, those assassins can only wait and curse and dream about what they can't have.

Two years since I've been here. Two years since I felt truly safe. This is the one place where all assassins must lay down their weapons. Where blood cannot be spilled. Where even enemies must coexist in peace.

The rules here aren't suggestions. They're sacred law. Break them, and every assassin in the world becomes your enemy.

I breathe deeply for the first time since leaving Marcus's mansion. Finally safe.

"No Business on Continental Grounds." A familiar voice cuts through the quiet lobby. "Welcome, Miss Swans."

I turn with a smile already forming. An elderly man in a perfect three-piece suit walks toward me, his face kind but knowing. Winston, the manager of the New York Continental. My old friend.