I slipped into the queue and kept my face angled so I'd be harder to spot. He'd probably realised I was gone by now…
A few minutes later my documents were checked; once I had the boarding pass, I moved into the next hall—the queue beyond which Ashur could no longer physically stop me.
All I had to do was hold my passport to the scanner. I swallowed, scanning the room.
I stared at the queue. Why the hell wasn't it moving?
Sweat slicked my temples; the documents stuck to my palm. It felt like the blood in my veins had frozen, like the air temperature had dropped ten degrees.
I pressed my lips together and glared at the woman fumbling in front of the scanner, holding everyone up. I muttered, "Come on…"
She cleared it. The man ahead of me stepped up to the machine. I glanced around—and time stopped. Ashur was cutting through the crowd towards me. My mouth went dry. My heart stalled. Every sound dropped out.
That look. I'd only seen it once—when he'd faced Patrick. The look a predator gives an enemy. His face was locked down, muscles tight; his stride was fast and hard.
The light flashed green for the man. He went through. Panic snapped me forward. I stepped to the scanner, stared into the camera, raised my passport. My pulse hammered. Two officers stood by the gate, eyes sweeping the area.
A thousand phantom ants crawled up my spine. At last, the light turned green. I passed the gate and gulped air like I'd been underwater for hours—then spun around.
Ashur stood just on the other side, staring at me. One step away.
I met his eyes—cold, terrifying, straight into mine. My heart was racing, but I tried to look calm.
He stepped closer and held out a phone. I flicked a glance at the officer beside me, then at the screen. I moved a little nearer. The green call icon glowed. Ashur tapped it; the call connected.
The speaker was on. The Tailor's voice spilled out—tight, anxious.
"Viuna."
I let out the breath I'd been holding and, without breaking eye contact with Ashur's dangerous, glassy stare, murmured, "I'm listening."
The gate officer glanced our way, then turned to help a man stuck at the other checkpoint.
The Tailor snarled, rattled. "I know you're heading to France… You have no idea what you're doing."
I looked at the phone and gave a bitter little smile. "I know exactly what I'm doing. You broke your word and forced my hand."
He panted, then switched to Russian: "You don't understand. You're as important as Ashur. Everything's complicated. Why do you think we gave Ashur's wake code to you and not to Steven? Because Ashur had to protect you at any cost. Remember when they took you from the camp to a lab as a kid? Why only you? What do you think they did there? There are only a handful of operatives with special genetics; the Organisation has already lost two, and you're about to land on their blacklist…"
I blinked, nerves sparking, and checked the officers—they were starting to notice us. Ashur's eyes stayed on me; I listened, numb.
"I don't care any more," I growled. "They took Steven from me. They turned my life into hell. Not again. You can all go to hell."
I turned towards the exit doors—when the Tailor's shout cracked through the speaker, panicked:
"Viuna! If you walk out that door, Ashur's protection code deactivates; he will find you. His mission's already changed… You don't understand what you're doing. Listen to me; I can fix this, I'll find a way—"
"Too late," I said, meeting Ashur's lethal, glass-bright eyes.
Ashur's mouth tilted in a cold smile. He hung up on the Tailor without a glance, flicked a look at the gate officer, and stepped back from the checkpoint.
I smirked, took one step away, and held his gaze—victory sharp in mine.
I started for the exit. Just before I crossed, I looked back. He watched me from a distance, and in his eyes… something strange and bone-deep frightening.
He lifted his hand and signed: Next time we meet… I'll wear a suit. Gotta be ready for your funeral.
I dropped my gaze to his hands, then back to that blank face and glittering eyes, and bared my teeth in a smile. I signed back: Then I'll wear my heels—and don't worry, I won't forget black for yours.
One corner of his mouth edged up, just enough to show a clean line of teeth.
He signed again: Enjoy the short trip… little butterfly.
I gave him one last cold smile and turned away.
I knew he wasn't going to Tokyo any more. His mission had begun: hunt down the Organisation's cast-off Jellyfish.
I'd broken every rule. And now… I'd have to face what comes next.