Chapter 4

Before he could react, before he could scream or swerve or do anything at all, Ava shot the tire.

The bullet struck with precision, bursting the rubber in an explosion of air and debris. The truck swerved violently, the driver fighting the wheel, his colleague shouting in panic.

The truck skidded, tires screaming, and then screeched to a halt at an angle across the road.

The two men sat in stunned silence for a moment, their breathing ragged, their hearts pounding. The sudden stop had thrown them against their seatbelts, and they were still processing what had just happened.

"Who be that?" the colleague whispered, his voice trembling.

"Make we check." The driver's hand moved under his seat, emerging with a gun. His colleague did the same.

They exchanged a look—fear and determination warring on their faces—and then climbed out of the truck.

The clearing was empty.

Just the bike, standing alone, its engine still ticking as it cooled. The silence was heavy, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the distant hum of the city.

They glanced at each other, then moved toward the bike, their guns raised, their eyes scanning the shadows.

"Na the bike wey we see there be this na," the driver said, stating the obvious. His voice was shaky, betraying his fear.

"Shey I told you say e no dey when we dey pass!" the colleague hissed. "You say make I forget, you say..."

He was cut short by a knife.

It appeared from nowhere, spinning end over end, and rammed into his hand with a sickening thud. The blade pierced flesh and bone, pinning his hand to his thigh.

Blood welled up around the wound, dark and hot, soaking into his trousers.

"AHHH!" he screamed, dropping his gun, clutching his hand. The knife was still there, buried to the hilt, a grotesque ornament.

His face contorted in agony, his body trembling with shock.

The driver looked around wildly, his gun swinging from shadow to shadow, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. He held his own hand tightly—the one that wasn't holding the gun—as if bracing for a blow.

His eyes were wide, his breathing shallow.

"Who you be?" he yelled, his voice cracking with fear. "Why you dey hide, na?"

A whistle cut through the night.

He turned.

Ava was standing on the roof of the truck, holding two pistols, her black-clad figure silhouetted against the moon. Her facemask hid her expression, but her eyes were visible—dark, cold, utterly without mercy.

They were the eyes of a predator who had cornered its prey.

Before he could talk, before he could raise his gun or beg or run, two bullets rammed into his thighs. He went down yelling, his legs buckling beneath him, his blood soaking into the dusty ground.

The impact was brutal, the pain immediate and overwhelming.

Ava jumped down from the truck, landing silently between the two wounded men. She walked to the driver—the one with the bullets in his thighs—and looked down at him with something like disappointment.

"You two aren't even funny to have a duel with," she said, her voice flat. "Let's get to business.

Whose biometric will open the truck?"

The driver, pale with pain and blood loss, pointed a trembling finger at his colleague.

Ava glanced at the other man—the one with the knife in his hand. Without hesitation, she gave him a kick to the head.

His eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the ground, unconscious. The blow was precise, delivered with the kind of force that came from years of practice.

She pulled the driver up by his collar and dragged him to the back of the truck. He groaned, his injured legs scraping against the ground, leaving a trail of blood.

His face was ashen, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Open the damn truck," she sneered.

With shaking hands, the man opened the truck's rear door, revealing a biometric scanner mounted on the inside panel. He placed his uninjured hand on it.

The scanner beeped, green lights flashing.

A click. A whir of machinery.

Then a shelf pulled out, revealing a package—the same metallic case the men had loaded earlier. It was heavy, expensive, important enough to kill for.

Ava took it, testing its weight. She could feel the contents shifting inside, could sense the value of what she held.

She glanced at the man, who was whimpering now, tears mixing with the sweat on his face. He was broken, defeated, and reduced to a shell of a man.

"Thank you," she said.

Then she slammed his head on the scanner.

He went down without a sound, joining his colleague in unconsciousness. His body crumpled to the ground, a discarded thing.

Ava walked back to her bike, the package tucked under her arm. She mounted the motorcycle, turned the key, and at a full throttle, she took off, leaving the unconscious men and the disabled truck behind.

Behind her, the truck's headlights continued to blaze, illuminating nothing but dust and darkness.

Ava stopped in front of the warehouse and climbed down, the package still tucked under her arm. She walked inside, her footsteps echoing in the vast, empty space.

The silence was absolute—no sounds of the city penetrated these walls. It was a sanctuary, a place where she could be alone with her thoughts.

Once inside, she dropped the package on the table, next to the document and the empty briefcase. The impact was dull, the sound muffled by the concrete floor.

She picked up a burner phone—a different one from before, used only for mission completion notifications—and sent a message to a contact she had never met and would never see.

"Package acquired. Delivery confirmed."

She dropped the phone back on the table.

Then she stripped off her gears—the gloves, the mask, the knives, the pistols, the syringes. They clattered onto the table in a heap of metal and leather.

She pulled off the tight-fitted dress, leaving her in just her underwear, her body exposed to the cool night air.

Scars crisscrossed her skin—reminders of old wounds, old lessons, old failures. Some were thin and pale, faded with time.

Others were thick and dark, recent reminders of the price she paid for survival. She didn't look at them.

She didn't think about them. They were just part of the map of her body, as natural as freckles or birthmarks.

She walked to the bathroom, her bare feet silent on the cold concrete.

The bathtub was already filled with soapy water, steam rising from its surface. She had prepared it before leaving, knowing she would need this—the only ritual she allowed herself, the only moment of peace in a life defined by violence.

She stepped into the tub, the hot water scalding her skin. She welcomed the pain.

It reminded her she was still alive, still human, still capable of feeling something other than the cold, hollow emptiness that usually filled her.

She sank into the water, her muscles relaxing one by one, the tension of the mission draining away. The soap smelled of lavender—a small luxury, a connection to a life she had lost.

She closed her eyes.

For a moment, just a moment she let herself remember.

Her mother's laugh, bright and unguarded, the sound of pure joy. Her father's strong hands, lifting her onto his shoulders, showing her the world from a different height.

Daniel's sticky fingers grabbing at her hair, his giggles filling the house with warmth.

Then she pushed the memories away, locking them back in the box where she kept everything she couldn't afford to feel.

The mission was complete. The package was secure.

Tomorrow, there will be another.

But tonight, for just a few hours, she could rest.

The water grew cold around her. She didn't notice.

She was already gone, drifting in the darkness between sleep and waking, between the woman she had been and the weapon she had become.