Chapter 23 - The End of the Line
Before I could answer, the heavy steel door at the front of the freight car slammed open. A massive, heavily armored mercenary from The Foundry—a scarred giant wielding a short-barreled assault rifle—burst into the compartment, his tactical visor glowing in the dark.
He raised his weapon instantly, targeting my chest.
I didn't even have time to raise my Sig Sauer.
With blinding, terrifying speed, Claire moved. She didn't draw a gun; she flicked her wrist, sending a pair of surgical scissors spinning through the air with lethal precision. The steel blades buried themselves up to the handles in the mercenary’s throat. He choked out a gurgled breath, dropping his weapon and collapsing heavily onto the steel floor, lifeless before he hit the ground.
The train jolted violently as it began slowing down, its brakes hissing against the rails as we approached the end of the underground line near the lakefront.
Claire looked down at the fallen operative, then back up at me. Her expression was completely unreadable once again, the brief vulnerability of our conversation vanishing behind the impenetrable mask of the professional operative.
“We’re approaching the outer terminal,” she said quietly, turning toward the rear exit door of the freight car.
“Where are you going, Claire?” I demanded, stepping forward and catching her by the arm. Her muscles were taut, coiled like steel springs under her coat. “The syndicate is broken. The assets are frozen. You don't have to run anymore. Name your price—you can stay, you can have a home, a legitimate life, anything you want.”
Claire looked down at my hand resting on her arm, then raised her gaze to meet my eyes. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips—the same smile she had given me on the Chicago sidewalk three months ago.
“People like me don't get to live in houses with white picket fences, Mr. Vale,” she said softly, gently removing my hand from her arm. “Our job is to clean up the mess, lock the doors, and disappear before the sun comes up.”
The train groaned to a halt against the concrete buffer stops of the underground terminal. The sliding doors hissed open, revealing a damp, empty maintenance platform lit by a single flickering overhead fluorescent bulb. Beyond the platform, a flight of concrete stairs led upward into the crisp Chicago night air, where the distant rumble of city traffic could be heard.
Claire stepped out onto the platform, pausing for a fraction of a second to look back over her shoulder one last time.
“Take care of Harper and Ava,” she said. “And keep your books clean.”
May you like
“Claire!” I called out, taking a step toward the doorway.
She turned around, walked up the concrete stairs, and vanished into the shadows of the urban night like smoke dissolving into the wind.
