"Know the myth of the ferryman? The one who carries souls across the river?"
Luka's eyes locked onto the coin as I turned it slowly. His focus was absolute, a predator watching prey.
"This is the toll. In our world, these open doors that stay closed to everyone else. Each one is payment between professionals." I pressed it into his palm, letting my fingers linger against his skin. "You'll earn many more. One penny, one passage."
He studied it, testing its weight with a small frown of concentration, then slipped it into his pocket next to the candy wrapper.
In the car, he fell asleep almost immediately, his body surrendering to exhaustion. One hand clutched the candy tin, the other wrapped around the penny in his pocket. Winter light filtered through armored glass, catching on the dried blood in his hair. I dialed a number known to only seven people worldwide.
"Target acquired," I reported when the encrypted line connected. "And he’s perfect. Better than I could’ve imagined."
A pause, then: "You intend to proceed with the Icarus Protocol?" The digitally altered voice betrayed nothing.
I glanced at the sleeping child, his face peaceful for the first time. "The Pantheon needs new blood, Zeus, and these children have no future. I can give them that, give them a greater purpose."
"At eight million American each." Skepticism crackled through the encryption.
"You'll make a return on your investment. You have my word."
"I'd better." The line went dead.
I studied Luka's tiny body curled against the leather seats. Those ice-blue eyes were hidden behind bruised lids. The steady hand that wielded death now relaxed in sleep. How he'dapproached—maintaining escape routes while advancing. Such instinct couldn't be taught. Only honed, perfected, weaponized.
This boy was a diamond in the rough. A perfect storm of trauma, intelligence, and killer instinct. Give me ten years, and I'd craft a weapon more precise than anything the world had seen.
I brushed dark hair from his forehead. In sleep, the hardness melted away. Just a child after all. Something dangerously close to affection stirred in my chest.
I suppressed it quickly. Sentiment was a weakness. This wasn't about saving a child, but creating an asset. Eight million for raw material that would return its value a hundredfold.
The boy stirred, brow furrowing with nightmares. His fingers tightened on the penny in his pocket.
His sister would make excellent leverage someday. If she was still alive, finding her might prove useful. If not, the memory would serve just as well. The most effective leashes were the ones people didn't recognize.
"Sleep while you can, little wolf," I murmured. "Tomorrow, your training begins."
As the war-torn landscape faded behind us, I smiled at what Luka would become. Not just an assassin—my assassin. The boy who'd kill on command, who'd become the Pantheon's most valuable asset.
My perfect creation.
Present Day
Therapists should wear bulletproofvests. Especially the cute ones.
I bit the head off a red gummy worm and adjusted my binoculars. Through the window of apartment 4B, Vincent Matthews was having his morning conversation with his houseplants again. Six thirty AM, right on schedule.
"Good morning, Ferny," I muttered, watching him nuzzle a Boston fern like it was a therapy pet. "Did you miss Daddy?"
I named the gummy worm Ferny before swallowing it whole.
My ass had gone numb from sitting on the floor of this shithole apartment for the past two hours, but the view was worth it. Vincent went to his orchid next, lips moving in what I knew was a completely different greeting. Three weeks of surveillance and I'd memorized his entire morning plant-parent routine. I'd also eaten approximatelythree hundred pounds of gummy worms and developed a concerning emotional investment in his botanical family drama.
The cactus (Jeremy) was the grumpy one, constantly judging his diva orchid (Daphne), even though he secretly wanted to fuck her. Too bad. Daddy Spider Plant (Richard) was totally banging Daphne and the snake plant (Vivian), whom he'd had a love child with. I couldn't wait for the marigold twins to come out of their shared coma to find out about that scandal.
I reached into the bag of gummy worms and pulled out a green one. "Sorry, Vivian. Daddy needs his sugar fix." Down the hatch.
The rental apartment was bare except for my surveillance nest by the window: a pillow on the floor, my rifle case propped in the corner, and enough empty gummy worm packages to shock a dentist. Located in the building across from Vincent's, with only forty yards and a narrow alley between us, my vantage point gave me a perfect view of his entire apartment. The previous tenant had left behind curtains that smelled like cat piss and broken dreams, which matched the water-stained ceiling and the suspicious brown carpet. But the window had a direct line of sight into Vincent's apartment, and that's all that mattered.
Vincent started preparing his morning coffee—bulletproof, with grass-fed butter and MCT oil. Ironic drink choice, considering there was nothing bulletproof about him. Through the binoculars, I watched him measure each ingredient carefully, the morning light catching the silver threading through his dark hair. Something about his methodical movements reminded me of Ana. My twin had been just as precise, even as a child. The memory hit unexpectedly, like it always did. All these years and I still looked for her in crowds.
