Badass in Disguise Chapter 114

Jade's POV:

The October heat wave lingered like an unwelcome guest, pushing the temperature well into the 90s despite autumn's official arrival. I'd spent the entire afternoon locked away in my air-conditioned apartment, the thermostat cranked down to a comfortable 68 degrees.

A knock at the door interrupted my solitude. I knew who it was before I even checked the security monitor. Chase Astor's distinctive three-tap pattern was becoming annoyingly familiar.

"What?" I asked, opening the door just enough to see him standing there in designer jeans and a fitted polo, his hair artfully tousled.

"Jade! I was just in the neighborhood and thought—"

"No."

His face fell. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"You were going to invite me to some social event I have no interest in attending," I replied flatly. "The answer is no."

Chase opened his mouth to protest, then closed it with a resigned sigh. "You're good. That's exactly what I was going to do." He leaned against the doorframe. "There's this party at—"

"Still no." I began closing the door.

"Wait! What about—"

"Goodbye, Chase." I shut the door firmly in his face, listening to his muffled complaints fade as he walked away.

Once I was certain he was gone, I moved to the living room and opened the windows, letting the stifling air circulate. The weather report had promised a cold front by evening—not that I trusted weather forecasters any more than I trusted most people.

I settled on the white leather sofa, arranging my medical supplies on the glass coffee table. Vials of clear liquid, syringes, bandages, and other implements lined up in perfect order. My fingers moved deftly, checking each item before placing it in my specialized case.

I switched off the TV, closed the windows, and turned off the lights before carrying my medical case upstairs. The apartment fell into darkness, just how I preferred it.

As I reached for the master bedroom door handle, something made me pause. The air felt different—charged with an almost imperceptible vibration. It wasn't anything I could see or hear, more like the subconscious recognition of a predator sensing another predator.

I was not alone.

I entered the bedroom casually, flipping on the light switch. Nothing appeared disturbed. The king-sized bed was still perfectly made, the white duvet smooth and untouched. I moved to the small bar cart in the corner, where a half-empty tumbler of whiskey waited exactly where I'd left it that morning.

I picked up the glass, swirling the amber liquid before taking a slow sip. From this angle, I could see the reflection of the entire room in the mirror behind the bar. Nothing seemed out of place, but my instincts were screaming.

That's when I noticed it—the tiny red light blinking on my phone's camera lens where it lay on the nightstand.

And then I heard it. A breath, so soft it was barely there, coming from behind the floor-length curtains covering the windows.

I finished my whiskey in one smooth motion, letting the glass rest empty in my hand for a moment. Then, without warning, I hurled it directly at the window.

The glass shattered against the pane. A dark figure crouched on the narrow ledge outside flinched and started to move. Fast, but not fast enough.

I crossed the room in three strides, reached through the curtain, and grabbed a handful of fabric. With one powerful yank, I pulled the intruder through the window and into my bedroom, using their momentum to slam them onto the hardwood floor.

The curtain tore away, revealing a person dressed entirely in black tactical gear. They recovered quickly—professionally—rolling into a fighting stance and drawing a knife from a concealed sheath.

The blade slashed toward me in a perfect arc aimed at my carotid artery. I sidestepped it with millimeters to spare, feeling the air displacement against my neck. The attacker followed with a combination of strikes that would have incapacitated most opponents—knee to groin, elbow to sternum, knife to kidney.

I blocked each one methodically, recognizing the pattern. Shadow Organization's advanced close-quarters combat sequence. I'd helped design it.

"Who sent you?" I asked, deflecting another knife thrust and countering with a palm strike that the intruder barely avoided.

The attacker didn't respond, just continued pressing forward with increasingly desperate attacks. I could see the growing confusion in their movements—they'd expected an easy target, not someone who could not only defend against their techniques but predict them.

A particularly aggressive lunge left them off-balance. I seized the opportunity, grabbing their wrist and twisting sharply. The knife clattered to the floor. I kicked it under the bed, then delivered a precise strike to their solar plexus, followed by a sweep that took their legs out from under them.

The intruder hit the floor hard but immediately rolled toward the window. I intercepted them, slamming my foot down on their ankle with enough force to make them gasp in pain.

"You're not going anywhere," I said calmly, retrieving their fallen knife from under the bed.

The figure made one last desperate attempt to escape, lunging for my legs. I sidestepped and brought the handle of the knife down hard on the back of their head. Not enough to kill, just enough to stun.

They collapsed face-down on the floor, breathing heavily. I straddled their back, using my weight to pin them down as I removed their mask.

Short dark hair, sharp features, male, mid-thirties. No one I recognized.

I patted him down thoroughly, finding two more knives, a garrote wire, and a small pistol with a suppressor attached. Professional kit. I disarmed everything methodically, placing the weapons on my nightstand.

"Open your mouth," I ordered, pressing the blade of his own knife against his throat.

He complied reluctantly. I reached in and extracted a small device wedged between his molars and cheek—a subdermal transmitter.

I dropped it into a glass of water on my nightstand, adding a white powder that caused the liquid to bubble and dissolve the device.

Next, I turned my attention to the back of his neck, making a small incision just below the hairline. My fingers found what I was looking for—a tiny GPS chip embedded in the tissue. I removed it carefully and dissolved it in the same solution.

The man remained silent throughout this process, his breathing controlled despite what must have been considerable pain. Professional discipline. I respected that, even in an enemy.

With a swift motion, I tore open the back of his tactical shirt. There it was—a series of numbers and symbols tattooed between his shoulder blades. The coding system was familiar to me; it indicated rank, specialty, and unit within Shadow Organization.

"Six years with Shadow Organization," I observed, reading the markings.

His eyes widened slightly. "How did you—"

"You're in my bedroom," I cut him off. "I ask the questions." I twisted his arm behind his back, just shy of dislocation. "Do you know who I am?"

He swallowed hard. "Titan leader," he muttered.

I laughed softly. "Is that all?"

"How do you know about our transmitters? The GPS implants?" His voice was barely above a whisper now.

"Because I know Shadow Organization well." I traced the edge of his knife along his abdomen, just enough pressure to break the first layer of skin. "Now, why would SPECTER send someone to watch me? What does he want?"

The man's eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape that didn't exist. "I can't—"

I pressed the knife deeper, drawing a thin line of blood across his stomach. "Wrong answer."

He struggled against my grip, but there was nowhere to go. I made another cut, parallel to the first, just as shallow but twice as painful.

"The next one goes deeper," I promised. "What does SPECTER want?"

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fought through the pain. I made a third cut, slightly deeper than the others. His breathing became ragged.

"Please," he gasped. "They'll kill me."

"I'll kill you," I corrected him. "The difference is, they'll make it last for days. I'll make it quick if you tell me now."

I positioned the knife over his abdomen again, ready for a fourth cut that would do real damage. His eyes locked onto the blade, terror finally breaking through his training.

"I'll talk!" he screamed. "I'll talk..."