Badass in Disguise Chapter 128

Warren's eyes narrowed, calculating. In one swift motion, he grabbed his walking stick and lunged at me. I dodged easily, but was impressed by his speed—not bad for a man his age.

"You think you can kill me?" Warren sneered, twirling the walking stick with practiced ease. "People better than you have tried. The assassins who could kill me haven't even been born yet, little girl."

I circled him slowly, a predator sizing up wounded prey. "Is that what you think?"

He attacked again, the walking stick transforming into a deadly weapon in his hands. I blocked his strikes, our movements creating a deadly dance across the cabin. The rich scent of polished wood mixed with the acrid smell of gasoline as we fought, furniture splintering under our combined force.

For a few minutes, we were evenly matched. Warren's decades of experience compensated for his age, each strike precise and efficient. No wasted movement. Classic Shadow Organization training.

Then I noticed it—a slight tremor in his left hand. The poison was beginning to work.

"Feeling a bit sluggish, Warren?" I taunted, easily sidestepping his next attack. "Maybe you should have checked your drink more carefully."

Rage flashed across his face. He redoubled his efforts, but his movements were becoming increasingly uncoordinated. His walking stick swung wide, missing me by inches. I caught it mid-swing and yanked, sending it flying across the room.

"Too slow," I said, landing a precise strike to his kidney.

Warren grunted in pain but recovered quickly, throwing a punch that would have shattered my jaw if it had connected. I ducked and swept his legs from under him. He managed to roll away and stagger back to his feet, but his breathing was becoming labored.

"Still too slow," I commented, delivering a series of rapid strikes to his torso.

Warren stumbled backward, his face contorting as he fought against the poison's effects. "You've been... trained," he gasped, recognition dawning in his eyes.

"By the best," I replied, landing a crushing blow to his right knee. The crack of bone breaking echoed through the cabin.

Warren collapsed to one knee but refused to scream. Even now, his training held. He attempted to grab me, but I easily avoided his grasp.

"Not fast enough," I said, breaking his left arm at the elbow.

This time he couldn't suppress a howl of pain. I circled behind him, snapping his right arm next. He fell forward, face contorted in agony.

"You know," I said conversationally, "this is nothing compared to what I endured in that lab of yours for six months."

I methodically broke his other knee, then stood over him as he lay helpless on the polished floor.

"You... who..." Warren's eyes widened in sudden recognition as he stared up at me. "That fighting style... you can't be..."

"Can't I?" I knelt beside him, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at me. "Don't you recognize me, 'Father'? I was your proudest child, after all."

Horror dawned in his eyes. "Shadow? Impossible... you died in the explosion."

"Oh, but I am," I whispered. "And I'm going to make sure you and every other old guy of Shadow Organization pays for what you did. You're just the first, King of Hearts."

With surgical precision, I crushed his throat, watching as the life drained from his eyes.

I stood up, surveying the room. Umbra and Silhouette had already stopped breathing, their faces frozen in expressions of agony.

"Bad luck, guys," I murmured, unscrewing the cap from the gasoline container. "Wrong place, wrong time."

I methodically splashed gasoline around the cabin, making sure to soak Warren's body thoroughly. I struck a match, watching the flame dance for a moment before dropping it onto his chest.

Fire exploded across his body, hungry flames licking at the expensive furnishings. I backed toward the door, watching as Warren Mitchell was consumed by fire.

"Goodbye, King of Hearts," I said to the inferno. "Tell the devil I sent you."

I slipped out of the cabin, closing the door behind me. Already I could hear shouts of alarm as the crew noticed the smoke. Perfect timing—we'd just docked.

I made my way to the fourth-floor deck, glancing at my watch. One minutes until the first explosion. Guards were rushing toward the smoke, barely noticing me as I moved against the flow of traffic.

Reaching the railing, I looked down. More of Warren's security team had gathered on the third deck, probably looking for Danny. They spotted me and immediately drew their weapons.

"Stop right there!" one of them shouted.

I smiled and vaulted over the railing, dropping to the second deck.

The first explosion rocked the yacht, sending several guards stumbling. I used the distraction to break through their circle, heading for the edge of the deck. Just as I prepared to jump to the dock below, a familiar black Maybach screeched to a halt at the pier.

Ethan Haxton burst from the car, looking up at the yacht with alarm. Our eyes met, and without hesitation, I leapt from the deck.

Ethan rushed forward, catching me as I landed. The impact sent us both stumbling backward, but he kept his footing, arms wrapped tightly around me.

A second, much larger explosion tore through the yacht behind us. Ethan instinctively shielded me, covering my body with his as debris rained down around us.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, scanning me for injuries.

"I'm fine," I said, straightening up. "But we should probably move. There's more bombs."

Ethan's eyes widened, and he grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the car where Connor waited behind the wheel. We dove into the backseat just as the third explosion ripped through the yacht, this one powerful enough to shatter windows in nearby buildings.

"Go!" Ethan ordered, and Connor accelerated away from the pier.

Through the rear window, I watched the luxury yacht become engulfed in flames, secondary explosions continuing to tear it apart. Warren's security team had abandoned their posts, jumping into the river to escape the inferno.

"Jesus Christ," Connor muttered, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.

I settled back into the leather seat, saying nothing. Ethan was staring at me, his expression unreadable.

"Is he dead?" he finally asked.

"Warren Mitchell is a pile of ash," I replied calmly.

Ethan nodded slowly. "And you couldn't have mentioned this plan to me beforehand because...?"

"Because I can do this alone."

We rode in silence back to my apartment. Connor, sensing the tension, kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut.

---

In my apartment, I stepped out of the shower, wincing as I examined the bruises and scrapes covering my body. Warren had gotten in a few good hits before the poison fully took effect. Nothing serious, but enough to be annoying.

I pulled on a loose t-shirt and shorts, then padded into the living room where Ethan was pacing.

"Is that hurt?" he said immediately, gesturing to the marks visible on my arms and legs.

"I'm fine," I replied, toweling my hair dry. "Mitchell was good, but he was slow."

"That's not the point," Ethan said, frustration evident in his voice. "You went after a professional killer without backup."

"I had backup," I countered. "You were there exactly when I needed you to be."

Ethan ran a hand through his hair, messing up his usually perfect style. "That's not—God, you're impossible."

I tilted my head, amused by his outburst. "You know, you might want to try some cold water to calm down, Mr. Haxton."

Ethan stared at me for a long moment, then abruptly stripped off his suit jacket and stormed into the bathroom. I heard the water running and smiled to myself.

I followed him and found him frantically splashing cold water on his face. I leaned against the doorframe, watching him for a moment before stepping forward and catching his hands in mine.

"That's enough," I said softly. "You'll give yourself a headache."

Ethan refused to look at me, water dripping from his face. I reached up, gently pressing my thumbs against his temples in small circular motions.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Pressure points," I explained. "Helps release dopamine. Makes you feel better."

I continued the gentle massage, feeling the tension gradually leave his body. After a few minutes, Ethan sighed and finally met my eyes.

"Sorry, I was overreacting," he said quietly. "I was just too worried."