01-18-2025, 11:13 PM
When the moment came, Ryker wiped his mouth with the napkin, left his payment, and walked out of the pizzeria deliberately, directly. His stride was not hurried. Just another guy heading back to his office. A tourist, maybe. No reason to look twice.
His gaze slid over the faces at Nox’s table as he passed. He didn’t know the strangers who had joined the group, and he didn’t care. They weren’t part of this. Nox had mentioned a ‘personal thing’ earlier. Ryker couldn’t care less, so long as it didn’t interfere with their mission.
Outside, the air bit at his skin. DC hummed around him: taxi cabs honking, a ragged street performer playing saxophone for donation, the faint rumble of a metro train underground. Normal city sounds. But Ryker’s pulse quickened as he slipped into the crowd. He scanned the streets, eyes darting between reflective surfaces and shadowy alleys.
The assassin had done his job. The Vice President shot cleanly through the temple in broad daylight. The shot had been so precise it made Ryker’s chest tighten. Only a professional could’ve done this. And Ryker knew these particular professionals, at least by reputation. Mercenaries.
The Devil’s Hands.
Only thing he didn’t know was which hand—which brother—was he chasing down.
That’s what they called them in the field. No names. No faces anyone had lived to remember. Just shadows that moved through cities like rumors, leaving a trail of dead power players in his wake. And Ryker? He was here to kill a shadow before it killed again.
The assassin wouldn’t stick around long. Ryker had less than an hour to find him, eliminate him, and disappear. He turned the corner, eyes scanning rooftops, doorways, the tops of parked vans. He knew how to think like a killer, but this guy was more than that. He was a ghost.
Two blocks east, Ryker spotted him. Short. Thick. He was moving quickly, but not so quickly as to draw attention. He was wearing a gray hoodie, hood pulled low, but Ryker knew it was him. It was the way he walked, the way his head turned every ten seconds to scan the crowd. Hewas fast, but no one outran Ryker when it counted.
Ryker stepped into pursuit.
He stayed back, far enough not to spook the assassin but close enough to keep him in his sights. His heart beat steadily, his breathing even. The key to following a professional was to act like you had no idea what you were doing. Pros could smell another predator a mile away, but amateurs? Amateurs were invisible.
The assassin slipped into an alley. A rookie might have balked, hesitated, called for backup. Ryker didn’t. He closed the gap, his boots silent against the pavement.
Ahead, the assassin stopped near a rusted fire escape. He adjusted something under his hoodie—probably a weapon—and glanced over his shoulder. Ryker ducked behind a dumpster just in time. Close call. The Devil’s Hand was good, but not infallible.
Ryker’s hand went to the knife in his pocket. He’d left his gun behind—DC was too hot for that kind of heat. A knife was quieter anyway, and this job called for silence.
The assassin moved again, heading toward the far end of the alley. Ryker followed, keeping low. His grip tightened on the blade.
When the moment came, he acted without hesitation.
Ryker surged forward, closing the distance in three long strides. His arm came up, the knife flashing in the dim light, aimed for the space between the assassin’s ribs.
But the Devil’s Hand was faster than he looked. He spun, one hand snapping out to deflect Ryker’s strike while the other produced a silenced pistol from under his hoodie.
Ryker ducked, the gun firing with a muffled thwip as the round embedded itself in the brick wall behind him. He drove forward, slamming his shoulder into the assassin’s chest. The man staggered back, but only for a second. His leg came up in a sharp, practiced kick that Ryker barely avoided by twisting to the side.
They circled each other, two predators locked in a deadly dance. The assassin raised the pistol again, but Ryker threw the knife—not at him, but at the gun. The blade struck true, knocking the weapon from the assassin’s hand.
The Devil’s Hand hesitated. It was all Ryker needed.
He closed the distance, his fists moving like pistons. One punch to the jaw. Another to the ribs. The assassin grunted, but he didn’t go down. He came at Ryker with a flurry of strikes, and Ryker had to give him credit—he was strong, fast, skilled.
But Ryker was better.
He caught the assassin’s wrist mid-swing, twisting it sharply until he heard the satisfying pop of a dislocated joint. The man cried out—a sharp, involuntary sound—and Ryker slammed him against the wall. His forearm pressed against the assassin’s throat, pinning him in place.
“This is just because I want to,” Ryker growled in his real accent. Then, with one swift motion, he pulled a second knife from his boot and drove it into the assassin’s chest, right where the heart should be. The man gasped, his body convulsing once before going limp.
Ryker stepped back, his breathing steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He wiped the blade on the assassin’s hoodie, then retrieved his first knife from where it had fallen. He could have used the knife on his own skin and pulled enough power into himself to end him in seconds, but the kill would draw too much attention by investigators. They could not allow any attention drawn back to the Custody—to himself.
He took a moment to survey the scene. The alley was quiet, no sign of witnesses. But he knew better than to linger. The assassin might’ve been a ghost, but Ryker wasn’t going to wait around for an exorcism.
He pulled the assassin’s hood down and stared at the face beneath it—a face he’d heard described but had never seen for himself. Brown skin, dark eyes, bearded, a faint scar across the bridge of his nose. Ryker committed every detail to memory before slipping back into the street.
Minutes later, he was gone, swallowed by the streets. Another shadow in a city full of them.
His gaze slid over the faces at Nox’s table as he passed. He didn’t know the strangers who had joined the group, and he didn’t care. They weren’t part of this. Nox had mentioned a ‘personal thing’ earlier. Ryker couldn’t care less, so long as it didn’t interfere with their mission.
Outside, the air bit at his skin. DC hummed around him: taxi cabs honking, a ragged street performer playing saxophone for donation, the faint rumble of a metro train underground. Normal city sounds. But Ryker’s pulse quickened as he slipped into the crowd. He scanned the streets, eyes darting between reflective surfaces and shadowy alleys.
The assassin had done his job. The Vice President shot cleanly through the temple in broad daylight. The shot had been so precise it made Ryker’s chest tighten. Only a professional could’ve done this. And Ryker knew these particular professionals, at least by reputation. Mercenaries.
The Devil’s Hands.
Only thing he didn’t know was which hand—which brother—was he chasing down.
That’s what they called them in the field. No names. No faces anyone had lived to remember. Just shadows that moved through cities like rumors, leaving a trail of dead power players in his wake. And Ryker? He was here to kill a shadow before it killed again.
The assassin wouldn’t stick around long. Ryker had less than an hour to find him, eliminate him, and disappear. He turned the corner, eyes scanning rooftops, doorways, the tops of parked vans. He knew how to think like a killer, but this guy was more than that. He was a ghost.
Two blocks east, Ryker spotted him. Short. Thick. He was moving quickly, but not so quickly as to draw attention. He was wearing a gray hoodie, hood pulled low, but Ryker knew it was him. It was the way he walked, the way his head turned every ten seconds to scan the crowd. Hewas fast, but no one outran Ryker when it counted.
Ryker stepped into pursuit.
He stayed back, far enough not to spook the assassin but close enough to keep him in his sights. His heart beat steadily, his breathing even. The key to following a professional was to act like you had no idea what you were doing. Pros could smell another predator a mile away, but amateurs? Amateurs were invisible.
The assassin slipped into an alley. A rookie might have balked, hesitated, called for backup. Ryker didn’t. He closed the gap, his boots silent against the pavement.
Ahead, the assassin stopped near a rusted fire escape. He adjusted something under his hoodie—probably a weapon—and glanced over his shoulder. Ryker ducked behind a dumpster just in time. Close call. The Devil’s Hand was good, but not infallible.
Ryker’s hand went to the knife in his pocket. He’d left his gun behind—DC was too hot for that kind of heat. A knife was quieter anyway, and this job called for silence.
The assassin moved again, heading toward the far end of the alley. Ryker followed, keeping low. His grip tightened on the blade.
When the moment came, he acted without hesitation.
Ryker surged forward, closing the distance in three long strides. His arm came up, the knife flashing in the dim light, aimed for the space between the assassin’s ribs.
But the Devil’s Hand was faster than he looked. He spun, one hand snapping out to deflect Ryker’s strike while the other produced a silenced pistol from under his hoodie.
Ryker ducked, the gun firing with a muffled thwip as the round embedded itself in the brick wall behind him. He drove forward, slamming his shoulder into the assassin’s chest. The man staggered back, but only for a second. His leg came up in a sharp, practiced kick that Ryker barely avoided by twisting to the side.
They circled each other, two predators locked in a deadly dance. The assassin raised the pistol again, but Ryker threw the knife—not at him, but at the gun. The blade struck true, knocking the weapon from the assassin’s hand.
The Devil’s Hand hesitated. It was all Ryker needed.
He closed the distance, his fists moving like pistons. One punch to the jaw. Another to the ribs. The assassin grunted, but he didn’t go down. He came at Ryker with a flurry of strikes, and Ryker had to give him credit—he was strong, fast, skilled.
But Ryker was better.
He caught the assassin’s wrist mid-swing, twisting it sharply until he heard the satisfying pop of a dislocated joint. The man cried out—a sharp, involuntary sound—and Ryker slammed him against the wall. His forearm pressed against the assassin’s throat, pinning him in place.
“This is just because I want to,” Ryker growled in his real accent. Then, with one swift motion, he pulled a second knife from his boot and drove it into the assassin’s chest, right where the heart should be. The man gasped, his body convulsing once before going limp.
Ryker stepped back, his breathing steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He wiped the blade on the assassin’s hoodie, then retrieved his first knife from where it had fallen. He could have used the knife on his own skin and pulled enough power into himself to end him in seconds, but the kill would draw too much attention by investigators. They could not allow any attention drawn back to the Custody—to himself.
He took a moment to survey the scene. The alley was quiet, no sign of witnesses. But he knew better than to linger. The assassin might’ve been a ghost, but Ryker wasn’t going to wait around for an exorcism.
He pulled the assassin’s hood down and stared at the face beneath it—a face he’d heard described but had never seen for himself. Brown skin, dark eyes, bearded, a faint scar across the bridge of his nose. Ryker committed every detail to memory before slipping back into the street.
Minutes later, he was gone, swallowed by the streets. Another shadow in a city full of them.