Chapter 31 Chapter 31

Chapter 31 Chapter 31
Ciara’s POV.

The fluorescent lights of JFK were too bright. 

I kept my head down, the brim of my baseball cap low. The surgical mask covered the lower half of my face, a common enough sight in a post-pandemic world, but beneath the fabric, my skin was throbbing profusely. 

Every step I took sent a jolt of pain from my healing jaw up to my temples. My abdomen, still knit together by Silas’s stitches and the remnants of the Moretti trauma, felt like it was being held together by nothing but sheer spite.

Ciara Wilson.

I repeated the name in my head repeatedly. Elara was a corpse in a river. Ciara Wilson was a consultant from Chicago moving to Singapore for a fresh start.

I clutched my carry-on bag tighter. Inside was the credit card with the $100 million and the file that proved Isabella Rossi was a murderer. 

The line for the security checkpoint moved with agonizing slowness.

"Next," the TSA officer droned.

I stepped forward, my movements stiff as I handed over the blue passport. 

The officer looked at the passport, then at me. He squinted. "Mask off, please."

My pulse spiked. I lowered the mask just enough to show my face. My new face. The jawline was sharper, the nose straighter, the cheekbones higher. 

The officer looked at the photo, then back at my swollen, bruised features.

"Dental surgery," I said. My voice was different, raspier, deeper from the intubation. "Impacted wisdom teeth. It’s a mess."

He grunted, scanned the document, and handed it back. "Have a safe flight, Ms. Wilson."

I pulled the mask back up. I didn't breathe until I was through the metal detector and heading toward Gate B32.

The terminal was filled with exhausted travelers and overpriced kiosks. I found a seat in the corner of the gate area, facing the window. The rain was still coming down, streaking the windows. I sat perfectly still, my eyes scanning the reflection in the dark window rather than the room itself.

I was thirty minutes from boarding and thirty minutes from disappearing.

That’s when I saw them.

Two men. They were in well-tailored navy suits, looking like every other mid-level executive in the building. But they weren't traveling. They didn't have bags neither were they looking at the flight boards.

They were standing near the Starbucks, ten yards apart, their eyes moving in a slow, synchronized sweep of the seating area.

One of them touched his ear.

My first instinct was Dante’s men.

Dante probably didn't believe I was dead. He was an obsessive predator who never wanted to let go of his prey.

I didn't move. Any sudden movement would direct their attention towards me.

The man on the left checked his phone. He nodded to the other and they began to move.

They started at the far end of the seating area, systematically checking the face of every woman sitting alone.

If I ran, I’d trigger the chase. They’d have me before I hit the escalators.

If I went to the bathroom, I’d be cornered.

The gate was the only exit.

"Final boarding call for Singapore Airlines Flight SQ25," the gate agent announced. "All remaining passengers, please proceed to the gate."

I stood up. My legs felt wobbly, but I forced my stride to be casual. 

I joined the back of the line. The two men were twenty feet away now. One of them stopped, his eyes landing on my back. He said something into his lapel.

The line moved. Four people ahead of me. Three.
I could feel the heat of them behind me. My hand reached into my pocket, gripping the small, sharp pen I’d taken from the safe house. It wasn't a gun, but it was something.

Two people ahead.

I reached the podium. I handed the agent the paper boarding pass.

The agent scanned it. The machine gave a dull, electronic beep.

"Thank you, Ms. Wilson. Enjoy your flight."
I stepped into the jet bridge walking fast, as my heart hammered against my chest, the sound of my own breathing loud in my ears.

I was ten feet from the plane door. Almost there.
A heavy, rapid footfall echoed on the jet bridge behind me. A hand reached out, catching the edge of my shoulder. A shadow fell over me, smelling of whiskey and expensive tobacco.

“Miss…..”