Badass in Disguise


    <b>Chapter </b><b>129 </b>


    (92<b>) </b>


    Jade’s POV:


    The October heat wave lingered like an unwee 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<b>, </b>the thermostat cranked down to afortable 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 bing 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.


    <b>“</b>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 tly. “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-<b>” </b>


    “Still no.” I began closing the door.


    “Wait! What about-”


    “Goodbye, Chase.” <b>I </b>shut the door firmly in his face, listening to his muffledints 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 circte. The weather report had promised a cold front by evening–not that I trusted weather forecasters any more than <b>I </b>trusted most people.


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


    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,


    11:08 Wed, <b>Sep </b><b>24 </b>


    I was not alone.


    A


    <b>92 </b>


    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 <b>the </b>corner<b>, </b>where <b>a </b>half–empty tumbler of whiskey waited exactly where I’d left it that morning.


    I picked up the ss<b>, </b>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 ce, but my instincts were screaming.


    That’s when I noticed it–the tiny red light blinking on my phone’s camera lens where ity on the nightstand.


    And then I heard it. A breath, <b>so </b>soft it was barely there,ing from behind the floor–length curtains covering the


    windows.


    I finished my whiskey in one smooth motion, letting the ss rest empty in my hand for a moment. Then<b>, </b>without


    warning, I hurled it directly at the window.


    The ss 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<b>, </b>using their momentum to m them onto the


    hardwood floor.


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


    The <b>de </b>shed toward me in a perfect arc aimed at my carotid artery. I sidestepped it with millimeters to spare, feeling the air discement against my neck. The attacker followed with abination of strikes that would have incapacitated most opponents–knee to groin<b>, </b>elbow to sternum, knife to kidney.


    I blocked each one methodically, recognizing the pattern. Shadow Organization’s advanced close–quartersbat sequence. I’d helped design it.


    “Who sent you<b>?</b><b>” </b>I asked, deflecting another knife thrust and countering with a palm strike that the intruder barely avoided.


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