Page 25 of Blackwood

Zeke nods at Mr. Acronym, who hands me a black folder. I flip it open. Two passports. Two IDs. They’re still warm, like they just came off a secret printer hidden in the basement of the Pentagon. My eyes skim the names.

Isabella Marie Blackwood.

Ezekiel Malik Blackwood.

“It’s my mom’s maiden name,” Zeke says, quieter now.

I pause for a second. Just a second. Then I nod. I don’t ask anything else. Don’t make a joke. Not this time.

“Cool,” I say quietly. “Guess I’m somebody new now.”

Zeke leans back like it’s nothing. “Started laying the groundwork before Dylan… but that night?” he pauses, eyes dark. “That’s when everything snapped into place. That’s when I stopped waiting.”

I look at him for a beat. He’s different now. Sharper. Angrier. I see it in his eyes, the promise he made. The one he thinks he owes Dylan.

“So what now?” I ask.

“Now,” he says, “We disappear. New names. Better lives. You train and learn how to move in the shadows. Nate’s got the gear. Tex’ll watch your six.”

“And you?”

Zeke grins, slow and sharp, like he’s already picked his first target. “I’m gonna teach you how to gut monsters in silk suits and penthouses wrapped in bulletproof glass. How to bankrupt ‘em so deep their great-grandkids are born broke.”

His eyes darken. “We’re gonna burn it all down. For Dylan. For every kid nobody looked for.”

He leans forward just slightly. “And don’t worry, we have help. From our… let’s just say newly acquired criminal associates.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You have associates?”

“I have leverage,” he says. “You’ll see later.”

“Good enough, I’m too tired to question it anyway.” I close the folder, lean back, and let my head hit the seat.

♥♥♥

Manhattan, New York

The plane lands with a jolt that jerks me so hard I nearly bite my tongue.

Rude.

So much for mister‘this is a damn coffee run’.Gold star officially revoked. I blink awake, neck wrecked, and my spine screaming in five different languages.

My breath fogs the window as I glare out at the skyline. New York. Gray sky. Glass towers cutting through low-hanging clouds.

We get off the plane and a gust of wind hits me like it’s trying to pick a fight. I tug my hoodie over my head, middle finger already mentally extended at the weather.

Waiting for us is—shocker—a sleek blacked out SUV. Because, apparently Zeke’s entire new aesthetic isBatman, but make it extra.

Tex slides into the driver’s seat without a word. Silent and surgical, like he was the entire flight.

God, if I didn’t know Zeke’s parents died in that plane crash, I’d honestly think Tex was his dad. They’ve got the same darkeyes and deep brown skin, the same strong jaw, that wholedon’t-mess-with-meface that looks carved out of stone. The quiet, deadly, protective thing? It’s giving overqualified parental sniper energy.

Mr. Acronym takes the passenger side like he’s already mapped out every exit and escape route in Manhattan.

Zeke and I climb into the back. The seats are heated. Which, thank God, because my soul is frozen from the wind.

Outside the tinted windows, New York starts to wake. Steam rises from grates like the city’s exhaling secrets. Street carts sputter to life. Horns blare like battle cries. And people charge through crosswalks with caffeine and zero regard for human decency.