"Now, do you see that plane in the distance? We're going to walk towards it, and you're going to be very, very quiet."

              The metal of the gun is cool against my side. 

              In this moment, as his scarred fingers squeeze my shoulders, his words tightening in my stomach like lead, I have time to regret leaving Veah.

             But then he shoves me forward. I stumble only a few steps before his hand yanks me back by the hair, and my head tips back over his chest. 

              He whispers, "The flight to Tokyo is twelve hours. Be a good girl, and I'll give you a little treat."

             A shudder ripples through my entire body, and I fight back the urge to close my eyes.

            Breathe, Kaya. Think about—about—

           How you left the only person who was protecting you?

           My nails bite into my palms. I steel myself. She is the reason I'm being dragged to a private plane by a sick, twisted Mafia lord.

           So why can't I stop thinking about the way she covered my body with hers, taking a bullet for me like it was instinctual? 

           Why can't I stop thinking about the way she shouted, Come on! in the middle of the desert, as though leaving me hadn't even crossed her mind?

           And the way she looked at me in the bathroom, my hand still hot from her touch . . . like she thought . . . like she was thinking . . . 

          Don't you dare, Kaya. 

         I focus on my footsteps as we walk cross the threshold of the airport.

         Gravel. Chipped white paint. Sun-warm concrete.

         In the distance, there is a sleek black plane.

         Standing in the doorway of the entrance, there is a tall, broad man with raven-dark hair and an aquiline jaw.

         Dread seeps into my stomach. The man who was giving the others orders—the boss.

         What does he want with me?

         My heart stammers against my chest. A painful melody. I can't be here. This can't be real. But it is startlingly, agonizingly real, and if I don't do something in the next twenty seconds, I will soon be on a twelve-hour flight to Tokyo. 

          I let out a small cry. The Yakuza lord behind me suddenly leans forward, his fingers tightening over my mouth. 

          "What did I say about being a good girl?" he whispers, almost soothing. "You'll have to show me how sorry you are later."

          My stomach clenches, but adrenaline rushes through me. 

          You'll be sorry right now, I think, and I bite down—hard—on the fingers over my mouth.

          He tastes like copper and ink. He releases me for a heartbeat, letting out a dark stream of Japanese curses, and I don't hesitate.

          I run.

          If he catches me now, I get the feeling I'll be really sorry later.

          It is enough to make me faster than I have ever been in my life. My footsteps pound the gravel, my breath rushing out of me, and all I have time to think is, Oh, God, Cassie. Because if something happens to me now, if I let this happen . . . 

           I can't let them have me. 

           The wind is powerful against my face, whipping my hair back. In the distance, I see a plane gather speed, energy to take off, surging forward against the runway. 

            The sky was lit with sunlight only twenty minutes ago, but now the grey of a storm threatens against the horizon.

             Not good. This is, decidedly, not good. 

             I'm not fast enough.

             There is a suddenly a too-large against my arm, lashing me around. The man with the snake tattoo on his temple, his eyes dark and glossy. It is about to rain, I am about to go to Tokyo, and I have just been captured by a homicidal Yakuza lord.

              I should have stayed with Veah. 

              As soon as the man's grip on me tightens unbearably, he is dragging me back towards the private plane. I flail against him, hitting anything I can, letting out a scream of protest, but he only smiles at me, and I see his teeth are plated with gold.

              He won't get me without a fight. The boss has retreated inside the glinting black plane, and as I am shoved up the narrow set of stairs, I fight with everything I have.

              Somehow, my fist manages to catch his eye—his cheekbone. This time, he doesn't make the same mistake. He only grins at me through narrowed eyes.

              If he had flinched, I would have felt even incrementally better. But that grin . . . 

              The air inside the private plane is chill. The hairs rise on my forearms. A shiver slithers down my spine. Inside, the seating is gold-and-black, with circular velvet couches and gold-lined, glossy tables.

              The man holding me shoves me onto the velvet, and I wince.

               I am already moving to get back up, to keep kicking, when he casually pulls out a gun.

              "Not yet, Akito," comes a deep, masculine voice from somewhere to my right.

              Akito says, "I was looking forward to—" 

              My eyes fall on the speaker of the rich voice. The Yakuza boss, one leg crossed over the other, leaning back arrogantly into the seat opposite mine.

              With two slender fingers, he makes a gesture to someone I can't see.

              The gunshot is so sudden I don't have time to scream.

               Akito—the man with the snake tattoo, who told me to be a good girl—is dead before I can blink. As he falls to his knees, I see the piercing of red-black blood on the back of his head.

              From somewhere in the shadows, a man holsters his gun.

              I am frozen. Rooted to the seat. My fingers dig into the velvet, curling around the opulent material, and I can't wrap my head around it.

              Just like that. Dead. 

              "I don't tolerate complaining," says the Yakuza boss, inspecting his gold-crusted watch.

              He is undeniably handsome. With curly, ink-black hair, and bold, masculine features, he looks like a Grecian statue. There is something inherently confident about him, something that reeks power.

               Of course, if he could order the death of a man who talked back to him, then there is no doubt he is in control here

               Why does he want Veah?

               My heartrate hitches up, too fast. The man in front of me could kill me without blinking an eye, and there would be no one to know the truth. 

              Lazily, the man asks, "What's your name?"

              Despite the soft, arrogant tone of his voice, I know his sharp, cunning eyes miss nothing.

              I debate lying. Instead, I say, "Kaya Rivers."

              "She tells the truth," says a clipped, accented voice from the shadows.

              The boss regards me with slight interest. "I like that, Kaya. You're honest. It's a good quality."

             I want to scream, Not murdering people is also a good quality! 

             But my nails bite into my palms, and I ground my jaw. I don't know why I'm opposed to the murder of the man with the snake tattoo—after all, he did threaten me with how sorry I would be. Except it's not his death that bothers me—it's the murder itself.

             How easily it happened.

             How quickly it was over.

             "Thank you," I say curtly. My hands are shaking.

             "Kaya—can I call you Kaya?—I think we are going to be good friends. You see, since we tracked Miss Hamada, we were . . . surprised . . . to learn she had a partner."

             I'm not her partner, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. 

             I should have stayed with her.

             "We did a little bit of research," he continues. "It appears you are . . . just a college student at the Santa Monica University." 

             I nod, almost frantically. That's it. That's all I am. 

             I need to get back to Cassie. I need to be okay for Cassie.

             "And I must say . . . how interested we were to learn about your education, Kaya. You have been top student throughout high school and university. Your scores, in standardized testing, are off the charts. And you have beat several time records."

             There is something coming. I know it.

             Tommy, my best friend, always used to say, And here we have Kaya! Classic case of academically smart and common sense stupid! Look at that, folks. Genius and idiot, two for one deal.

            "That's all true," I say carefully, because he seems to be waiting for a response.

            He must be in his thirties. He seems too young to be a boss, but if power is rooted in slaughter, then I am not surprised he holds the cards.

            "I must say, this is impressive. And when we learned what your specialty was, well—I am intrigued. You are a computer engineer major?"

            "Yes," I say through gritted teeth.

           "This means you specialize in code, do you not?" 

           "Yes."

           He smiles, relaxing back into his seat. "I will make you an offer, Kaya Rivers. I need you to hack into the most powerful firewall in Asia."

           "That's . . . that's the offer?" 

           For a moment, I am worried the disrespect will trigger his fury, and he will make the two-fingered gesture that signals death. But he only regards me coolly, like a tiger might watch his prey struggling against a fallen branch. 

           Savouring the moment before he strikes.

           "I will take you to Tokyo, and in exchange for hacking the firewall, your life will be spared."

           Against all hope, I wish for Veah.

           There is no other choice.

           The moment I say no, I will be dead. There will be a bullet in the back of my head, and I will slump to my knees on the plush carpet of his plane.

           His only concern of me will be the bloodstain I leave behind on the velvet.

           He is still looking at me, waiting for a reply. His quiet, vicious eyes miss nothing—not the tremble of my hands or the swallow of my drying throat.

           I have no choice. 

           It is this or death. I'm not ready to die.

           "Okay," I whisper.

>>>

Don't worry, I've got a hold of this one.

From the moon and back,
Sarai