“You should be.”

I laugh a little at her arrogance.

“They always laugh at first.”

I look over for that little crack and she smiles like she’s won. “You think you’re me? You think that half-assed training your father provided is equal to me?” Her face scrunches up when I mention her father. “You’re nothing, Sasha. Nothing but another girl to be sold. A piece of property. Your father killed himself out there that day. He was caught doing all sorts of—”

She hurls herself across the aisle at me, her hands reaching for my throat. “Shut up!” she screams. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

I’m trying to untangle her when she’s thrown across the aisle and back into her seat by Harrison. “You,” he says, pointing a gun at her. “Sit your f**king ass down on my plane or I’ll tie you up.”

“Fucking kid,” I mumble.

“And you.” Harrison points the gun at me now and I lift an eyebrow. He does not flinch. “I know what you are. But you’re dead without me to land this thing. So keep your hate to yourself until you get off my f**king plane.”

He’s right. If Sasha and I want to kill each other, then we need him to put us back on the ground first.

I look over at her and she’s looking out her window, crying silently. I can only tell by the erratic in-and-out pattern of her breathing and the abrupt rise and fall of her chest.

I look out my window as well, happy to see the familiar desert below. This is where we go. The North American hunters. When we need time, or space, or help… we seek out the desert. I know Merc has a few places in the desert. It’s the heat, I think. People hate it—hell, I hate it. But it’s refreshing. I like the burn. The dryness too. It envelops me. It dehydrates me.

We’re landing in Jean, not Las Vegas. It’s about thirty miles south. We stop here all the time. It’s cheaper to fuel up here, fly to LA or San Diego, then stop again on the way back to Colorado. I wish I could say that I didn’t travel this route all that often, but over the past year, this flight plan is as familiar as the desert below.

I don’t like to think about this year. Nothing good happened this year. It’s been an endless stream of killing. One after the other after the other.

And all of them were people I knew.

“Seatbelts,” Harrison barks from the front. “We’ll be on the ground in three minutes.”

I fasten my belt and the familiar click across the aisle tells me that Sasha does the same. She’s more in control. Her sadness, or anger, or frustration—whatever the f**k’s driving her right now—is tucked away for another time.

And I’m with her.

My anger is gone too. In its place is just the guilt. And hate. Not for her, or any of the other people on this earth who deserve my hate.

But for myself. How many dead bodies does it take for an assassin to grow a conscience?

The landing is smooth and the deceleration quick enough to make me struggle to keep my body pressed against the seat. But all of this—the flight, the pilot, the landing, the destination—it’s familiar and I like it.

We taxi towards the terminal and I unbuckle my seatbelt and walk up to Harrison. “Hey,” I say as I clap his shoulder. He flinches. And that kills me. That he thinks I’d come up here to hurt him. Maybe Harrison and I aren’t friends, but I’d like to think he trusts me a little more than that. “Sorry for the trouble, OK? We’re good still, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says. But I know that answer. It’s not good at all.

“I mean, look, Harrison, I might need another ride. Ya know? So I need us to be good.”

He turns to look at me, then glances down the aisle towards Sasha. I look too, but she’s hidden from view. She’s still huddled up against the window back there. “She’s a little girl, Tet. Treat her like one.”

I shake my head and squeeze his shoulder. “She’s not, Harrison. She’s not a little girl. She’s very dangerous.” He starts to turn away, so I add what he needs to hear. “But I’ll do my best to remember what she used to be.”

He nods a little, but he doesn’t look at me again. “I’m gonna check into the Gold Strike for a few days. You have my number if you need it.” And then he stands up, pushes me back into the aisle, and starts opening the door to let us out.

“Let’s go,” I call to Sasha. She unbuckles herself and stands up. I wave her forward to exit ahead of me, but she shakes her head.

No trust.

I go first and shake Harrison’s hand on the tarmac. Sasha, to my surprise, does the same. She says, “Thank you,” in a very polite little-girl way that makes me wonder.

Is that all she is? Or is she the killer I imagine her to be?

She walks up next to me and her gaze finds my face. “Now what?”

I slide my shades down to cover my eyes and then blow out a breath of air. I don’t want to think about what’s next. I just need to forget for a day. “What do you need, Sasha?”

“Huh?”

I turn and start walking towards the casino. She follows. “Are you hungry?”

She almost snorts. “Hungry?” She laughs again. “I’m wondering how long I have to live. The last thing on my mind is the breakfast buffet at the Gold Strike.”

“OK,” I say, giving up. “We’re going home then.” She laughs at that word too. And it’s absurd, right? Home. It’s not my home, it’s not her home. It’s just a place I keep in the desert to dry out after the kill. A place where the sun can bake the dirt off my skin and boil away the bad blood.

“I have no home, James Fenici. I have nothing. I’m here because other people control my destiny. I have no free will, or opinions, or dreams. I exist only for orders. Right now, your orders. Is that what you’re looking for? Is that what you want? Obedience? Surrender?”

“You wanna walk away?” I stop and look back at her, raising my sunglasses so she can see my eyes. “There’s the f**king door. Ya can’t miss it.” I pan my arm out towards the desert across the 15 freeway. “I’m just the delivery guy, Sasha.”

“That sounds like a declaration of innocence, to me. Or at the very least, non-affiliation. And we both know that’s about as far from the truth as you can get. You’re nothing if not affiliated, James. You’re nothing if not guilty.”