Leanne watched the clouds slide across the perfect blue sky, reflected in the Falcon’s polished chrome skin. Hair dyed light brown, matching contact lenses hiding the green fire of her eyes. She forced her breathing slow, steady. Ten days of hell: Krav Maga with Myriam until her knuckles bled raw, live-fire drills, and that fucking luxury-hostess crash course where they taught her to smile like a doll, speak only in expensive nonsense, and glide as if her life depended on never spilling a drop of champagne.

It did.

The Falcon 900EX was a hundred-million-euro toy: 900 km/h, 8,000 km range, fourteen seats ripped out and replaced with six thrones. A flying penthouse for people who owned countries.

Leanne and Kurt—ex-Typhoon pilot, now in a captain’s uniform—waited beside the stairs, smiles plastic-welded on. 
Black Mercedes rolled up. Jerry Brown stepped out, barely nodded, climbed aboard with two bodyguards. Behind him, a funeral-parade of ass-kissers waved goodbye with fake sorrow.

Clearance came instantly. Perfect day to fly. Everything had to be perfect in the flying luxury lounge.

Jerry Brown was pissed. 
European lodge dead, Trading Temple ashes, reputation in the toilet. Worst of all: the old gods now looked down on him. 
At his age, with his money, any man would retire to a yacht and young boys. Not him. He’d come back meaner, filthier, somewhere else on the planet.

They’d had to let him walk—too many powerful people owed him. Rita had done her job. The only dangerous witness was in a coma. He and Riccardo were out on bail. The Romanian would keep his mouth shut or end up bleeding out in a prison shower like the last guy who talked.

Now: disappear from Spain, wait for friends in high places to make files, witnesses, and trials evaporate. Small fish rot in jail. Big fish fly first class.

But losing tasted like shit in his mouth.

To relax? India. Thailand. Little brown bodies cheaper than dinner. 
He’d miss Rita. Hard to find another woman truly that evil. The rented “ladies” were all theater. Jerry preferred to grow his own monsters: take a good woman, plant hate, water it daily, watch the witch bloom. Nothing hotter.

His eyes landed on the stewardess. 
Tiny waist, Playboy ass, tits that defied physics, angel face. Uniform hugging every curve, black stockings, classy heels. Already picturing her riding him raw.

He caught her glancing at the Forbes cover. A good excuse to scold her.

“Dear, why don’t you grab that magazine and sit on the sofa to read?”

“Oh, no sir, I would never.”

“Of course not. I don’t pay you to read. Or to sit.”

“Obviously, sir.”

“Obviously. Don’t you dare park that ass anywhere.”

Leanne lowered her eyes, perfect submissive. Inside she counted to ten in ancient Mayan.

“You didn’t even ask if I want anything.”

“My apologies, Mr. Brown. What can I get you?”

“Coffee!”

Showtime.

Too hot. Too cold. Sweetener. No, sugar. No, black. 
Cup after cup down the sink while he insulted her like it was sport. The bodyguards smirked from the back row.

“You’re just pretty, chicken. Good for one thing only…”

Leanne, silently: ‘Keep talking, grandpa.’

“What the fuck were you looking at with such interest?”

“The headline about the booming luxury market in Africa.”

“So what?”

He opened Forbes, shoved it under her nose.

“Luxury market in sub-Saharan Africa. Highest starvation rate on earth, and these Blacks still buy Lexus.”

He spat the word “Blacks” like poison.

Leanne finally met his eyes. 
Cold little blue marbles, perfect silver hair, ten-thousand-dollar loafers. 
A demon in bespoke.

“Warlords, traffickers, puppet politicians—they need toys. We give them. In exchange we take the coltan, the diamonds, the oil. Then we send expired medicine and fake charities. Profit on both ends.”

Leanne thought of the tiny withered hand she’d buried under a cypress. 
She closed her eyes for one heartbeat. Opened them.

“I don’t want your shitty coffee. Bring food.”

She served the Michelin-starred catering, gold-lettered menu, vintage wine. 
Jerry Brown slid a hand up her thigh, squeezed her ass, winked at his goons. They laughed on cue.

“Don’t like my worldview, chicken?”

“I wouldn’t brag about it if I were you.”

“Listen to this bitch…”

“You’re the new mafia. On a leash for the World Bank.”

“What the fuck would a dumb whore know?”

“I know an economy built on slavery. It shouldn’t exist anymore.”

“Some are born servants, some masters. You know exactly which one you are.”

“Yeah,” Leanne smiled, sweet as cyanide. “I’m the servant.”

She grabbed him by his perfect hair and slammed his face into the plate. 
Prawn bisque exploded across the window. 
In one motion she snatched the fish knife and drove it into his ear to the hilt.

The bodyguards lunged. 
“Move and I punch it into his rotten brain with one slap.”

Kurt stepped out of the cockpit, gun up. 
“Down. Belly on the floor. Hands on your necks. Now!”

Two minutes later the goons were trussed like pigs. 
Jerry Brown whimpered.

“What are you going to do to me? I’ve got money—lots of money!” 
Leanne backhanded him so hard his glasses flew. 
Grabbed his silk shirt, hauled him up, threw him against the bar. 
Crystal shattered, caviar rained. 
She dropped on his back, knee in his neck, both hands ready to twist his head clean off.

“Leyva, easy,” Kurt murmured. “You were perfect. Don’t ruin it now.”

Half an hour later the Falcon landed on an abandoned stretch of half-built highway—another billion-euro ghost project in the middle of nowhere.

Myriam and two hunters waited on the asphalt. 
The bodyguards were dragged out first. 
Leanne walked Jerry Brown to the top of the stairs, gave him a gentle push. 
The Grand Master tumbled like a sack of garbage, face scraping every step.

Leanne smiled, all innocence. 
“Whoops. My hand slipped. How careless.”

Myriam shook her head, resigned. “Typical Lea,” she murmured. 
Walked over to the two bodyguards lying face-down. 
Two quiet shots to the back of the skull.

“You’re fired.”