The safe swung open and he took a moment to enjoy the sight of the valuable items inside. Tens of millions of dollars in art and artifacts. But after that initial glance, he barely even cared. He looked at his partners and nodded.
“I’m going out on watch.”
He saw the anger and disappointment on their faces, but he didn’t care. He also knew the sorts of things they said about him after he’d cracked the safes for them and then instantly started looking for any potential witnesses. He knew they wanted him gone, but they didn’t have the balls to say anything. He was too good at his job. And so far, they seemed fine with putting up with his…well, his intriguing interests as long as he was helping them get the job done.
He walked through the cool basement and to the recessed door that looked out onto the alleyway they’d used to come into the property. He leaned against the cool metal of the doorframe, his gaze flickering between the shadows of the alleyway and the dimly lit interior at his back. The city’s restless hum seeped into the night air—a symphony of distant car horns, muffled conversations, and an undefinable noise he always simply thought of as the breath of a city. Paris, London, Brussels, Tokyo…they all had that underlying breathy sound to them. New York, of course, was no different. If anything, New York breathed heavier than all of them.
His position was that of a sentinel, a guard—one leg propped within the world of the heist, the other planted in the grime of the city, ready to chase or be chased.
Inside, the muted sounds of his team comforted him. The three shadowy figures worked with practiced haste. He could hear the faint whirring of a drill, the soft clink of tools, and the stifled curse of concentration. When they’d realized the safe didn’t contain the smaller of the items they sought, they had turned their attention to the vault.
The vault itself was hidden behind the rows of vintage wines that lined the cellar walls. It was an unexpected nest and rather clever. A wine cellar was indeed one of the last places one might expect to find the spoils they sought—a string of pearls and a samurai sword. He couldn’t care less about the pearls, honestly. Most jewelry bored him. But the sword…well, it had been a while since they’d been tasked to take something that unique.
As the moments stretched on, his hands twitched by his sides, his fingers curling into fists and then relaxing. The thrill of the heist and the kill to come created a cocktail of anticipation that coursed through his veins. No one had yet stumbled upon their illicit undertaking, but he remained vigilant, his piercing blue eyes scanning the streets for any witnesses…for any potential victims.
Because really, that’s what it had become to him. He didn’t care if there were witnesses or not. A witness and a victim could be two completely different things. And he had long ago given up on trying to determine the difference. The murders had become just as crucial to the jobs as the thefts. He knew the others didn’t agree with it, but no one had argued fully against it just yet.
“Nightstar, get in here. We need an extra set of hands.”
The whisper, sharp and urgent, sliced through the quiet tension of the night. Nightstar was, of course, not his real name. It was the code name he’d chosen when they’d been selecting monikers to go by while on the job. Just another of many precautions to ensure they were never caught.
He hated being pulled from his watch. But orders were orders. And this heist was a big one. The samurai sword was valued at a cool three million dollars—the real deal from Japan, supposedly dating back to the 1500s.
He slipped through the door, the darkness of the house’s cellar swallowing him whole. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old wood and anticipation. His team—three shadows clad in black—huddled around the vault’s casing, their breaths shallow whispers against the silence. They’d broken into the vault already but now seemed stuck on one of the individual cases inside. The vault was the size of a large closet, and though it was filled with collectibles and rare items, they were only interested in the pearls and the sword.
“This case is a tough bastard,” Lionheart muttered, his brow furrowed as he fiddled with a set of lockpicks. Jasmine stood beside him, arms folded, her eyes flicking up to Nightstar as he approached.
“Let me see,” he said, voice low but confident. He knelt beside the case, examining the intricate lock that held the samurai sword just out of reach. With practiced ease, he slid his own tools from his pocket. He knew he wasn’t the most skilled on his team, but when it came to needing something done with a rough yet practiced hand, he was the one they called on.
His senses remained alert even as he worked. The sounds of the city filtered through the walls—the distant honk of taxis, the muffled laughter of nightlife, the occasional siren wailing.
The lock gave way under his brute touch, a satisfying click echoing softly in the confined space. The team exhaled in unison, the tension breaking like a wave against the shore. Nightstar lifted the case lid, revealing the sword within—an ancient piece of artistry that gleamed with a deadly promise.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jasmine breathed, but Nightstar’s mind was already elsewhere.
“Back to your post, Nightstar,” Lionheart ordered, his voice slightly muffled through the ski mask he wore.
Nightstar emerged once again into the alleyway, the cold air pressing against his own ski mask. His eyes immediately caught movement—two women, their laughter piercing the stillness as they said their farewells. One turned away, her footsteps retreating deeper into the city.
But the other was walking in his direction. A street still separated them, but he saw her figure clearly. Her silhouette was a soft blur under the streetlights. She moved with the carefree grace of the oblivious, unaware of the danger that lurked mere yards away.
He leaned against the wall, a statue clothed in shadow. His heart beat a steady rhythm, finding it difficult to wait. He watched the woman closely. She was coming toward the alley but looking to the right. She’d turn there, he supposed. Maybe walk home or call for a cab or Uber.
She came to the corner, just twenty-five feet away. She hadn’t seen him yet—or had she? Nightstar’s instincts screamed that it didn’t matter. He wasn’t just here for the thrill of theft; the hunger to kill was even more powerful.
Quickly, he poked his head into the half-opened door, peering into the cellar again. “We have eyes on us.” His voice was even, calm—contrasting wildly with the rampaging of his heart.
“Deal with it,” Codex, the fourth member of their group, snapped from the vault.
The words were all Nightstar needed. A license granted, a dark desire endorsed by necessity.
He pushed himself off the wall, muscles coiling in anticipation. His post could wait. The heist could wait, everything could wait.
Except her. Except the kill.
Smiling, Nightstar clung to the shadows as long as he could. And when he came to the mouth of the alley and looked right, there she was. She was looking at something on her phone…she probably was calling up a cab or some other kind of ride.
He smiled as he walked slowly toward her. “Hey!” he called out, feigning concern. “You need to get out of here, it’s not safe!”
She looked up at him, a thin smile on her face…but it fell away quickly. She’d seen the ski mask, maybe even the crazy little flicker in his eyes. But by then, it was too late. His hand was already on her, and even as she drew in a breath to scream, his fist was flying toward her mouth.
Seconds later, Nightstar was pulling her back to the shadows, his heart racing with the anticipation of the violence and bloodshed to come.