Chapter 163
Isabella Sinclair sat in the first-class cabin, her fingers gently combing through Amelia’s soft curls.
“Amelia, darling,” she murmured, her voice soothing. “The takeoff might be a little shaky. Put on your headphones, okay? Don’t be afraid. We’re right here with you.”
Alexander Kingsley, seated beside them, pulled the little girl into his arms. His dark eyes flicked toward Isabella, concern etched into his features.
“Ms. Sinclair,” he said quietly, “you’ve barely slept these past few days. Rest while you can. I’ll watch over her.”
Isabella exhaled, nodding. “Alright. I’ll try to close my eyes for a bit.”
She didn’t argue. As she reached for her compact mirror to tie back her hair, something in the reflection made her pause.
Behind her, several unfamiliar faces stood out.
Years of sharpened instincts flared to life.
The men looked ordinary—business travelers, perhaps. But their fleeting glances, the way their bodies held tension beneath casual postures—it set off alarms in her mind.
A deep, primal warning coiled in her gut.
She had seen this before. On battlefields, in back alleys, in the quiet before the storm.
Her gaze sharpened, noting their muscular builds, the disciplined way they carried themselves. One of them, as if overheated, rolled up his sleeve—revealing a web of scars.
Not passengers.
Hunters.
Her pulse spiked, but her expression remained calm.
The plane was already airborne, cruising at thirty thousand feet. No exits. No escape. Any sudden movement could trigger disaster.
Slowly, she stood, approaching a flight attendant.
“Could I get a blanket?” she asked, her eyes subtly darting toward the men.
Their seats were strategically placed—spread throughout the cabin, encircling her.
The quiet menace radiating from them was unmistakable.
They were here for her.
With practiced ease, she took the blanket and handed it to Alexander, her tone light.
“Mr. Kingsley, Amelia might get cold. This should help.”
Their eyes met.
In that split second, her fingers moved—a subtle signal.
Alexander’s brow furrowed, but his expression didn’t change. He understood.
His grip tightened around Amelia.
“Amelia,” Isabella said softly, smiling down at the girl. “Be a good girl and try to sleep, okay?”
Alexander took the blanket, and a message flashed on his phone screen:
Protect Amelia. I’ll be back.
Isabella scanned the cabin again, calculating.
Too many passengers. Too many variables.
She needed to reach the cockpit—maybe under the guise of using the restroom.
But before she could move—
“Don’t move.”
A cold voice cut through the hum of the cabin. The barrel of a gun pressed against the base of her skull.
Screams erupted.
Chaos exploded as passengers scrambled.
“HE HAS A GUN!”
“Oh my God—how did they get past security?!”
“STOP THE PLANE! PLEASE!”
Panic surged like wildfire.
A man with a serpent tattoo coiled around his neck stepped forward, unfazed. He raised his gun—
BANG. BANG.
The bullets ricocheted. One grazed a man’s cheek. Blood splattered.
The sight of it sent the cabin into a frenzy.
Amelia, who had been quietly playing with her figurine, jolted at the gunfire. Her small hands flew to her ears, and she let out a piercing wail.
“WAAAH—!”
Alexander immediately pulled her close. “Amelia, shh, I’ve got you. It’s okay. Don’t look.”
His gaze lifted, locking onto the gunmen.
Their attention wasn’t on him.
He knew now.
Their target was her.
“Ms. Sinclair,” one of the men in a dark suit said, his voice smooth as ice, “you’re coming with us to the Burned Isles.”
They spoke in flawless Leswington dialect, their movements precise.
The gun pressed harder against Isabella’s scalp.
Her mind raced.
“Who are you?” she asked, though she was already mapping out how to disarm them.
The man’s lips curled. “Who we are doesn’t matter. What matters is that you have unfinished business with our employer.”
His eyes gleamed—wary, knowing.
“Don’t try anything,” he warned. “You might be skilled, but even if you take me down, you can’t save everyone on this plane.”
