Location: Air Force One of Luxury Commercial Travel
(British Airlines Flight 404)
Route: New York (JFK) to London (Heathrow)
Altitude: 35,000 feet
The cabin of the British Airlines Air Boeing 787 was a study in excessive comfort. The first-class pods were less like seats and more like private suites, upholstered in cream leather and brushed aluminum. The air smelled of recycled oxygen and expensive champagne.
Agent 47 sat in Seat 2A.
He wore a charcoal suit, tailored to perfection, with a blood-red tie that added a singular splash of color to his monochrome existence. He sipped a glass of sparkling water, his eyes fixed on the personal monitor in front of him.
On the screen, a video was playing. It was the press release for AccuTech, a subsidiary of Stark Industries.
A man with a polished smile and dead eyes—CEO Charles Healey—was speaking.
"At AccuTech, we believe in empowering the human spirit," Healey said, gesturing to a bulky, yellow mechanical arm on a stand next to him.
"The HazTech Exoskeleton isn't just a tool; it's a lifeline. Designed for disaster relief, hazardous waste disposal, and heavy lifting in environments where a human touch is needed, but the human body is too fragile."
The video cut to Klaus Haas, the Head of R&D. "The neuro-synaptic interface allows for seamless integration," Haas explained with German precision. "It is strictly for rehabilitation and industrial application."
47 paused the video.
Strictly rehabilitation.
He tapped a key on his modified smartphone.
A schematic overlaid the video. It showed the same exoskeleton, but with mounted rotary cannons on the shoulders and a micro-missile array on the forearm.
The man attempting to sell this nightmare was sitting two rows ahead, in Seat 1A.
Target: Julian Ashford.
Occupation: Senior Engineer, AccuTech.
Status: Nervous.
47 glanced over the rim of his glass. Ashford was a man unraveling. He was dressed in a suit that cost more than most cars, but he wore it like a child wearing his father's clothes.
He was sweating, despite the cabin's cool temperature. His right hand was white-knuckled, gripping the handle of a metallic briefcase handcuffed to his wrist.
He was drinking whiskey. Rapidly.
47 checked the time. They were two hours into the flight. The cabin lights dimmed, shifting to a soft, ambient blue for the "night" cycle.
Most passengers reclined their seats into beds.
It was time to work.
47 stood up. He smoothed his jacket. He picked up his own briefcase—a nondescript leather satchel.
He walked to the galley. A flight attendant, immaculate in her uniform, looked up with a practiced smile.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Rieper?"
"Another water, please," 47 said, his voice smooth, carrying the cultured, non-specific European accent of his persona. "And perhaps a glass of warm milk? The gentleman in 1A seems... distressed. I believe he mentioned having trouble sleeping."
The attendant looked toward Ashford's pod. "Mr. Ashford has been quite anxious. That's a kind thought, sir."
"We must look out for one another at this altitude," 47 said.
He leaned against the counter as she prepared the milk. His hand rested casually near the tray.
Sleight of hand.
It was a skill older than gunpowder. In the split second the attendant turned to grab a napkin, 47's fingers flickered. A small, soluble pill dropped into the steaming milk.
It wasn't emetic. It was a synthesized compound of potassium chloride and a sedative.
Painless.
Odorless.
It would induce cardiac arrest within minutes of ingestion, mimicking a massive stroke in a man with Ashford's evident stress levels.
"Thank you," 47 said as she placed the glass on the tray.
He watched as she walked down the aisle. She stopped at Seat 1A.
"Compliments of the gentleman in 2A, sir. He thought it might help you relax."
Ashford looked back, his eyes bloodshot. 47 raised his water glass in a polite, distant toast.
Ashford, desperate for anything to calm his nerves, took the milk. He drank it in greedy gulps.
47 sat back down. He waited.
Ten minutes passed.
Ashford's movements in the pod ahead slowed. His head lolled back against the leather headrest.
His breathing hitched once, a soft gasp that was swallowed by the drone of the engines, and then stopped.
His hand went limp, hanging off the armrest, the handcuff chain pulling taut against the briefcase on the floor.
Target Eliminated.
Now for the retrieval.
47 waited until the flight attendant returned to the galley. The cabin was silent. The other passengers were asleep behind privacy dividers.
47 stood up. He moved silently down the aisle, carrying his own briefcase.
He slipped into Ashford's pod, crouching in the shadows of the partition.
Ashford looked peaceful. A man sleeping through a long flight.
47 looked at the briefcase on the floor. It was handcuffed to the dead man's wrist.
Removing the cuff would require a key 47 didn't have time to search for, or bolt cutters that would make noise.
But the briefcase itself... that was just a lock.
47 set his own case down. He retrieved a tension wrench and a rake pick disguised as a pen.
He worked by the dim blue light of the aisle. He inserted the tools into the briefcase's keyhole. He felt the pins. One. Two. Three.
Click.
The latches popped open.
47 lifted the lid just enough to slide his hand inside. He felt the cool metal of the ruggedized hard drive and the crisp paper of the blueprints.
He pulled them out.
He opened his own satchel. From a hidden compartment, he removed a set of decoy folders—dummy files filled with corporate gibberish and corrupt data, weighted to match the originals.
He slid the decoys into Ashford's briefcase. He placed the real data into his own.
He closed Ashford's briefcase. He pressed the latches until they clicked shut.
Perfect.
To the authorities, Ashford would have died of a heart attack in his sleep. The briefcase would still be cuffed to him.
The contents would appear intact. By the time anyone realized the data was fake, 47 would be a ghost in London.
47 stood up. He adjusted his cuffs.
He turned to head back to his seat.
Suddenly, his Instinct flared.
It wasn't a sound. It wasn't a movement. It was a shift in air pressure. A sudden, violent displacement of the atmosphere directly to his right.
He didn't look. He reacted.
He snatched his leather briefcase from his side and raised it in a defensive posture, covering his face and neck.
THWACK.
The impact was solid, heavy.
47 lowered the case slightly.
Embedded deep in the thick leather, exactly where his jugular had been a fraction of a second ago, was a dagger.
It wasn't a standard combat knife. It was an ornate, triangular blade, etched with runes that looked ancient. The handle was wrapped in green leather.
47 stared at the weapon.
He slowly turned his head to look down the aisle.
The cabin was dim. The passengers were sleeping under blankets. The flight attendant was nowhere to be seen.
But at the far end of the First Class cabin, near the cockpit door, a curtain swayed slightly, as if someone had just passed through it.
47 looked back at the dagger.
He was at 35,000 feet.
There was nowhere to run.
And he was not alone.
47 gripped the handle of the dagger and pulled it from his briefcase. He tested the edge.
It was razor sharp.
He unbuckled his seatbelt.
----
AN: Next updates will be on Saturday, after that, the 3 chapters per week update sched will start next week.
Sorry for that, I'm still in uni, so sched will be full. Anyway, comment below and tell me what you think so far. Also, you all can suggest something to me in the comments about the fic, and I'll see what I can do about it. Peace out.