SHADOWS OF THE OAT

CHAPTER 9

The train station is full of people—families pulling heavy bags, businessmen staring at their phones, a couple whispering in the corner. To them, it’s just another normal day.

To me, it’s a trap waiting to happen.

I keep my head down, my jacket heavy on my shoulders. My ribs still ache from the last fight, but pain doesn’t matter right now. The Oath is hunting me. I can feel it, a weight pressing against my spine, a shadow creeping just out of sight.

I check the arrival board. Three minutes until the next train. Too long. Too dangerous. I need to keep moving.

A mother walks past me, holding her child’s hand. A businessman checks his watch. A station worker wipes down a bench. It looks normal. But something about it feels off.

My instincts take over, scanning for details that don’t fit. The worker’s uniform is too stiff, too clean. The businessman’s hands don’t match his expensive suit—knuckles rough, like a man who fights. The mother? Her shoes. Tactical boots.

My pulse slows, my focus sharpens.

This is a setup.

My body reacts before my mind can fully process it. I shift my stance, moving toward a column, pressing my back against it. They won’t attack yet. Too many people. Too much attention.

But they will try to trap me.

The businessman tilts his head slightly, listening to something—an earpiece, maybe. The mother whispers under her breath, subtle but deliberate. The station worker has stopped wiping the bench, his fingers twitching slightly.

They know I know.

I exhale slowly. No easy escape routes. Too many civilians for a shootout. They’ll try to box me in. Force me somewhere with no exits.

Not gonna happen.

I walk toward the platform edge, acting like just another traveler. My hands stay loose at my sides. My mind scans for options. Trash cans. Newspaper stands. The train tracks, just two feet away.

A whistle blows. The train is arriving.

One shot at escape.

The moment I shift my weight, they attack.

The businessman moves first—his hand reaches inside his jacket. Gun. Silencer.

I don’t let him use it.

I grab his wrist, twisting hard. Bone snaps. His mouth opens, but no scream comes. I slam my elbow into his jaw before he can recover. His head snaps back, and he crumples.

The mother lunges next, no more pretending.

She pulls a knife from under her coat, aiming for my ribs. Fast. Precise.

I barely twist in time, grabbing her wrist, redirecting the blade. She stumbles forward, momentum working against her. I slam her into the column.

The worker is already moving. Gun in hand.

Too slow.

I grab a trash can lid and hurl it at his face. The impact knocks him off balance. His gun clatters to the floor.

Screams erupt. The station wakes up. People panic.

Security alarms blare.

I don’t stop.

The train doors start to close.

I sprint. Legs burning. Lungs aching. Behind me, the agents recover quickly. The mother is back on her feet. Blood trickles down her forehead, but she doesn’t hesitate.

She raises a gun.

She fires.

A bullet tears through my shoulder.

White-hot pain.

I don’t slow down.

The train is moving.

Too late? No. I don’t do ‘too late.’

I push harder. Every muscle screaming.

I jump.

For a moment, I’m in the air.

Then—impact.

My hands catch the last train car.

My body slams against the metal.

Pain explodes through my ribs.

I grit my teeth, forcing my arms to work. Pulling myself up. My boots find the edge, and I haul myself onto the train.

Bullets ping against the metal. Too late. They’ve lost their shot.

I lie there, chest heaving, blood dripping from my shoulder. Below, the agents fade into the distance.

I made it.

But as I stare up at the sky, one thought won’t leave me.

They weren’t trying to kill me.

They were trying to capture me.

Which means The Oath doesn’t just want me dead.

They want me alive.

And that’s even worse.