Page 16 of Celestial Combat

Maria devoured her grilled panini like she hadn’t eaten in days, which she probably hadn’t. I could only guess the type of people or organization she worked for. I wasn’t one to judge.

I sipped my black coffee, eyes on her face, waiting.

Eventually, she talked.

Turns out she was no street rat. She was an agent-in-training. U.S. government. Not officially, of course. Quiet project. Off-books. Infiltration, extraction, deep work. Her mentor was a woman named Isabella Ruiz – CIA, old-school, the kind of person who taught with bruises.

She told me how she got pulled in. How she was already dangerous when Isabella found her. How she’d already killed, and didn’t flinch when asked to do it again.

In response, I told her I was a freelancer. Left the rest out. No need to talk about that yet. She didn’t ask questions.

“You need better training,” I said finally.

She looked like she wanted to argue. Then she nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

For the rest of the week, while she laid low in Miami, I trained her.

We met in rundown gyms near the bay where no one looked too long. I showed her how to move quiet, how to bleed someone in five seconds or less. How to breathe through pain. How to spot the tail three blocks back. How to kill without noise, without panic, without wasting motion.

She learned fast. Listened like her life depended on it – which, honestly, it did.

She called mebig brotheronce, half-joking. I didn’t correct her.

When the week ended, she was sharper. Quieter. She could vanish in a crowd. She could kill cleaner.

But the vengeance in her soul persisted.

That made her dangerous.

Chapter 7

Present

Midtown, New York City

THE GYM WAS NEARLY EMPTY at this hour. Sunlight poured in through the grand windows. I leaned against the railing above the training floor, arms crossed, watching Meisa work.

A whole week had passed since the night she almost fainted in my alley, with nothing but passive aggressiveness and retorts from her.

Tony had left ten minutes ago, off to shower after their session. He was the only one she let push her. The only one she actually listened to. But Tony was a fighter. I was something else entirely. And she hadn’t realized yet that the things she refused to learn from me were the things that would keep her safe.

She was alone now, throwing sharp combinations at the heavy bag. Controlled. Precise. But not enough.

I in, my shoes echoing against the floor, but she didn’t turn. Just kept hitting the bag, each strike landing like a bullet.

“You’re dropping your left when you pivot.”

She exhaled sharply. “Thanks, coach. Didn’t ask.”

I watched as she threw another punch. Harder this time.

“You’re wasting both our time.”

The words made her stop, mid-swing. She turned, sweat glistening along her collarbone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, voice tight.

I stepped closer, closing the space between us. “It means I’ve seen a hundred fighters come through here. And most of them don’t have what it takes.”

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