Target is down. Extraction in progress.

The ear-splitting roar of the engine echoed her thoughts—fast, precise, and dangerous. The weight of her mission sat heavy on her shoulders, and for a moment, she wondered if she would make it on time. Munich Airport loomed ahead like a seasoned phoenix, each minute on her watch ticking closer to her target's departure. There was no room for error.

Cara, however, was used to tight corners and last-minute decisions. She wasn't merely Cara Bennett, the joker among her sisters. She was a seasoned assassin with a reputation for precision. Her role in the group was clear, and her expertise lay in eliminating targets with stealth and minimal collateral. But today, she was out of her comfort zone. The silencer she had tucked into her leather jacket when she was changing the number plate on her bike a junction away from her home and getting her mission bag from the cab Axe had pinpointed was an unfamiliar weight, and she didn't feel any slight pang of hesitation as she approached the airport. This mission required a gun, not her usual blade, and she wasn't accustomed to the distant coldness of pulling a trigger from afar; she was rather used to taking three minutes of her sweet time to mark her prey with her blade—she enjoyed the sight of that.

The security checkpoint loomed before her, a potential bottleneck that could ruin everything. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she was already used to it; her expression remained calm. She adjusted her helmet one last time, ditching it behind a pillar after she was done in the washroom to don her disguise. A sleek white pantsuit, tailored to perfection, clung to her frame, accompanied by a sharp black wig that transformed her into a striking figure with an air of authority. Red heels clicked against the tiled floor with a confidence that was almost unnerving, her posture regal as if she owned the space.

Her earpiece buzzed with updates. "You've got ten minutes before the plane closes its doors," Axe's voice cut through the static. She swerved past a line of tourists, eyes scanning for her mark. The man Michael Reinhardt was a business tycoon with too many enemies and secrets. He had evaded their networks long enough. And now, here she was, assigned to finish what Karla couldn't.

Her breath caught when she spotted him. The target. Mid-forties, graying hair, designer suit—a man who wore power like a second skin. He moved with the assurance of someone who believed themselves untouchable. She narrowed her eyes. He was at the first-class counter, checking in smoothly, a VIP privilege that spared him the scrutiny she'd been subjected to. She clenched her jaw as she observed him. She hated this, she hated that she thought she would catch him before he boarded the plane, but she was somehow late; she'd used seven of her minutes trying to be there for her sister Maya, that alone added to her anger towards that unfortunate ex-boyfriend of Mara.

She looked into the black medium-sized business bag and she wasn't surprised, her crew had already prepared even her fake passport and ID card.

Cara approached the counter, her heels echoing through the pristine halls of the airport. "One ticket," she requested with a crisp tone, handing over a sleek, forged identification. She knew the document was flawless—courtesy of her team's resident forger, Wind. "First class, same flight as Michael Reinhardt."

The attendant eyed her, then the screen, before nodding politely. "You're just in time, Ms. Carter. Please proceed to Gate 15."

Wow! Cara smiled playfully looking at her fake passport.

"Sarah Carter. Not bad." At least this time she got a good name; there was a time she came up with, "Blanka Capone" as her name when she had to enter a party for her mission and the name she forged was really something, she didn't know even such names really existed regarding how the guard had looked at her like she'd gotten a pair of wings.

Like seriously who calls themselves like that?

"Thank you." She pocketed the boarding pass, her mind already mapping her next steps. She couldn't afford to act hastily. Precision was key. Her movements needed to be as calculated as her steps on the cold, reflective tiles. Every detail had to be perfect.

Inside the plane, Cara found herself seated two rows behind her target, who had already made himself comfortable with a glass of champagne, scrolling through emails on his tablet. She observed him discreetly, her eyes never lingering for too long. She blended seamlessly into her surroundings—she was just another polished businesswoman on a routine flight.

The seatbelt sign blinked off, and Cara took her moment. She rose from her seat, her movements deliberate and fluid. She straightened her blazer, her fingers brushing against the hidden pocket where her silencer lay ready. With each step toward the target, her heartbeat synced with the rhythm of her heels clicking against the carpet.

When she neared his seat, she caught a faint whiff of his expensive cologne—a blend of sandalwood and arrogance. She leaned over, feigning the casual gesture of adjusting his collar. Her breath brushed his ear as she whispered, "Your tie's crooked."

He barely had time to register her presence before she struck. A quick flick of her wrist and the silencer emerged from her pocket. She pressed it against his chest, the sound muted in the plush, first-class cabin. The target gasped, eyes wide in shock, but she held him steady, her expression cold but with a brittle smile that was unflinching. She squeezed the trigger, twice, ensuring the job was done even though she knew she'd already finished him off, because she'd pointed at his upper main artery on his chest.

The kill was clean. Silent. Efficient. No one noticed as his body slumped slightly in his seat, a trickle of red staining the crisp white of his dress shirt. Cara stepped back, her demeanor still composed. She slid the silencer back into her jacket, smoothing down the lapel with an air of casual indifference. She checked her watch—five minutes before takeoff.

"Is everything alright, ma'am?" a flight attendant asked, pausing by her side. Cara flashed a disarming smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a practiced gesture of faux embarrassment.

"Oh, yes, sorry," she said, her voice light, she had already changed her voice to that of a businesswoman like her name, Sarah Carter. "He was having some difficulty with his seatbelt. I was just trying to help." She shot the attendant a charming smile that could have melted ice. The attendant nodded, satisfied, and moved on.

Cara made her way back to her seat, casually slipping her gloves back on. She checked her phone, pretending to scroll through emails as she mentally calculated her next move. She had to get off the plane before it left the ground.

As the flight attendants began their final checks, Cara stood abruptly, clutching her stomach with a convincing grimace. "Excuse me," she called out, feigning urgency. "I'm not feeling well. I need to get off the plane."

The nearest attendant rushed over, concerned. "Are you alright, ma'am?"

"I… I think it's something I ate," she gasped, pressing a hand to her forehead for effect. "Please, I need to get off. I can't fly like this, not to mention I have weak duodenum." She already had a few tears trickling down on her cheeks.

The attendant hesitated, then nodded. "Of course. Let me inform the captain." Cara watched as the attendant hurried to the front of the cabin, speaking urgently into a phone. Moments later, the boarding door opened, and Cara was escorted off the plane, her steps steady despite the turmoil she left behind.

Cara's heart raced as she made her way through the jet bridge, but her expression remained calm. She could feel the eyes of the attendants on her back, but she didn't look back. She was already planning her exit strategy.

Minutes later, Cara was back in the terminal, her helmet on and her earlier clothes on, black plain pants with a red jacket. When she was with Mara and Ethan that evening, she had black ripped jeans, a black leather jacket with white sneakers, but she'd changed while changing the number plate. She swiftly mounted her bike. The mission was complete, but her mind was still racing. She tapped her earpiece, connecting to her team because she knew they were waiting.

"Boss," she said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Target is down. Extraction in progress."

"Good work, Cara," the boss replied, his voice as cold and detached as ever. "Return to base. We'll debrief in thirty."

Cara smirked as she revved the engine, the familiar roar giving her a surge of confidence. She sped out of the airport, weaving through traffic with the ease of someone who thrived in chaos. The city blurred around her, but her mind was already on the next move, the next target, the unlucky guy, Mara's ex-boyfriend.

She was Cara Bennett, and she was unstoppable and unforgiving.

As she sped into the night, the feeling of her actions began to settle. She glanced down at her hands, steady on the handlebars. The job was done, the target eliminated.

Cara accelerated, her bike cutting through the darkness like a blade.

Meaning of the name, Blanca Capone.

This name combines the image of "blanca" (meaning white or blank) with the notorious last name "Capone," hinting at a mix of innocence and infamous mobster flair—its like a cheeky nod to her dual nature of easily blending in everything.