Mysterious

The air is thinner up here, stinging cold on my face, tearing through every gap, every chink in this goddamn cheap-ass suit they made me wear to look respectable. The tie I left behind—dropped it like a breadcrumb or a taunt—was strangling me anyway, the same kind of soulless silk those corporate sharks tie around their throats to feel important. Maybe someone’ll sniff it for clues, but I doubt they’ll get anything except a whiff of sweat and that half-assed bourbon they dared to call first class.

The seatbelt sign light is still on—ironic as hell, ain’t it? My own little sick joke. Here I am, legs trembling like a jackrabbit’s, but it’s got nothing to do with fear, no sir. It's the rush. Adrenaline roaring in my veins like a goddamn freight train. I’m about to yeet myself into the night sky with more money than I ever dreamed I’d own. Feels right. Feels fucking righteous, actually.

But let’s back it up, shall we? Back to those terrified faces. The stewardess, what was her name again? Tina? Sweet girl. Eyes wide, hands shaking when I passed her the note, though she held her own. Gotta respect that kind of fear management, even if she looked at me like I was an alien or, hell, the devil himself. But what did she expect? Polite manners and a harmless smile? I had the goddamn bomb in my lap, didn’t I? Or at least something that looked like it, because, Jesus Christ, who’d be crazy enough to pack real dynamite when a few red sticks and wires work just as well? Theatrics, baby. That’s the ticket.

They call me a villain, sure, and maybe that’s fair, but every one of those stiff-shirted bastards on Wall Street has robbed more people than I ever will, and they get medals for it. Me? Just taking a shortcut, cashing out. Sick of working like a donkey for pennies. Sick of the grind. So, up here in the belly of this flying steel bird, I've made my point, haven't I? “Give me my money or I’ll blow us all to kingdom come.” And they did. Of course, they did. Everyone has a price, and theirs was fear.

Now, the wind howls harder, taunting me, and I tighten my grip on the pack. Jesus, it’s heavy. Forty fucking pounds of non-sequential twenties. Not exactly lightweight travel. But I’m committed now. The plan's set, no rewinds, no do-overs. The Cessna’s waiting at the pickup point—if I even land close to where I planned. What a riot that’ll be. This has to be the biggest gamble of my life, but the house odds always sucked, so screw ‘em. They’ll be talking about this heist for decades. An unsolved mystery for all the armchair detectives to cream themselves over. And me? I’m the goddamn ghost they’ll never catch.

I brace myself, heart pounding so loud I could swear the pilots up front could hear it. This is it. Thirty thousand feet and the unknown. Funny, for all the planning, all the hours spent poring over maps, my gut still lurches like a carnival ride. I could splatter like a bug on a windshield if the chute doesn’t open. Or maybe they’ll find a body mangled in the woods someday and wonder who the hell he thought he was.

But that’s the thrill, ain’t it? The unpredictability. The danger. The fact that even right now, on the edge of glory or ruin, I’m still not sure what comes next.

Fuck it. I leap.