Chapter 2 No.2

The man blinked. He looked down at the red stain blooming on the beige fabric of the seat, then back up at her.

"Who are you?" he rasped. His voice was deep, textured like gravel.

"The person keeping you out of a body bag," Dylan replied, not looking up from her black screen. "Apply pressure. I don't have a suture kit."

She reached into her bag and tossed him a clean, rolled-up t-shirt. "Use that."

He pressed the shirt to his side, wincing. A sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth. "You moved... efficiently. For a civilian."

Dylan finally looked at him. He was handsome, in a devastating, sharp-edged way. Even pale from blood loss, he had the kind of bone structure that commanded attention. But she wasn't interested in his face. She was looking at his hands.

"And you're terrible at hiding," she said.

He managed a weak, charming smile. It was a practiced expression, one used to disarm. "I'm a doctor. With Doctors Without Borders. I... ran into some trouble with a local gang before I got on the train. Loan sharks."

Dylan's eyes dropped to his hands again. They were smooth. Manicured. Except for a distinct callus on his right index finger. The trigger finger.

She smirked. "Sure, Doctor. And I'm the Queen of England."

He paused, the smile faltering. "You don't believe me."

"Doctors Without Borders usually have calluses from work, not from hands too clean, too soft for a field medic. And they don't wear watches that cost more than this train car." She nodded at the platinum timepiece peeking out from his cuff.

The train began to decelerate. The intercom chimed. "Now arriving, Union Station."

The man sat up straighter, adjusting his jacket to hide the blood. The charm returned, cooler this time. "Fair point. What's your name?"

"Dylan."

"Just Dylan?"

"Just Dylan."

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a money clip. "I should pay you. For the silence. And the first aid."

Dylan stood up, shouldering her duffel bag. "Keep your money. Just don't die on my exit. It would be a paperwork nightmare."

She unlocked the door and stepped out, checking the corridor. Empty.

"Wait," he called out softly.

She didn't look back. She walked toward the economy exit, blending into the crowd of commuters.

Anson Hampton watched her go. As soon as he stepped onto the platform, three men in tactical gear materialized from the shadows, flanking him.

"Sir," one whispered. "We secured the perimeter. The targets are neutralized in the closet."

Anson didn't answer. He was watching the girl in the oversized hoodie disappear into the throng. "Find out who she is," he murmured.

Dylan emerged from Union Station into the biting wind of the capital. She scanned the pickup lane. A sleek, black Bentley was idling at the curb.

She walked toward it. The driver honked. Aggressively.

The window rolled down. The chauffeur, a man with a thick neck and a sneer etched into his features, looked her up and down.

"You the Clemons girl?" He spat the name like it was a bad taste. "Throw your bag in the trunk. I'm not opening it for that thing."

Dylan paused. The disrespect was palpable, a physical slap. She looked at the trunk, then at him. She tossed her bag into the trunk herself, the thud echoing.

She opened the back door and slid onto the pristine leather. It smelled of new car and vanilla air freshener-cloying and artificial.

The chauffeur, Mike, stared at her in the rearview mirror. He didn't start the car.

"Don't touch anything," he warned. "Miss Belle just had this detailed. I don't want grease on the seats."

Dylan stared out the window, her expression unreadable. "Just drive."

Mike laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You got an attitude for a charity case. You know they didn't want you coming, right? Glyn told me to leave you if you weren't at the curb in five minutes."

Dylan didn't react. She was used to this. The staff always mimicked the masters. If the Clemons treated her like trash, the help treated her like dirt.

"We're going to The Sanctuary later," Mike bragged, merging into traffic. "Miss Belle is the guest of honor. You're just... baggage."

Dylan's phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a secure line.

"Just baggage," Mike repeated, shaking his head.

"The feeling is mutual," Dylan whispered against the glass. The city skyline rose ahead of them, gray and imposing. She closed her eyes, letting the vibration of the engine rattle her bones.