Chapter 3

The heavy glass revolving doors of the elite Manhattan Michelin-starred restaurant pushed open. Kinsey stepped into the warm, dimly lit lobby. The air smelled of expensive truffles and roasted garlic.

The maître d', a tall man with a sharp, judgmental face, immediately stepped into her path. He looked at her tactical boots and the dust on the hem of her Tom Ford suit.

"Excuse me, madam," he said, his voice stiff and condescending. "We are fully booked for the evening. And we do have a strict dress code."

Kinsey didn't waste a single breath explaining herself. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her limitless Amex Black Card, and slammed it down on the polished mahogany host stand. The heavy metal card made a sharp smack.

The manager's eyes darted to the card. The condescension melted off his face instantly. His spine curved into a deep, subservient bow.

"Right this way, Miss. We have our best table available for you."

He led her to a secluded booth positioned right against the floor-to-ceiling glass. Below her, the glittering lights of Wall Street stretched out like a sea of electric fireflies.

A waiter practically ran over, handing her a leather-bound menu.

Kinsey pushed it away. "Bring me your largest bone-in Tomahawk steak. Rare. And open a bottle of your oldest Domaine de la Romanée-Conti."

She didn't care that the wine cost more than a luxury car.

Kinsey looked out the window. She watched the men in tailored suits and women in designer coats hurrying along the sidewalks. Ants, she thought. In exactly one month, they would all be frozen solid, their expensive clothes useless against the minus-eighty-degree winds. A cold smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth.

The waiter arrived with the massive steak. It was charred on the outside, sizzling in hot butter.

Kinsey picked up the heavy steak knife. She sliced into the thick meat. Dark red blood and rich juices pooled onto the white porcelain plate. She put a piece in her mouth. The explosion of fat, salt, and tender protein hit her tongue.

She closed her eyes. The memory of chewing on bitter, frozen tree bark in the wasteland tried to surface, but the rich taste of the beef crushed it.

While she chewed, she pulled out her iPad. She pulled up the blueprints for her off-grid bunker. She used her stylus to circle the critical zones. She needed heavy-duty diesel generators. She needed military-grade reverse osmosis water filtration systems.

"Oh my god, is that Kinsey?"

A shrill, nasal voice cut through her concentration.

Kinsey looked up. One table over, three socialites in tight cocktail dresses were staring at her. Kinsey recognized the one in the middle-Sarah, a trust fund baby who had always hated her.

"I heard she completely lost her mind," Sarah said loudly, intentionally raising her voice so Kinsey could hear. "Selling off all her shares to buy... what was it? Canned beans? She's a total doomsday psycho."

The other two women giggled behind their manicured hands.

Kinsey swallowed her bite of steak. She picked up her crisp, white linen napkin and slowly wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth.

She stood up. She walked over to Sarah's table.

Sarah looked up, a smug smile on her face. "Can we help you, Kinsey?"

Kinsey reached out and picked up the large crystal pitcher of ice water sitting in the center of their table. Without a word, she tilted it and poured the freezing water directly over Sarah's head.

The ice cubes hit Sarah's face. The water ruined her expensive blowout and soaked her silk dress.

Sarah shrieked, jumping up from her chair. "Are you insane?!" she screamed, raising her hand to slap Kinsey.

Kinsey didn't move. She just stared at Sarah. Her eyes were completely dead, void of any empathy or fear. It was the look of a predator deciding whether to snap its prey's neck.

Sarah's hand froze in mid-air. The sheer, suffocating pressure radiating from Kinsey made Sarah's stomach drop. She backed away, trembling.

Kinsey dropped the empty pitcher on the table. It shattered. She walked to the front counter, dropped two thousand dollars in cash for the meal and the tip, and walked out the door.

A black, bulletproof Maybach was waiting at the curb. Kinsey got in.

"The underground exchange," she told the driver.

Twenty minutes later, Kinsey was walking through a series of retinal scanners in a subterranean vault deep beneath Manhattan. The air was frigid and smelled of ozone.

The vault manager, a sweaty, overweight man named Higgins, rubbed his hands together. "Miss Elliott! What kind of portfolio diversification are we looking at today?"

Kinsey tossed her iPad onto his desk. "I want every single solid gold bar you currently have in this facility."

Higgins choked on his own spit. "Miss Elliott, physical gold is incredibly difficult to liquidate. The storage fees alone-"

Kinsey leaned across the desk. Her presence was suffocating. "Do you want the millions in commission fees, Higgins, or should I take my cash to your competitor across the street?"

Higgins swallowed hard. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "Right away, ma'am."

Thirty minutes later, Kinsey stood inside the massive steel vault. Four heavy-duty reinforced carts sat in the center of the room, stacked high with gleaming, heavy gold bars.

"I need to inspect the purity," Kinsey said. "Everyone out. Close the door."

Higgins nodded quickly and ushered the armed guards out. The massive steel door swung shut with a heavy, echoing boom.

Kinsey was alone.

She walked up to the first cart. She placed her hands flat against the cold metal of the gold bars.

She activated the matrix.

The air warped. The carts and the tons of gold vanished instantly, swallowed by the void.

Kinsey let out a slow breath. When the global flood hit and the billionaires retreated to the Ark Olympus, paper money would be toilet paper. This gold was her absolute ticket to the upper echelons of the apocalypse.

She opened the vault door. Higgins looked inside and his jaw dropped. The vault was completely empty.

"I've arranged for my own private armed transport," Kinsey lied smoothly. "The funds are already in your account."

She walked out of the facility and stepped onto the dark Manhattan street.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. The screen lit up in the darkness.

Caller ID: Uncle Clemence.