Chapter 7

The heavy, armored doors of Kinsey's black Ford Raptor slammed shut.

The massive V8 engine roared to life with a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through the steering wheel and into her chest. She threw the truck into gear and tore out of the Manhattan parking garage, merging aggressively onto the northbound interstate.

Two hours later, the city skyline had vanished, replaced by the desolate, overgrown landscape of the abandoned upstate industrial zone.

Kinsey pulled the Raptor into the massive dirt lot.

Waiting for her was a fleet of eighteen-wheeler livestock transport trucks. The smell of dust, diesel exhaust, and animal manure hung heavy in the air.

Silas, the rugged farm owner, jumped down from the lead truck. He jogged over, holding a clipboard. "Miss Elliott! Got the whole herd here. Health certificates are all attached."

Kinsey didn't even look at the paperwork. She glanced at the restless, lowing cattle packed into the metal trailers. She pulled a cashier's check from her coat pocket and handed it to him.

"Perfect," Kinsey said. "Now, I need you and your drivers to leave the premises immediately. I have a specialized chemical disinfection crew coming in, and no unauthorized personnel can be present."

Silas looked confused, scratching his beard. "You want us to just leave the trucks? How are you gonna unload-"

Kinsey didn't blink. She pulled a forged, highly classified document bearing the official seal of the Department of Agriculture and the CDC from her coat. "We have a localized Class-4 viral pathogen alert in this exact sector," she lied smoothly, her voice utterly chilling. "By federal mandate, all biological transport vehicles must be quarantined on-site for twenty-four hours. The check covers your hazard pay and the inconvenience."

Silas looked at the federal seal, then at the massive sum of money on the paper. The color drained from his face as he swallowed his questions. "Alright, boys! CDC orders! Unhitch the cabs and let's roll out before we get locked down!"

Within five minutes, the drivers had detached their cabs and driven off, leaving the massive trailers sitting alone in the dirt lot.

Kinsey waited until the sound of their engines faded completely. She walked up to the first trailer, filled with massive Angus cows.

She placed her hand against the cold metal bars of the cage.

She summoned the quantum matrix.

The air around her rippled violently, distorting the light like heat waves off asphalt. A massive spatial tear opened. In a fraction of a second, the entire trailer of live cattle vanished, sucked into the isolated ecological zone she had prepared inside her space.

She moved quickly, touching trailer after trailer. Within ten minutes, hundreds of cows, pigs, and chickens, along with tons of feed, were completely absorbed.

Kinsey dusted off her leather gloves. She climbed back into the Raptor and started the engine, pulling out onto the narrow, winding country road to head back to the city.

She drove for three miles before she glanced at her rearview mirror.

Her eyes immediately locked onto two black, unmarked Chevrolet Suburbans. They were hanging exactly a quarter-mile back.

Kinsey tapped her brakes, slowing down by ten miles an hour.

The two SUVs instantly mirrored her speed, maintaining the exact same distance.

It was a textbook tactical tail. Professional hitmen.

Kinsey didn't panic. She didn't reach for her phone to call the police. The police would ask questions about her empty warehouse. Instead, a cold, feral smile spread across her face. Her blood pumped hot and fast.

She slammed her heavy boot down on the gas pedal.

The Raptor's engine screamed as it surged forward, tearing down the empty road at ninety miles an hour.

The hitmen realized they were made. The Suburbans abandoned their stealth and accelerated violently, their engines roaring as they closed the gap.

Kinsey yanked the steering wheel hard. The heavy truck drifted around a sharp curve, the tires screeching and kicking up a massive cloud of gravel and dust.

Behind her, the passenger window of the lead SUV rolled down. A man wearing a black tactical balaclava leaned out, raising a compact submachine gun.

Rat-tat-tat-tat!

A burst of gunfire echoed over the roar of the engines. Bullets slammed into the back of Kinsey's truck. They struck the reinforced, bulletproof rear windshield, leaving white, spiderweb-like impact marks in the glass, but failing to penetrate.

Kinsey's eyes darted to the GPS on her dashboard. A mile ahead was an abandoned, sprawling chemical processing plant. A maze of rusted pipes and massive oil tanks.

She jerked the wheel to the right. The Raptor smashed through a rusted chain-link fence, the metal groaning and snapping under the truck's weight. She tore into the desolate, shadowy grounds of the chemical plant.

She drove deep into the complex, sliding the truck into the cavernous, pitch-black interior of a massive main processing warehouse. She slammed on the brakes and killed the engine.

The headlights died. The truck was swallowed by the shadows.

Total silence descended, broken only by the steady, calm thumping of Kinsey's heart.

She reached down to her thigh. She unholstered the Glock 19 and racked the slide, chambering a round. With her left hand, she pulled a serrated tactical combat knife from her boot.

She pushed the truck door open silently and slipped out. She moved like a ghost, blending seamlessly into the darkness of the rusted machinery.

Outside, the screech of tires announced the arrival of the two SUVs.

Four men, dressed in full black tactical gear and carrying suppressed rifles, stepped out of the vehicles. They moved in a tight, professional combat formation, slowly advancing toward the dark entrance of the warehouse.

The hunt had begun. But they didn't know they were the prey.