Chapter 3 Battlefield Angel

Aubree turned her back on Kareem and walked down the highway shoulder.

The massive pileup caused by Kareem's three Escalades had completely paralyzed the main arteries into Manhattan. Far below the overpass, a convoy of black vehicles had been forced to detour through the desolate, maze-like streets of the industrial district to avoid the gridlock. It was the perfect chokepoint.

A sharp, rhythmic popping sound echoed from the industrial district below the overpass. Automatic gunfire.

Aubree's muscles reacted before her conscious mind did. She vaulted over the concrete barrier and slid down the embankment, landing silently behind a stack of rusted shipping containers.

She peeked around the corrugated metal edge.

The intersection was a slaughterhouse. Two armored Maybachs were smashed against a concrete pillar. Thick black smoke poured from the engines. Four men in suits lay dead on the grates, their blood mixing with the dirty street water.

A man in a black tactical vest walked slowly toward the second Maybach. He held an assault rifle flush against his shoulder.

The rear door of the Maybach was kicked open from the inside. A tall man tumbled out onto the pavement. He wore a bespoke navy suit, but the fabric over his abdomen was soaked in dark, thick blood.

Hays Crane.

The assassin stopped three feet away. He aimed the barrel of the rifle directly at Hays's head.

Aubree looked down. A shard of broken windshield glass lay near her boot. Her agent instincts took over; she swiftly ripped a strip of fabric from the hem of her faded jacket and wrapped it tightly around her palm. She picked it up. The edge was razor-sharp.

She exploded from the shadows. She closed the distance in three silent, sprinting strides.

Just as the assassin's finger tightened on the trigger, Aubree leaped. Her left arm wrapped around his throat like a steel vice, jerking his head back. Her right hand drove the jagged glass deep into the side of his neck, severing the carotid artery.

Hot, high-pressure blood sprayed across her knuckles.

The assassin dropped the rifle. He collapsed to the asphalt, his body convulsing violently before going completely still.

Aubree kicked the rifle away. She dropped to one knee beside Hays.

Hays's vision was swimming. The blood loss made the world spin. He could only see the dark silhouette of a woman against the harsh sunlight.

Aubree grabbed the lapels of his ruined suit and ripped his shirt open. The bullet wound in his abdomen was pulsing blood.

She pressed both of her blood-slicked hands directly into the wound, applying massive, agonizing pressure to the ruptured artery.

Hays let out a guttural groan. His body arched off the pavement in pure agony. He tried to shove her away.

"Shut up and stay still if you want to breathe," Aubree ordered. Her voice was ice-cold, carrying absolute, unquestionable authority.

The sound of her voice hit Hays like a physical blow.

A violent electric shock ripped through his fractured memories. A flash of fire. A crumbling building. The back of a female Valkyrie pulling him from the rubble three years ago.

Aubree reached into the dead assassin's tactical vest. She pulled out a tourniquet, a packet of alcohol wipes, and a tube of military-grade clotting gel. Her fingers moved with blinding, mechanical speed. She packed the wound and sealed it in seconds. Without missing a beat, she tore open the alcohol wipes and thoroughly scrubbed her own blood-slicked fingers, erasing any trace of her biometric data from his skin and clothes.

Hays forced his eyes open. He reached up with a trembling, bloody hand. His fingers wrapped tightly around Aubree's wrist.

"Who are you?" Hays rasped. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek looked ready to snap.

The wail of NYPD sirens pierced the air. A police helicopter chopped through the sky overhead.

Aubree looked down at his hand. She grabbed his thumb and peeled his grip off her wrist with ruthless efficiency. She dropped his arm onto the pavement.

She stood up, grabbed her canvas bag, and sprinted into the maze of the Brooklyn alleys.

Hays watched her disappear. Right before the darkness took him, his eyes locked onto a specific, special wear mark on the shoulder of her olive jacket. He burned the image into his brain.